lovin' you's the antidote

Past (ii) - Finnick

[5] - DISTRICT FOUR

Finnick doesn’t understand why everyone is dressed in gray.

He tugs at the stiff collar of his shirt, the fabric scratchy against his neck. It’s his father’s shirt—too big, sleeves rolled awkwardly at his wrists. His small hands peek out, fingers cold in the chill coming in from the sea. He looks around at the adults gathered near the docks, watching the way they stand in quiet clusters, speaking in voices softer than the tide. 

The men are mainly silent, their nets piled beside the docks, untangled but unused—dry. The women wear dark shawls, their eyes fixed on the water, speaking in low murmurs that Finnick can’t quite catch. They look at him sometimes, but not for long. He hears someone whisper his name, but his father’s hand tightens around his shoulder, and the voices drift away like foam over the waves.

His father doesn’t speak at all.

The boats are ready, their hulls rocking gently against the pier. Finnick’s feet dangle off the edge where he sits, swinging back and forth, toes brushing the surface of the water. The sea is calm today, almost too calm. The kind of stillness that makes Finnick fidget because it feels like everything is holding its breath.

A shadow falls over him, and he tilts his head up to see his uncle Ewan standing nearby. The man carries a small wooden box, worn and plain, no bigger than the space between Finnick’s hands.

His uncle crouches beside him, setting the box down carefully between them. His large hands linger over the lid, rough fingers tracing the edges.

Finnick squints at it, confused. “What’s in there?”

His uncle hesitates, then ruffles Finnick’s hair gently, though his smile doesn’t reach his eyes like Finnick’s used to. “Something of your ma’s.” His voice cracks, just for a second. “We’re giving it to the sea.”

Finnick frowns. “Why? Won’t she need it?”

The man’s eyes soften, but he doesn’t answer. Instead, he pushes the box closer to Finnick, the weight of it surprisingly light when Finnick picks it up. He doesn’t know what he expected to feel—something warm maybe, or heavy, like her presence still lingers there. But it’s just empty wood.

He doesn’t open it. No one tells him not to—no disapproving looks or warning grunts from his father. It just feels like he shouldn't look, something timid and afraid stopping his little fingers short of the latch. Instead, he traces the chips and grooves that must have been made by accident.

His father appears beside him, back from talking to the man whose boat he’s borrowing. He’s standing tall, gaze locked on the horizon. Without a word, he crouches down and begins tying knots at the end of a long fishing net, the kind Finnick has seen hundreds of times. But this one is strange—new, silver-threaded, and untouched by the sea. It doesn’t smell like fish or salt.

“Why’re we bringing the net, Pa?” Finnick asks, glancing at the boat where another man coils more of the shimmering rope.

His father’s fingers tighten around the knot, tugging it firm. The muscles in his jaw shift, but he doesn’t meet Finnick’s gaze. “For your ma,” he says quietly.

Finnick looks down at the box in his lap. “But she’s not here.”

“She is,” his father replies, and though Finnick doesn’t understand, he doesn’t ask again.

-

The boat glides smoothly out to sea, the oars dipping silently into the water. Finnick sits near the bow, wrapped in a too-large jacket that smells like fish and his father. The wooden box rests beside him, shifting slightly with the rocking of the boat.

They don’t talk much as the shore disappears behind them.

Finnick watches the birds, their wings slicing through the sky in slow circles. His father rows, the sound of the oars steady and rhythmic, like a heartbeat. Other boats follow them—three or four, filled with people from the village. Some of them hold lanterns, their faint glow reflecting off the water like small stars.

“Pa,” Finnick says, pointing at one of the lanterns. “Are we having a party?”

His father’s grip on the oar falters for just a second.

“No, Finn,” he says softly and leaves it at that.

The sea stretches endlessly in all directions, swallowing sound, swallowing light. When they’re far enough from shore that the land is nothing but a thin line in the distance, his father stops rowing.

Everyone does.

The boats drift together in a loose circle, and for a long time, no one moves.

Then, slowly, his father stands. Finnick watches as he reaches for the box and cradles it carefully in his hands. His uncle lifts the net, holding it between them like something fragile.

“Hold this,” his father murmurs, passing one end to Finnick.

The net is cold in his hands, the weight of it unfamiliar but not heavy.

“What’re we catching?” Finnick asks, glancing over the edge of the boat. There are no fish beneath the surface, only his reflection staring back at him.

His father doesn’t answer.

The adults begin to lower their nets into the water, their movements slow and like they’re scared of disturbing the sea. Finnick mimics them, and together, they hold the net until there’s nothing left between their hands but empty air. He watches as the net slips below, disappearing into the deep. 

The box follows, held gently in his father’s hands until the water begins to pull it away.

“Pa,” Finnick whispers, watching it drift further. “I think we lost it.”

His father kneels beside him, wrapping his arms around Finnick’s small frame. 

“The sea knows her now,” his father says quietly, voice thick like the fog that's started rolling over the water.

Finnick glances at the place where the net and box vanished, frowning. He squints, trying to catch sight of something below the surface, but all he sees is the way the sea swallows everything.

His father’s breath shakes against his ear, but Finnick doesn’t know why.

By the time they return to shore, the sun has begun to set. The lanterns that once flickered across the water now hang low, their flames nearly spent.

Finnick’s father lifts him from the boat, setting him carefully onto the dock. His feet feel strange on the wooden planks, as if the sea still rocks beneath him. The adults gather near the end of the pier, whispering words Finnick doesn’t quite catch.

Finnick lingers by the edge of the dock, watching the waves lap against the shore. His father stands behind him, staring out over the horizon.

“Pa,” Finnick asks softly. “Is Mama coming home?”

His father doesn’t answer right away.

The sky darkens, the last light of day bleeding into the water, but Finnick doesn’t leave. He waits, even when his eyes grow heavy, and his fingers ache from the cold.

At last, his father speaks, his voice low and rough.

“She is home, Finn,” he says. “She’s with the sea now.”

Finnick’s small brow furrows. He doesn’t understand.

But when his father reaches down, gently taking his hand, Finnick doesn’t pull away.

The waves hum softly against the dock, and somewhere beneath them, his mother rests.

[9] - DISTRICT FOUR

Finnick’s never liked school.

It wasn’t his schoolmates—not really, not entirely. Sure, there were kids who annoyed him, kids who tried too hard to be his friends, or girls who blushed and giggled whenever he looked their way. But it wasn’t them. It wasn’t even the long hours of sitting still in a hot, stuffy classroom. No, the problem was bigger than that.

Finnick has never liked school.

Not that he hates it, exactly, but what’s the point? At nine years old, he already understands that half the kids around him won't make it past fifteen, and the teachers won’t admit it, but they know it too. Every year, someone’s older sibling would vanish, name called in the Reaping, their faces never seen again. But here they are, pretending that what they want to “be” someday matters.

As the rest of the kids file into the room, Finnick sits hunched over his desk, his pencil scratching as he doodles on the edge of a workbook page. A boat drifted on a sea of lines, its tiny sails catching a wind that didn’t exist. His pencil moves lightly, quickly, the tip scratching faint grooves into the paper. He likes drawing boats—they remind him of his pa, of the ocean, of a life that feels bigger than this tiny classroom. He doesn’t want anyone to see, though. This isn't for them.

“Hey, Nick!” A voice squawks beside him. He winces at the nickname, keeping his head down. It grates on him every time.

It’s the mayor’s daughter and her twin brother. They always sit near him, always try to catch his eye, their attention thick and syrupy. They must be convinced he’ll be flattered by it. He isn’t.

“My name isn’t Nick,” Finnick mutters, not looking up. “Don’t call me that.”

“Don’t be so serious,” the girl teases, nudging her brother and giggling. “What’re you drawing?”

“Nothing,” he says, flipping his workbook close, hiding the boat from view. His face stays blank, but his grip on the pencil tightens. He can feel their eyes lingering, waiting for him to cave, to give them something more, but he keeps his gaze steady on his desk. People always want more. They want him to charm them, make them laugh, and give them pieces of himself. But Finnick isn’t interested in giving anyone anything. Not really. 

Before they can push further, the teacher claps her hands at the front of the room, calling for attention. Finnick leans back in his chair, arms crossed, watching as the twins finally take their seats.

“Today, we’re going to go around and share what we want to be when we’re older!” she announces, her smile wide, eyes crinkling like this was the most exciting topic in the world. “Think big now, everyone.”

Finnick barely keeps from rolling his eyes. Think big. He glances around, watching the other kids’ eager faces. Some of them are beaming, already raising their hands, ready to share. 

“I wanna be the president.”

“I wanna be a diver!”

“I want to drop the anchors.”

It’s all just make-believe, a little game that they all agreed to play, like imagining their way out of Four can somehow keep them safe.

“What do you want to be when you’re older, Nick? I bet you want to be something cool.” The girl whispers.

He scowls, pressing his pencil a little harder into the paper. “That’s stupid,” he says flatly.

They both blink, looking at him like he just told them something shocking.

“What’s stupid?” the boy asks, frowning.

“This.” Finnick gestures toward the chalkboard where the teacher had written, What I Want to Be When I’m Older in big, loopy letters. “None of this matters. We’re nine. Any of us could be dead in three years.”

A gasp comes from somewhere behind him, and the twins go quiet, their smiles fading. Finnick glances around, taking in the uncomfortable faces of his classmates, the way some of them looked down at their desks. 

“Finnick,” the teacher says sharply, her tone slicing through the silence. “Do you have something you’d like to share with the class?”

He shrugs, his gaze steady. “It’s stupid. All this ‘what do you want to be’ stuff. Anyone in this class could go into the arena. So what’s the point of pretending?”

The room goes quiet, a few kids fidgeting in their seats. Some look down at their desks. The mayor’s daughter glances at him, her smile gone, her cheeks flushed. Finnick can feel the teacher’s glare, the heat of it like the sun bearing down on him.

“Well,” she sighs, setting her chalk down with a clatter, “if you’re so sure of that, why don’t you tell us what you want to be?” 

He feels his stomach twist, irritation flaring. Finnick hesitates, biting the inside of his cheek. For a second, he almost says it—I want to be a fisherman, like my pa. Or at least, he used to. Used to picture himself out there hauling in nets with the salt in his hair and the wind at his back. He wants to tell her about the boats, how he likes the smell of the sea at dawn, how he wants to live on the waves, the way he thinks his mother must have done before she’d left them. 

But he can feel the eyes on him, the curiosity waiting to pounce, and he remembers. He remembers making the mistake of saying that very thing out loud once, had made the mistake of foolishly and eagerly saying that his ma will come back from the sea. He can’t forget the way these same kids had laughed at him, taunting him for believing that. They’d laughed, calling him a “baby” for thinking she’d ever come back for him. 

The memory makes him angry. But worst of all, remembering makes him embarrassed, makes his cheeks flush hot and his eyes and ears burn. He sets his jaw, his face closing off. He presses his lips together, refusing to answer.

“Finnick?” Mrs. Pritchard’s voice has a sharper edge now, a warning.

 “I don’t want to be anything,” he says flatly, crossing his arms over his chest. “It’s stupid.”

A few kids giggle. Mrs. Pritchard frowns, her patience thinning. “If you don’t have anything productive to share, perhaps you’d be better off in the headmaster’s office.”

She doesn’t wait for him to argue, just points to the door with a look that tells him this isn’t up for debate. He shrugs, slinging his bag over his shoulder as he walks out of the room, not sparing the mayor’s twins another glance as he makes his way to the door. He doesn’t care. Headmaster Thomas would threaten him, tell him he needed to be respectful, but Finnick’s good at tuning him out.

-

The headmaster waits for him, and like always, his office is stale and stinking faintly of tobacco, mildew, and old herring. The man’s beady eyes peer over a thick stack of papers, settling on Finnick with a practiced frown as he shuffles his notes. Finnick sits there, slouched in the chair as the man drones on about “attitude” and “respect.” Finnick barely listens, his eyes fixed on a crack in the wall, the way it spiders out across the paint like a web. Headmaster Thomas keeps going, waving his hands, his words more bark than bite.

“You keep this up, and I’ll be forced to call your parents,” Thomas finally says, crossing his arms. “Clearly, you need a lesson in discipline, young man.”

Finnick blinks, then laughs. 

“Yeah, good luck with that,” he says, his voice light but mocking like the man is stupid—which he is. “My mom’s dead, and my pa’s at sea more than he’s on land. He’s probably halfway to the Outer Islands by now, so you’re better off talking to one of those fish. But if you really want a meeting, you can ask the waves.”

The headmaster’s face goes tight, his mouth pressing into a thin line. He holds Finnick’s gaze for a moment, and Finnick holds it right back, unflinching. After a beat, he just sighs, nodding toward the door, waving Finnick off with a dismissive flick of his hand. 

“Fine,” he says, his voice weary. “Go on. You’re dismissed for the day. Come back tomorrow with a better attitude.”

Finnick leaves without another word, swinging his bag over his shoulder as he steps out into the bright afternoon. Getting sent home early is no real punishment.

He walks down the main road, kicking rocks and watching his shadow stretch out long beside him. The streets are filled with adults; the only kids not in school are Finnick and the ones on their parents’ backs. The further from the main square he gets, the emptier it is. The sound of seagulls fills the air, wings beating against the steady roll of the ocean. The day is warm, the air thick with the smell of salt and seaweed, and he finds himself heading toward the harbor like he always does, like maybe, just maybe, today would be different.

But when he gets to the docks, he only sees the usual faces, the men unloading crates and stacking nets, his shoes scuffing against the cobblestones as he scans the docked boats. Hoping, just once, to see his pa’s ship docked early. One of them is the sand-haired deckhand who works alongside his father, a burly man with a weathered face and a daughter who died in the arena two games ago. He sees Finnick and shakes his head, his voice gruff but not unkind. “Not today, lad. Sorry. Might be another week yet.”

Finnick just nods, not letting the disappointment show on his face. He shrugs like he doesn’t care, but the familiar ache settles heavily in his chest. “Yeah. Thanks.”

He keeps walking, heading for the edge of town, his path well-worn by now. He reaches the little shack near the edge of the village, where the old couple keeps watch from their creaky porch.  They’d helped look after him sometimes when he was younger, giving him warm soup and gentle smiles that made his chest ache a little. When they see him approach, the old woman, stooped and gray, waves him inside, her face creased with a welcoming smile.

“Stay for dinner, Finnick?” she calls, her voice crackling with age. Her husband, nodding along beside her, pats the chair next to him, an open invitation. “We’ve got stew on the pot.”

“Thanks, but no,” he says, forcing a smile he doesn’t feel. “I have homework.” He doesn’t really, but he’s tired of their food, tired of the same stew they make week after week, tired of being reminded that he needs someone else’s kindness to get by.

They don’t argue, just nod and wave as he turns back toward the shore. He’s already spent too many nights eating with them, bowls of bland stew and stale bread, everything tasting like the dust of old age. Today, he wants to be alone.

He keeps walking until he reaches the shore, the place he always ends up. He sits down, his knees tucked up to his chest, his hands digging through the sand until his fingers close around small, smooth stones. The tide rolls in slow and steady, brushing over his shoes as he picks it up and throws it, watching it arc and then disappear into the water. He throws another, then another, each one skimming the surface before sinking out of sight.

He stays until the sun dips low, the sky stretching into streaks of orange and pink that melt into the horizon. When he finally rises, dusting off his clothes, his body feels heavy, the emptiness familiar now. Something he wears. He trudges back to the small, lonely house, pushing open the door to nothing.

The house is empty, quiet except for the creak of the floorboards beneath his feet. He drops his bag on the table, heading to the kitchen to make himself dinner. There isn’t much—just some bread, a can of fish, a few wrinkled potatoes his father had left behind. Standing on tiptoes, he pulls bread from a shelf, slicing it carefully with a dull knife, eating it plain and dry because he hasn’t figured out toast without burning it yet. He stands on his tiptoes again to drag down a bowl and mashes the potatoes as best he can, the motion automatic, his hands moving without much thought.

He eats standing up, staring out the window at the last of the light fading from the sky. The house feels like it’s holding its breath, and he tries to ignore the hollow feeling in his chest, the ache that spreads through him like a bruise. He hates it. Hates the quiet, doesn’t know how to get rid of it. He used to scream and scream in hopes that it would echo back and feel like something or someone. But it’s a silence that can’t be filled by one person. He hated it for so long that he convinced himself that he liked it. 

When he’s done, he rinses his bowl, puts it back on the shelf, and heads to his room.

He gets himself ready for bed. He cleans up, brushes his teeth, and climbs into bed alone, tucking the thin blankets around himself. Pulling the blanket up to his chin, the fabric rough against his skin. His gaze drifts to the window, to the sliver of sky he can see through the cracked glass. He blinks, his chest tight, his lip quivering, but he swallows the feeling down, burying it deep. He isn’t a baby. He isn’t going to cry.

But as he lies there, the empty house pressing in around him, he can’t help the way his eyes grow damp, the tears slipping down his cheeks as he stares up at the ceiling, his breathing steady, his heart heavy with a loneliness he’s too young to understand but too old to shake. He pulls the blanket up over his face.

You’re not a baby, he whispers to himself, closing his eyes against the dark. You’re not a baby anymore. And he lies still, breathing through the ache, waiting for the dawn.

-

Finnick doesn’t mind the sea. In fact, most days, he loves it. Loves the way the waves kiss the sand in endless rhythms, the way the breeze carries the smell of salt and freedom. But today, the sea feels like it’s mocking him.

It’s a slow day at the harbor, the air still and the water stretching out like an endless mirror. The boats are docked, their nets hanging empty, swaying in time with the tide. Finnick’s perched on the edge of the pier, a fishing line dangling from his hands, though he doesn’t expect to catch anything. His dad’s boat is gone again, off toward the Outer Islands.

“Another week,” the same sand-haired deckhand had said earlier, not unkindly. “Might be longer, lad. He’ll be back when the winds favor him.”

Finnick had nodded like it didn’t matter. Like he didn’t care.

But he does care. He cares a lot.

The others tease him sometimes for how often he comes down to the docks, asking if his dad’s boat is back yet. ‘Docked Odair,’ they call him with grins, their voices loud enough for everyone to hear. He laughs along with them, shrugging it off, but the words stick. They always do.

“Oi, Finnick!”

He glances up to see Nyle and Mareen, the twins from school, waving at him from the shore. They’re a little older, the mayor’s kids, with hair always combed neat and clothes that aren’t patched three times over. He knows they’re here for the same reason they always are—to hover, to chat, to bask in whatever scraps of his attention they can gather.

“What’re you doing all the way out here?” Mareen asks, her voice light as she approaches. She’s holding her sandals in one hand, her bare feet sinking into the sand.

“Fishing,” Finnick replies simply, his eyes on the line.

Nyle snorts. “Out here? You know you’re not gonna catch anything like that, right?”

Finnick shrugs, reeling the line back in. “Guess I like the quiet.”

He knows it’s a lie the moment he says it. The quiet isn’t what he likes—it’s what he’s stuck with. Quiet means his Pa isn’t back yet. Quiet means another night in an empty house, eating dinner alone. Quiet means nothing to do but think.

“Hey, Finnick,” Mareen says, sitting down on the pier beside him. Her smile is wide, too wide, like if she makes it big enough he won’t have any choice but to see it. A gift instead of a natural reaction to seeing him. “We’re having a picnic later. You should come.”

Nyle flops down on Finnick’s other side, grinning. “Yeah, bring your charm, man. My sister won’t shut up about it.”

Mareen flushes. “Shut up, Nyle.”

Finnick doesn’t respond. He just lets the line dangle in the water, staring out at the horizon. He doesn’t want to go to their picnic. He doesn’t want to hear their chatter or play their games or pretend that he fits into their polished little world.

“I’ll think about it,” he says anyway, because that’s easier than saying no.

The twins talk over him, voices overlapping as they tease and laugh. Finnick nods along, throwing in a word or two when it feels necessary, but his mind is elsewhere. He watches the waves, watches the sunlight dance on the water, and wonders if his Pa is out there somewhere, hauling nets under this same sky.

Eventually, the twins get bored. They wander off, leaving Finnick alone with the waves and the faint hum of the harbor in the distance. He stays there for a while, the fishing line still in his hands, even though he knows they were right. He won’t catch anything.

When the sun dips lower in the sky, Finnick finally stands, brushing sand from his pants. He heads home, his footsteps slow, dragging through the dirt paths that lead back to the small house.

Finnick moves through the familiar motions—untying his boots, rinsing his hands, fixing himself something to eat from the scraps in the cupboard. The bread is stale, the fish salty, but he doesn’t mind. He eats standing by the window, staring out at the fading light.

When the dishes are clean and put away, Finnick climbs into bed, pulling the thin blanket up to his chin. He stares at the ceiling, his chest tight, his mind restless. He thinks about the twins and their laughter, about the men at the docks, about the boat that might not come back for another week, or two, or more.

You’re not a baby anymore, he tells himself, blinking up at the dark. You don’t need anyone.

But the thought doesn’t feel true, not really. Not tonight.

As he drifts off to sleep, he dreams of the sea. Of waves crashing against the shore, of nets full of fish, of Pa’s voice calling his name, as happy to say it as Finnick is to hear it. He dreams of home, the kind that isn’t empty, and for a little while, the quiet doesn’t feel so heavy.

-

The first time his father called him Odair Jr., Finnick felt a swell of pride so big it threatened to burst out of him. He was four, maybe five, standing on the deck of their little boat, the salt air sharp in his lungs. 

The sun hadn’t fully risen yet, but the sky was already streaked with pale pinks and oranges as Finnick clambered into the small boat. The cool morning air smelled fresh and crisp. His pa was already at the helm, his broad back to Finnick as he maneuvered the boat out of the harbor. The wooden planks creaked under Finnick’s feet, and the soft slap of the waves against the sides of the boat made everything feel alive, as if the ocean itself was welcoming him.

"You ready, lad?" Pa asked without turning around. His voice was low, steady—the same voice Finnick had heard a thousand times before, but now it felt different, like it was meant just for him.

"Yeah," Finnick said, trying to sound more confident than he felt. He wasn’t sure what he expected, but the reality of it was even better. The boat rocked gently beneath his feet, and he could see the wide expanse of the sea in front of him—endless, blue, and full.

Pa smiled, his face lined with the deep creases of years spent under the sun. "Good. I’m going to teach you how to read the sea today. You’ll know where to fish and when. It’s in the water, Finn. You just have to learn to listen to it."

Finnick nodded, his heart swelling with pride. He’d always wanted this—his father's attention, his approval. His mother used to say he looked like him, but it was more than just the way his features resembled the older man’s. It was this, the way his father’s hands worked with the ropes, the way he handled the boat with the ease of someone who had done it his whole life. Finnick wanted to be that, wanted to be him—strong, capable, and confident.

Pa handed him the nets. “You take this end. Watch me,” he said, guiding Finnick’s hands. "The sea’s like a woman, Finn—treat her right, and she’ll reward you. Treat her wrong, and she’ll show you who’s boss."

Finnick looked up at him, eyes wide. "What do you mean?"

Pa's lips curled up at the edges. "The sea’s got moods. She’s gentle one day, rough the next. You’ve got to feel her, not fight her. You’re in her world now. Just like you’ll be in mine one day." He slapped Finnick’s back with a hearty laugh.

The warmth of his father’s hand on his back was searing. It felt like he was being given something important. He smiled and nodded, his chest puffing out just a little bit more.

They worked together in the quiet of the morning, casting the nets into the water. Finnick watched the way his father moved—fluid, confident, as if he were one with the sea itself. He felt something stir inside him, a deep, aching desire to prove he could do this, too.

“Ready, son?” Pa’s voice broke through his thoughts, and Finnick nodded without hesitation.

The boat rocked beneath his feet, but his father’s big hands steadied him, his voice low and warm. 

“Look at you,” his pa said, his grin wide beneath the shadow of his weather-beaten cap. “Odair Junior, eh? You’re a natural.” 

Finnick had grinned back, wobbling as he tried to mimic his father’s stance—feet planted wide, knees slightly bent, hands gripping the net like he’d been born to it. His pa laughed, a deep, rolling sound that seemed to carry over the waves, and Finnick felt like the whole world was smiling with him. 

They spent the day like that, his father showing him how to spot the best fishing lines, how to tie different boating knots, how to read the water like it was speaking to him.

“The sea tells you everything you need to know,” Pa said, his accent curling the words in a way that made them sound like a secret. 

By the time they returned to shore, Finnick’s arms ached and his face was sunburned, but he couldn’t stop smiling. 

He wanted to tell his ma about everything he’d done, about what pa had called him. But when they got home, she was already in bed, her figure small and still beneath the thin blankets. His pa’s smile faltered, just for a moment, before he clapped Finnick on the back and told him to get washed up. 

Finnick’s father was a man built by the sea: Kaius Odair. 

His skin was darkened and rough, creased like the wood of his boat, and his hair was streaked with silver long before Finnick’s time. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with hands as big as Finnick’s whole head, calloused and strong from years of hauling nets and tying ropes. But it was his eyes that Finnick remembers most. Green as shallow tides, with a sharpness that could cut through the thickest fog. His father’s gaze could command a room—or a crew—with a single look, but there was a softness there too, hidden beneath the layers of salt and wear. 

“He’s got your eyes,” Finnick used to hear from the women in the village, the very same ones who'd swear his eyes were his mother's after the sadness took her away. “Spitting image of his mother, but those eyes? Those are yours.” His father would smile at that, a quick, fleeting thing, and ruffle Finnick’s hair. 

“Good thing he got her looks,” he’d say, his voice low and teasing. “Don’t need another face like mine scaring the fish away.”

-

Finnick’s feet sink into the wet sand as he walks along the beach, hands shoved deep in his pockets. He doesn’t know why he always ends up here—maybe it’s habit. Really, he has nowhere else.

The tide is out, the waves lapping gently at the shore. He picks up a shell, turns it over, and hurls it into the water. It skips twice before sinking.

He wonders, not for the first time, what his life would have been like if his mother hadn’t walked into the ocean that night. Would she be standing here now, calling him back for dinner? Or would she still be in bed, staring at the ceiling while he whispered stories to make her laugh?

The truth is, he doesn’t know. And that, more than anything, makes him angry. Not knowing.

He kicks a piece of driftwood, sending it tumbling down the beach. He knows she wasn’t well. His father always said the sea took her, that she didn’t mean to go. But how could she just leave him behind?

-

The days—years after his mother’s death felt heavy in a way Finnick doesn’t have the words for. The house, once filled with the quiet hum of her voice and the soft shuffle of her steps, is now still. His father’s movements are slow, mechanical, like he’s going through the motions of life, but not truly living it. He works harder than ever, disappearing into the boatyard for hours, sometimes days. When he returns, his eyes are shallow pools, his back hunched. His mother’s absence had hollowed them both.

Finnick sits at the kitchen table, the chair creaking beneath him. His fingers trace the edge of his mother’s favorite cup, the one she’d always used for tea. It's cracked now, the line of damage stark against its faded floral pattern.

He walks to the door of the shed one evening, watching as his father hammers away at the wood, his face set in a permanent scowl. Finnick stands in the doorway for a long time, waiting for some sign, some acknowledgment. He clears his throat. Finnick shifts his weight, his fingers curling into his sleeves.

“When will you come back home, Pa?” he asks, his voice small, unsure.

His father doesn't look up, doesn’t even stop his work. “Don't know. Tomorrow, maybe. A week,” he grunts.

Finnick swallows, but the words feel like stones in his mouth. He wants to shout, to demand more, but he stays silent.

Sometimes, he wishes his father was an angry man instead of a sad one. 

-

Finnick sits on the edge of the pier, his feet swinging over the water as he watches the boats bob in the harbor. The sun is setting, turning everything gold and pink, but he’s barely paying attention.

The deckhand said something earlier. Something about how lonely it must be, being an only child.

Lonely.

Finnick frowns, kicking his heel against the wood. It hurts. He does it again. He doesn’t know why the word feels so weird, but it does. 

The waves slap against the posts below, steady and soft, and Finnick closes his eyes for a second. He tries to imagine someone sitting beside him.

An older brother, maybe. Someone big enough to make the kids at school leave him alone. His brother would probably be strong, with broad shoulders like Pa’s. He’d show Finnick how to tie better knots, how to throw a punch the right way, how to stop feeling so small all the time.

His brother wouldn’t let the house be so quiet. He’d tell jokes at dinner or sing the shanties their pa used to hum when Finnick was little. He wouldn’t make Finnick wait alone, standing at the docks every day, hoping their pa might come back sooner this time.

Sometimes, he thinks it might be nice to have a sister instead. A big sister who’d teach him how to look for the good fish or help him build something better than a lopsided sandcastle. Someone who’d let him follow her around without rolling her eyes.

He picks up a pebble from the pier and turns it over in his fingers. “Do you think Mom wanted more kids?” he whispers to no one. He doesn’t really remember her face anymore, not clearly, but he remembers her voice sometimes. Soft. Quiet. He doesn’t think she smiled a lot, but when she did, it made her whole face look different.

Maybe things would’ve been different if she hadn’t left.

Finnick throws the pebble into the water. It skips once, twice, before sinking out of sight.

Other times, he pictures a little brother instead. Someone smaller, someone who’d look up to him the way Finnick always looked up to Pa. He’d teach him how to swim, how to hold his breath underwater, how to pick up crabs without getting pinched. If anyone teased him at school, Finnick would stand in front of him, arms crossed, until they backed off.

He thinks about a little sister, too. Someone with a laugh that could make the house shake. He’d show her where to find the best shells, how to braid seaweed into her hair. He’d carry her on his back to the market and make her dinner when Pa was gone. He’d promise to keep her safe.

But, like his parents taught him, an Odair's promise doesn't mean much at all.

The dock creaks under his weight as Finnick shifts, picking up another pebble. He rolls it between his fingers, frowning at the horizon. He wonders if his pa ever thought about having more kids. Or if they talked about it, before she walked into the sea.

Finnick throws the pebble harder this time, but it still sinks. Everything does, eventually.

He pulls his knees up to his chest and rests his chin on them, staring out at the water. It’s not like he’d wish a sibling into this life—not with the Games waiting for them like a storm cloud that never goes away. But still, he wonders what it might have been like.

How it might feel to share the waiting.

Someone to sit with him on the pier. Someone to hold it all with him and help carry the weight.

Someone he could be proud to look like.

But there’s no one else. There never was.

-

“Finnick!” Mareen’s voice rings out, bright and eager, as she waves to him from the shore.

He’s sitting on the edge of the pier, his feet dangling over the water, a fishing line in his hands. It’s all the same as before. He doesn’t look up, pretending not to hear her until she’s closer.

“You’re out here again?” she asks, tilting her head. Her sandals dangle from her fingers, her toes curling against the wooden planks. “What are you even fishing for?”

“Nothing,” Finnick replies simply, reeling the line back in.

Nyle appears beside her, his grin wide and teasing. “You just like looking dramatic, don’t you?”

Finnick rolls his eyes. “And you like hearing yourself talk.”

The twins laugh, their voices overlapping as they settle beside him. They’re always like this, popping up wherever he is, dragging him into their orbit. Part of him finds it annoying, but another part…another part didn’t mind.

He tells that sad, lonely part of himself to shut up.

“You’re so serious all the time,” Mareen says, leaning her chin on her hand. “It’s kind of cute, you know.”

“Don’t you have someone else to bother?” Finnick asks, though his tone has as much bite as a guppy.

“Nope,” Nyle says cheerfully. “You’re our favorite.”

Mareen grins, her eyes glinting with mischief. “Yeah, Finnick. You’re just so…damn mysterious.”

Her voice catches slightly on the curse, like she’s not quite sure how to use it. The word sits heavy in the air, awkward and out of place. Finnick glances at her, raising an eyebrow, but doesn’t say anything.

Nyle, not wanting to be outdone, leans in with a smirk. “Yeah, you’re so mysterious, it’s damn annoying.” He stretches the word out, as if saying it slower will make it sound more natural. It doesn’t.

Finnick exhales sharply through his nose. “You two sound ridiculous.”

“What? No, we don’t!” Mareen protests, her cheeks flushing. “We curse all the time. Like sailors!”

“Real sailors,” Nyle adds, puffing up his chest.

Finnick rolls his eyes again, turning his gaze back to the water. “Sure you do.”

The twins exchange a look, deflating slightly, but they quickly recover. Mareen nudges Nyle, who nudges her back, their laughter bubbling up again as if they can’t stay serious for more than a moment.

“You’re no fun,” Mareen declares, sticking her tongue out at him.

“And you’re too much fun,” Finnick replies dryly, though there’s a faint twitch at the corner of his mouth.

He stares out at the horizon again, the fishing line slack in his hands, and wonders if his pa’s boat is out there somewhere, sailing farther and farther away.

-

Finnick doesn’t like school.

Not the hard benches or the creaky desks, not the endless droning of the teacher who talked more about the Capitol than anything useful, and certainly not the other kids who always whisper about him. The classroom smells of chalk dust and sweat, the air warm and stale, the kind that makes his skin itch. Every day feels like the last—a steady crawl of hours marked by the sun shifting across the classroom floor.

At lunch, he sits alone, chewing on the dry bread his father left for him that morning. The crust scrapes his gums, but he barely notices. His eyes are fixed on the window, on the thin strip of blue that peeks through the grime. Beyond it, he knows the sea is waiting. The waves seem so much closer than they are, as if he could step out of the classroom and straight into the surf.

He wonders what it would be like to spend the whole day out there, toes digging into the wet sand, watching the tide roll in and out. He imagines the salty spray of the water on his face, the sun warming his skin. It feels like freedom, and so out of reach.

“Your mom was weird, too,” a voice cuts through his daydream.

Finnick freezes.

It’s one of the older boys, leaning over his desk with a smirk. His voice is loud enough to carry, but not loud enough for the teacher to care. “Always quiet. Always sad. Guess it runs in the family.”

Finnick doesn’t respond. He just clenches his fists under the desk, his nails digging into his palms. He doesn’t let the boy see the anger bubbling under his skin. He’s good at that—at staying quiet, at keeping things locked down, far, far away.

Eventually, the boy gets bored and moves away, laughing as he joins his friends. The sound of their voices fades into the dull hum of kids talking and eating and talking some more, but Finnick’s chest feels tight, his heart pounding against his ribs. He should have punched him.

What makes him angrier than anything is not what the boy said, but the fact that he may remember more about Finnick’s mom than Finnick does.

It’s not fair—none of it is fair. Other people have these perfect, vivid memories of her, while his own are nothing but fragments: the way her hair smelled like saltwater, the hum of her voice when she thought he wasn’t listening, the cool press of her hand against his forehead when he was sick.

Some days, he wonders if he’s making it all up.

The rest of the day passes in a blur, a long stretch of waiting for something—anything—to change. The teacher’s voice drones on, the words blending together into meaningless noise. The other kids whisper and snicker, their voices grating like sand in his ears.

When the bell finally rings, Finnick grabs his bag and slips out of the classroom before anyone can stop him. He doesn’t head home right away—he walks toward the docks instead, his feet moving automatically, the sound of the waves growing louder with each step.

The tide is low, the wet sand glinting in the afternoon light, and he stops at the edge of the pier, his bag slung over his shoulder. For a moment, he just stands there, staring out at the horizon. The sea stretches endlessly before him, the waves rolling in a steady rhythm, and he wonders—not for the first time—what it would feel like to let the sea carry him away. He’s never felt closer to his mother.

-

[10]

The first thing Finnick notices when his father comes back is how much older he looks. His face, always tanned and weathered, seems more lined now. His shoulders, usually strong from hauling nets and working on the water, now sag, as though they carry something heavy and invisible that he can't put down.

“Finn,” his father says, his voice low and gruff. He drops a small bag onto the kitchen table, filled with the usual trinkets—shells, carved figures, bits of polished stone.

Finnick doesn’t rush to greet him. He just sits at the table, arms crossed, watching as his father moves around the room. The silence between them is thick, the kind that's settled over their home ever since his mother’s death. He doesn’t ask where he’d been, or how long he’ll be staying this time. He already knows the answers. Out and Don't know. His father’s return is never something to celebrate. It’s a pause in the dragging boredom, nothing more.

“Brought you something,” his father says, pulling a small charm from his pocket. It’s a smooth piece of driftwood, carved into the shape of a fish.

Finnick takes it, turning it over in his hands. The carving is small—about the size of his palm—and it feels rough, the edges uneven. His father has handed it to him with barely a word, the gesture almost absent. The lines of the fish don't remind him of the waves his father can read so well. They don't remind him of the sea at all. They feel like something forgotten, or a half-finished thought.

“Thanks, Pa,” Finnick mutters, his voice quieter than he means it to be. He sets it on the table.

He glances up at his father, hoping for more. Maybe a smile. Maybe something to remind him of the man who once called him Odair Jr., who had taught him to read the sea and pull the nets. But his father doesn’t look up. His rough, calloused hands keep working on something in front of him, automatic, his attention fully absorbed in the task at hand.

“Put it with the others,” his father says absently.

“Yeah,” Finnick replies, his voice flat. He rubs the fish charm between his fingers, feeling its grain, but it doesn’t soothe him. 

His father hesitates for a moment, his hand resting on the back of a chair. He finally speaks, his voice rougher than usual. “You’ve been managing alright?”

“I guess,” Finnick replies, his voice flat. “Same as always.”

There’s a pause.  Finnick feels it pressing down on him. His father nods slowly, but the movement seems to be more for himself than for Finnick. The words hang in the air.

His father sits down slowly, his movements stiff, almost reluctant. Finnick watches him, waiting for something—anything—but his father just stares at the table, his hands folded in front of him.

The driftwood fish charm sits between them, small and unimportant. His father hadn’t even looked up when he gave it to him. Finnick shoves the charm into his pocket and turns away, walking toward the window where he can see the sea. But the ocean feels far away now, as distant and uninviting as his father.

His father is here, but not really. And Finnick, for the first time, isn’t sure if he wants him to be.

-

Finnick crouches by the shoreline, his toes digging into the cool, damp sand. The sun has just begun its climb, casting a golden glow over the water, but the village is already awake. He can hear the hum of activity behind him—men shouting, nets being hauled, the rhythmic clatter of crates against the docks.

He should be helping. His father always said that every able hand was needed, but Finnick likes these mornings to himself, when the tide is low, and the world feels full.

He drags a stick through the sand, tracing lazy patterns—swirls, lines, a crude sketch of a boat. His eyes dart to the horizon every few seconds, scanning for his father’s return, though he knows better than to expect it.

“Morning, lad.”

The voice startles him, and he turns to see Old Garris, one of the harbor workers, standing a few feet away. The man’s face is creased like an old map, his eyes kind but weary.

“Your dad’s not back yet,” Garris says gently, as if Finnick hasn't already figured that out.

“I know,” Finnick replies, shrugging. He turns back to his drawing, trying to appear unfazed.

Garris doesn’t say anything else. He just nods and moves on, his boots crunching against the rocks. Finnick watches him go, a small pang of envy tugging at his chest. Garris has a son, an older boy who works alongside him, their laughter echoing across the docks.

Finnick imagines what it would be like to have that—someone steady, someone who’d stay. But then he shakes the thought away, burying it beneath the sand.

-

He can still hear his ma humming sometimes, though he knows she’s not there. But for a moment, it feels like she’ll walk through the door, arms full of whatever she gathered that day.

His father always said it wasn’t her fault. She didn’t want to leave. 

Finnick wants to believe him. But sometimes, especially in the long, quiet nights when the house feels like it’s swallowing him whole, he can’t stop the anger from creeping in.

She should’ve stayed.

The thought always comes sharp and cruel, and he hates himself for it. He knows she didn’t have a choice. But that doesn’t stop the ache in his chest, the anger that rises when he thinks of how she used to hold him like he was the only thing keeping her tethered to the world. But he must’ve imagined that too, because he wasn’t enough to make her stay.

Finnick stands at the window again, forehead pressed against the cool glass. His breath fogs the pane, and he wipes it away, trying to focus on the horizon.

His father used to say his mother loved the sea. She was happiest by the water. Finnick wishes he could feel that connection, could believe the sea took her because it couldn’t bear to let her go. 

He doesn’t. 

Why couldn’t you stay?

The question burns hot and bitter, and then another follows, twisting his stomach:

Wasn’t I enough to make you stay?

-

The harbor is quiet except for the steady lap of waves against the shore. Finnick sits cross-legged on the dock, a spool of rope in his lap, his fingers fumbling with the loops of a knot. His brow furrows in frustration—it isn't coming together like he wants.

“You’re crossing it wrong,” his father’s gravelly voice comes from behind. Finnick startles. He hadn’t even noticed his approach.

His father steps closer, crouching beside him. “Here,” he says, taking the rope. His hands, calloused and sure, moved deftly, looping and pulling the strands with practiced ease. “Like this.”

Finnick watches closely, his heart racing. It has been so long since his father has noticed him, let alone helped him with anything. When he hands the rope back, Finnick takes it carefully, his fingers tracing over the knot.

“That’s it, boy,” his father says, a flicker of a smile tugging at his lips. “Haven’t seen anyone tie a knot like that in years.”

Finnick’s grin breaks through, wide and triumphant. “You taught me,” he says, his chest swelling with pride.

His father pauses, his green eyes meeting Finnick’s for the first time in what feels like forever. They soften, a faint light sparking in them that Finnick thought had been extinguished so long ago. “Did I?” he murmurs, almost to himself. “Guess I did. Don’t know where the time went.”

For a moment, Finnick sees him—the man his father used to be. The one who laughed loudly and spun him around until they both collapsed in the sand. The man who told him stories of sea monsters and storms and treasures hidden in the deep. That man was still there, somewhere, buried beneath the weight of grief and silence. Finnick’s heart aches with the realization.

The moment is fleeting, as all their moments seem to be now. His father stands, his gaze shifting back to the horizon, the lines of his face hardening again. “Don’t let it tangle,” he says, his voice distant once more, and walks away.

But Finnick holds onto that glimmer, fragile as it is. His father hasn't disappeared completely. Not yet.

Finnick tries to bridge the gap, even if he doesn't know how. He trails after his father like a shadow, waiting for an opening, a chance to pull him back. Sometimes, he lingers in the doorway while his father mends nets or polishes the carvings he no longer gives as gifts.

“Wanna go to town tomorrow, Pa? There’s a festival…”

His father doesn’t look up. “We’ll see, Finn,” he mutters, and that distance yawns.

They never see. Finnick goes by himself.

Other times, Finnick tries sitting with him, side by side, staring out over the water in quiet company. He thinks maybe that can be enough—that maybe just being there will help. 

“Pa, what are you thinking about?” Finnick asks once, the question tumbling out before he can stop it. He holds his breath, hoping to be rewarded for his bravery.

His father shakes his head, his gaze fixed on the horizon. “Nothing worth talking about, boy,” he says, his voice barely more than a whisper.

His face goes warm, embarrassed that he even hoped for a different answer. Finnick bites the inside of his cheek, his chest tight with the words he doesn’t say. I’m worth talking to.

Even then, he keeps trying. He mimics his father’s voice, hoping to make him laugh. He asks about his day, trying to tie knots the way his father had taught him. He even leaves little carvings of fish and seashells on the workbench, though his own hands aren't as skilled. But his father’s responses are always short, distracted. His eyes look through Finnick, as though he isn’t there at all.

“Pa,” Finnick calls one morning, clutching the edge of the table where his father works. “You wanna go fishing together this weekend? Just you and me?”

His father doesn’t meet his gaze. “Don’t know, Finn. Maybe next time.”

There is no next time. Not for fishing, not for stories, not for all the little things Finnick wants to do together. The silence between them grows heavier with each passing day, thick as the salt-soaked air of their small home. Finnick feels the distance like the pull of a tide, dragging him further and further from his father, no matter how hard he tries to hold on.

One morning, Finnick watches from the shore as his father prepares to leave again. The sky is still soft with dawn, but the harbor is as active as ever. His father moves with practiced ease; checking the nets, securing the crates, his broad shoulders hunch against the wind. Finnick hugs his knees to his chest, digging his toes into the cool sand until he feels a buried shell prick him. He wishes he would stay—or better yet, wishes he could go with him.

“Pa?” Finnick calls, small voice carried by the breeze.

His father glances up, his face shadowed beneath his weathered cap. “What is it, Finn?”

Finnick hesitates, his throat tightening. He wants to ask why his father had stopped singing, why the house felt so empty even when he was there, why he always seemed to be looking for something just beyond the horizon. But the words tangle inside him, and all he manages is, “Be careful out there.”

His father smiles faintly, though it doesn't reach his eyes. “Always am,” he says, stepping onto the boat.

But as he pushes off from the dock, Finnick notices his father pause. His hands rest on the tiller, his head turning slightly, his green eyes casting back toward Finnick. For a moment, Finnick swears his father’s gaze softened—not with the dull haze of grief or exhaustion, but with something else, something that feels like a spark of recognition.

“Finn,” his father calls, his voice low but carrying across the water.

Finnick straightens, his chest tightening. “Yeah, Pa?”

“You did good with the knots yestermorn,” his father says, his lips twitching into a small, uneven smile. “Making your ma proud. I feel it.”

And then he turns away, his figure once again solid and unreachable as the boat drifts into the horizon. But the words linger, hanging in the cool morning air like sea mist. Finnick sits back down, his fingers finding the grooves in the sand. His father had noticed. He had remembered.

It isn’t much. Just a glimmer. But it is enough to hope. Enough to try again.

Present (II) - Finnick

DISTRICT THIRTEEN

One. 

Two. 

Three. 

Four. 

Five. 

Six. 

Seven.

A high-pitched beep rings, echoing throughout the empty room. Seven seconds this time. Finnick isn’t sure where the sound is coming from; it’s muffled enough to elude him. 

His fingers move with purpose as he loops the rope into intricate knots before untying it and starting all over again. His fingers feel raw, as raw as the skin around his eyes. Both dry and wet, his eyes go long stretches of time without blinking, where he sees nothing at all. He stares at nothing, eyes going in and out of focus. He drifts aimlessly around the room, never moving from his bed. 

A bedpan, then nothing.

His vitals, then nothing. 

A schedule, then nothing.

His lips are chapped and bleeding from him biting off the dry skin. But the pain from the torn skin, the metallic taste of blood is all beyond him now. His hands, his eyes, his lips, his mind—they’re all independent of each other, all these parts that used to make up a whole person. 

He counts again.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

Six—

Fingers snap in front of him in a moment where his eyes decide they want to see after all. 

“Finnick.”

Limp brown hair, tired eyes, scowl—

“Katniss.” Finnick croaks; how long has it been since he’s last spoken? “What—” His voice cracks, but he doesn't bother clearing his throat. He doesn't bother finishing his sentence. Doesn’t bother with the water at his bedside that Katniss nods at. Finnick doesn’t bother with a lot of things. Instead, he sinks his canines into the raw, post-peeled divots of his bottom lip and focuses on his hands.

The rope is knotted. The rope. He requested it. Or…was it given to him? He can’t remember which. Who would have known to give this to him? He never… Who knows him well enough?

Star. 

You do. You’d know just how to help him. But if you were here, there’d be nothing to fix. If you were here—

“You were crying.” Katniss’s gruff voice startles Finnick out of his thoughts. She must not be doing much talking these days, either. “Again.”

“Oh.” He sniffs, abruptly aware of the wetness on his face. He doesn’t apologize, and he doesn’t think she’s expecting him to.

Her movements are sluggish and drawn out enough that he's able to pick them up in a world that feels too fast-paced for him to pick apart. Whether it's deliberate or not doesn’t matter to him, just slow enough for him to notice without trying.

She lowers herself into a chair across from him, stiff. Maybe each movement for her requires all the brainpower that isn't going towards her attempts of staying angry at him. She sits with her elbows on her knees, hands dangling loose and almost useless between her legs. He's reminded of how numb and useless his limbs became once the fog absorbed into them.

His heart monitor spikes, before abruptly going back to slightly above steady. Not even that can be bothered to remember its scripted response to a dangerous stimulus. 

What was the point? 

She doesn’t comment on it. In fact, they don't speak. She doesn't ask why he's crying. She doesn't offer comfort. She just sits there, gray eyes focused somewhere over his shoulder. At what? He'd find out if he bothered to glance behind himself. 

Finnick focuses on the rope, the one thing he has complete control over. With it, the rope burns along the reinforced calluses on his hands. His hands work automatically, looping and pulling, over and over. He tries not to think about the reasons he requested it. Or maybe it was given to him. He can’t remember anymore. 

The silence stretches between them, unbroken except for the sound of rope slicing through his fingers. Finnick doesn’t look up, but he knows she's still there. Solid but as steady as wet sand under his feet at high tide. 

She shifts in her seat, subtle enough, but still catching attention. He glances at her, but just briefly, and notices the way her jaw tightens, the way those useless hands curl into fists. 

“Why are you here?” He asks finally, because if not him, then who?

Katniss shrugs as if it's normal for them to share space and air instead of just a wall. Her gaze is still fixed somewhere unreachable. He only knows because his gaze is going down the opposite road from hers. “I don't know.” 

Finnick nods, accepting her answer without question. 

They sit in silence, one of the many things they now share, for a while longer—the unspoken weight of the Capitol pressing down on both of them. Finnick thinks about you—about the things they might be doing to you. He wonders if Katniss is thinking the same thing about Peeta.

She stands suddenly, the chair scraping against the floor. Finnick looks up at her, his hands stilling on the rope. “You’re not eating.”

“I know,” Finnick replies. She likely heard one of the doctors mention it while she was avoiding her own meal. He can’t tell if it’s a reprimand or an observation, something she doesn't understand, or maybe just something she wants him to know she knows.

Katniss doesn’t say anything else. She just nods once, a curt, almost awkward gesture, before turning and walking toward the door.

Finnick watches her go, the sound of her boots echoing in the hallway. Then he looks back down at the rope in his hands.

One.

Two.

Three.

-

The coarse fibers scrape against his raw fingertips, but he doesn’t stop. He doesn’t feel it. Not really.

He’s mid-loop when the sound of boots in the hallway reaches his ears. It stops outside his door, followed by the sharp click of the handle turning.

Katniss steps inside. He doesn’t remember when she even left, doesn’t know how long he was in the room by himself, raw and splintered. Doesn’t know if this is the same day or if he lost another one somewhere between the knots of his rope. She looks just as haggard as she does in his memory.

She doesn’t say anything at first. Her gray eyes scan the room, taking in the bedpan by the wall, the untouched water pitcher on the table, the schedule taped to the door. Finally, her gaze settles on him.

Her jaw tightens.

“Finnick,” she says, her voice flat, almost bored.

“...Katniss,” he replies, just as flat.

Her lips press into a thin line, and for a moment, Finnick thinks she’s going to leave. There’s none of the tentative camaraderie they built in the arena. Whatever fragile understanding they had then was shattered the moment they were pulled from the Games.

She hates him now.

He doesn’t blame her.

Back then, her hatred was born of mistrust—a natural suspicion, given the circumstances. But now, it’s worse. Sharper. Heavier. Laced with something deeper.

Betrayal.

She hates the lies, the tricks, the role he played in manipulating her. She hates him for surviving when Peeta didn’t.

That last one, Finnick understands.

He hates himself for surviving when others didn’t, for being pulled out of the arena while you were left behind. He understands the way Katniss’s hatred festers, the way it eats at her from the inside out. He understands because he feels it too.

But her hatred for him isn’t all-consuming. There’s someone she hates more.

Haymitch.

Finnick should hate Haymitch, too. The man broke his promise, his word. He’d sworn to protect you, to keep you safe, and he failed, just like Finnick had.

But Finnick can’t bring himself to hate him. Not really.

There’s only so much space inside him for hatred, and it’s already filled. His hatred for Snow burns hotter than anything else, but even that has to fight for room against the worry for you that consumes him.

Haymitch hates himself enough for all three of them. Finnick sees it in the way the man avoids his eyes, in the way he drowns himself in silence now that there’s no alcohol left to do it for him. In the way he haunts his end of the medical wing like a specter, a voiceless banshee—bringing with him the tidings of decades of death and disappointment. 

Katniss doesn’t seem to notice. Or care. Her hatred for her mentor is raw, all-encompassing, and it spills over to Finnick every time she looks at him.

Like now.

She stands stiffly by the door, her arms crossed over her chest. “You’re not eating,” she says. 

This feels familiar.

“I know,” Finnick replies, his voice barely above a whisper.

Katniss narrows her eyes at him, and he can feel the weight of her judgment pressing down on him.

The camaraderie they’d built in the arena is gone. There’s no trace of it left. Just the cold, sharp edge of her anger and the heavier silence that fills the space between them. Despite it all, she visits him. When she’s not wandering off on her own, she sticks close for the same reason she avoids everyone else.

No one else understands.

No one but him.

Maybe that’s why she doesn’t leave.

Despite everything, she stays.

Her eyes flick to the rope in his hands, watching as he loops and pulls, over and over. He wonders what she sees when she looks at him. A broken man, probably. Another victor crushed under the Capitol’s heel. She’d know.

She shifts towards the seats, the movement drawing his attention. When he glances at her, he catches the way her gaze softens, just for a moment, before she looks away.

Finnick knows she’s angry. Angry at him, angry at Haymitch, angry at the world. But beneath that anger, he sees something else. Something raw and aching that mirrors his own pain.

She doesn’t trust anyone else with it.

He knots the rope again, the fibers digging into his skin.

She takes a step closer, her eyes darting to the rope in his hands. “Why are you doing that?” Katniss asks, her voice quiet now, almost hesitant.

Finnick doesn’t look up. He tightens the knot. Pulls it apart. Starts again.

Just like that, Finn. You're making your Ma proud.

“It helps,” he says simply.

Katniss scoffs, but it’s a quiet sound, almost absent. She moves over to the chair by the wall—the same one he saw her in last, the same one she always occupies—like there's a gun pressed to her spine and sits. Sinking down, ropes suddenly cut, boneless and witless.

For a long moment, neither of them speaks. She sits up straighter before abruptly sinking down again.

Finnick keeps working on the rope. His fingers twist and pull, his mind looping back to you, to the Capitol, to the things they might be doing to you.

He wonders if Katniss's mind does the same thing. Work itself in familiar loops, treading familiar waters, retracing its footsteps in the sand. He always ends up in the same spot—has since he was a kid—maybe she does too. Maybe that's why she finds herself here despite wishing they were both dead.

Maybe he's mistaking her for himself.

When she finally stands some time later, or no time at all, her movements are abrupt, jerky. “I heard a new head doctor is coming,” she says, her voice clipped. “For you.”

Finnick nods but doesn’t move. It seems he scared off the last two assigned to him by the simple fact of not talking. He had plenty to say, just not to them.

Katniss hesitates, her hand on the door. She glances back at him, her expression unreadable, before shaking her head and stepping into the hallway.

Finnick listens to her footsteps fade, the silence rushing back to fill the void she leaves behind.

One.

Two.

Three.

He knots the rope again.

Haymitch

DISTRICT THIRTEEN

The light’s buzzing again. 

Though it never stopped to begin with. That’s apparently a rule in the hospital wing: keep a constant dim light as opposed to a blinding white in the day and total darkness at night. It’s his only companion in this place. A sharp, incessant drone that drills into Haymitch’s skull and scrapes against every frayed nerve. 

It’s loud as shit.

He told them about it. The doctors, the nurses, the officious types who march through the hallways with their clipboards and schedules inked on their arms. He’s told them about it, but they dismiss him with a dismissive nod, the kind that says they aren’t hearing a damn word he’s saying. Just another symptom of his condition, they say. Nothing to worry about, they say.

It is something to worry about. The buzzing is loud enough to crack his skull open, loud enough to melt his brain and peel his muscles from his bones. It may even kill him if he’s lucky. It hums in time with the fluids they keep pumping into his veins, trying to stave off the jaundice creeping across his skin.

They don’t take him seriously. They fill him with fluids at regular intervals, ignore his yellowing eyes, and mutter about detox like it’s an inconvenience. They’re a hyper-military district, not the sort of place equipped to deal with withdrawal. They don’t understand it, don’t care to.

He stares up at it, the light, his arms heavy and limp at his sides. He stares at it, his ally and his enemy, and wonders how he could have failed this spectacularly.

The light buzzes back.

It’s a full-time thing for now, after his heart rate dropped dangerously low, saline dripping into his veins to keep him alive just enough to suffer. His skin feels stretched too tight over his bones, sallow and thin. 

“Let him ride it out,” one of them said when he was doubled over, dry-heaving bile into a bucket. “He’ll be fine.”

They don’t understand what this does to a person, how it scrapes you raw from the inside out, hollows you out. He begs for death sometimes, quietly to himself, and other times yelling it out loud. And when he’s not begging for death, he’s begging for a drop of alcohol.

The light buzzes.

Haymitch knows what they see when they look at him. A washed-up victor. A relic of the past, barely worth saving. If they had their way, they’d leave him here to rot.

Every inch of him is a sickly yellow that reminds him of the color of old whiskey bottles. He thinks of Hattie Meeny then, even though he hasn't thought of her in years. His body shakes, a dull tremor that won’t stop, no matter how tightly he grips the blanket draped over him. His throat is dry, and every breath feels like sandpaper. His nose is equally as dry. Itches like a bitch. 

He hates the feeling and always attacks the offending body part with chipped nails and spite, punishing the dead skin cells for reminding him he’s alive. 

It’s childish, incredibly fucking stupid, even. 

But it’s even worse when he can’t reach it. His nose itches so far up that he contemplates taking the needle out of his arm just to reach it. Instead, he wiggles his nose around, sniffles obnoxiously, rubs and rubs, pinches, and stretches until he finds mild satisfaction in the sore, but itch-free feeling. That is, of course, until the stinging pain comes in. So harsh and immediate that it makes his eyes tear up, and his head whip down as something ruptures warm and wet.

A nosebleed.

The burn is almost worth it just to see the nurses’ reaction, a look of fear-tinged surprise breaking through their careful nothingness like a pickaxe when they come across him bloody and cursing and coughing. Red staining his pale white shirt, sliding past his lips, down his chin, and drip, drip, dripping onto their oh-so-pristine floors as he stumbles off of his cot to throw up—the taste of iron bleeding down his aching throat enough to trigger an abrupt and immediate revolt of stomach acid. 

They try to come near him with a wet cloth, likely to clean the blood before it dries. But he knows it’s more for their benefit than anything else. So they wouldn’t have to look at the mess he made, probably can’t stand the sight of him even more now. Good.

He uses the sleeve of his cardigan to wipe haphazardly at his chin and upper lip, gathering the blood that managed to make its way into his mouth, and spits it on the floor, waving them away from him with a grunt.

They’ve made sure to put the itty bitty trash can closer in reach.

The light feels extra loud today. Louder than the voices that whisper in his head, louder than the accusations that scream at him when he closes his eyes. The buzzing drowns it all out sometimes, but not always.

Not today. Today, the guilt has free rein to roam.

He asks the light this time, “How did I fail this spectacularly?”

The light buzzes back, mocking him.

He closes his eyes, trying to block out the sound, but it doesn’t help. It’s always there, like the memories. Some of the shadows move out of the corner of his eyes; he feels them brush against his sensitive skin whenever he lets his guard down, and he knows it’ll get a lot worse before it gets anywhere close to better.

He thinks about all of you kids. His kids. That’s what you are, really. His damned kids.

Every single one. The ones who didn’t make it out of the Games, the ones who did. Every tribute from Twelve, every victor who’s walked the line between survival and surrender. More doves for him to let down.

He cares about them. He does. It’s not something he can deny, even if he wanted to. Katniss, Finnick, you, Peeta—all his, in the way only tributes can belong to each other.

He let you both down.

You and Peeta, the best of them all. The ones who still believed in something better, even after everything the Capitol had done to you. He should’ve protected you. That was his job. His responsibility.

But he failed.

And now you’re in the Capitol, suffering God-knows-what at Snow’s hands, while he’s here, tethered to a bed and staring at a light that won’t shut up.

Haymitch has spent his whole life failing the people who matter. He failed his family. Failed the tributes he couldn’t save. Failed the rebellion when it mattered most. And now, he’s failed his kids.

The buzzing grows louder, drowning out his thoughts, his regrets, his shame. He clenches his fists, the IV needle tugging painfully at his arm.

No one believes him about the light. No one believes him about a lot of things.

He thinks about Katniss and Finnick. The other two. The ones who are too much like him for comfort. Those two? They’re the hardest to look at.

Katniss with her fire, her fury, her unrelenting need to fight even when it burns her from the inside out. Katniss, so young and so angry, her edges sharp and jagged in a way that reminds him of himself before the Capitol filed him down. Nothing like Burdock was. She’s prickly and distant; she’s Twelve through and through. And that? That’s what pisses Snow off the most. That someone so beneath him managed to outsmart him. Haymitch knows—he lived it—and she’ll pay the price for it. Haymitch can see where it all might go wrong for her—how she could end up like him, or worse. Maybe not as lucky as he hoped she’d be.

And Finnick. God, Finnick, who was failed so profoundly, so spectacularly. Finnick with his charm, his secrets, the way he bends and breaks himself into whatever shape the Capitol demands. Snow forced him down a path Haymitch narrowly avoided, two different roads leading to the same gallows. He still doesn’t know which outcome is worse: the hollow life he’s living now, or the crueler one Finnick endured.

Those two, Katniss and Finnick, are fighters. Think first, question later. Products of a cruel world that forced them to become cruel in turn. And Haymitch sees so much of himself in them that it aches, like tearing open an old wound that never got to heal.

They’re too much like him. Too damaged. Too good at pretending they aren’t.

He’s tried to guide them in his own way, but what good has it done? Katniss hates him. Finnick… Finnick doesn’t have the energy left to hate him, but he should.

They’re survivors, though. Stronger than he ever was. Maybe they will survive what Haymitch didn’t: losing his love. Maybe Plutarch was right and the fact that they’re only kids won’t matter in the long run.

It’s you and Peeta who keep him up at night.

You and Peeta, who are too good for this world, too good for the Games, too good for Haymitch Abernathy.

Peeta, with his impossible kindness. Emotionally intelligent in a way that makes Haymitch’s chest ache. He’s selfless, charming, softhearted—a compassionate fool in a world that chews people like him up and spits them out. Peeta’s the kind of person you want to believe in. The kind of person worth protecting.

And you…

Haymitch remembers your Games vividly. How could he forget? It wasn’t the Capitol’s usual spectacle. The tributes devolved into savagery faster than he’d thought possible. The Careers turned on each other at the Cornucopia. The bold ones hunted at night, more animal than human. And there was that one kid, the one who ate the bodies—Haymitch can’t even think about that without feeling sick.

And then there was you.

You played the Capitol’s game. You had sponsors because you acted your ass off, but Haymitch saw through it. Not a lovable rascal, just lovable. You ran when confronted. Hid when chased. Tried to warn others off for their own good. Even with an impressive weapon in your hands, violence was a last resort for you, always.

How did you manage to hold on to your humanity in the midst of all that horror? He remembers thinking that back then too, but he…he never got around to asking you. He likely never will.

Like Peeta, you saw a light that had gone out in Haymitch a long, long time ago.

Of course, he cares about all these kids—his kids. But the two of you? He knows Finnick and Katniss would agree with him saying you’re the best of them.

And he let you both get captured, let them clip your wings.

“How did I fail this spectacularly?” he asks the buzzing light above him again and again, his voice hoarse and cracking this time, almost a prayer.

It buzzes back at him, sharp and unrelenting, mocking him, the frequency drilling into his skull. If he stays here long enough, it really might melt his brain and flay the muscles from his brittle bones. 

But even that may be too kind for him. The IV bag empties with a soft click, and the nurse comes in to replace it. She doesn’t speak, just swaps the bag and leaves without looking at him.

The buzzing resumes, louder now.

He calls to his love, muttering her name over and over. He even tries her poem, muttering it with a clumsy and halting tongue.

But she never shows. 

She must be mad at him; she should be. But it kills him, her becoming yet another person on the long list of people who are rightfully pissed with Haymitch.

There feels like a ball of poison, an aching nothingness, settling in his chest and against his lungs. Pressing his ribs outward and stomping on his pitiful liver that’s already waving the white flag. 

Is this what it feels like to be pregnant? 

No, pregnancy would come with purpose. It’s a bitter thought. This is just rot. A self-inflicted rot whittling away at the corners of his insides, reminding him that even his own body wants him dead. Instead of life growing inside, it's the absence of it. Haymitch is nurturing a slow death, incubating regret and bile and booze. It's teething on his spinal cord, filling him up like some cruel joke nature decided to play on the desperate. Curling up inside him, gnawing away like it’s starving too. 

He wants to reach down his throat and sink his fingers into whatever he touches, even if it hurts—especially if it hurts. Into the rotting and stinking meat, dragging it out, kicking and squirming. See this bundle of joy with his own two eyes, just so he can know there’s something in this world more miserable than him. 

Is this the alcohol draining from his veins, making sure they both hurt as it’s evicted? Or…or is this just who he is without his own special brand of medicine? It’s been so long since the last time he met himself. But what a fucking reunion, huh? No handshakes or polite smiles, just a punch to the gut and a reminder of how much he hates the company. 

He doesn’t remember much about the boy he used to be, back before the bottle. Before the loss after loss after loss. Just a shadow, vague and shapeless, blurred by time and grief and things better left buried. Maybe he wasn’t worth knowing then either. He doesn’t want to meet the man beneath the booze. He’s certain he won’t like him, and the feeling would be mutual.

So he clenches his fists and wills the ache to pass, like it’s something external, something that can be outlasted. But deep down, he knows better. The real poison isn’t in the alcohol leaving his body—it’s in everything it’s taking with it. 

He presses his fingers into his temples. And on top of that, the light is still so fucking loud.

He wishes Chaff were here. A friend. Someone to suffer with him. Bastard probably knew what was waiting for him in Thirteen and chose the cannon instead. The thought almost makes him chuckle, and probably would have if he weren’t so afraid of moving. It’s a better thought than the alternative—that the old boy was this close to making it out, to finding something like freedom, and just…didn’t.

Seeder visits him sometimes. But she doesn’t bring her boys.

It’s for the best. They’re good kids, but they shouldn’t have to see him like this—like a ghoul. And Haymitch can’t guarantee he wouldn’t have hated them for breathing near him, for being young and alive and unbroken.

He already snaps at Seeder, voice harsh and ugly. Every damn time she visits. It’s a vicious cycle. He can’t stop himself, but he hopes she understands. Hopes she knows it’s not her fault, that he doesn’t mean it, not really. 

It’s the light. 

She takes it in stride, her steady presence both infuriating and comforting. He wants to blame her. Wants to blame anyone. And every time he apologizes, she just shakes her head and sits with him anyway.

She understands; he knows she does, but it doesn’t make him feel any better. Her boys shouldn’t have to see him like this, but she shouldn’t either. 

When she comes to see him today, pausing to take in the pathetic state of him and his room, he already feels Jr, his little bundle of bullshit, kicking up unjustified rage. He’s on his back and bloody, lying as stiffly as the cot underneath him, and she does nothing more than frown. She steps around the dried vomit, picks up the cloth and jug of water the nurse left behind, and begins dabbing at his skin. He flinches at the feeling of ice-cold water, glaring up at her but too weak to do more than that.

“That’s fucking freezing.” He grumbles, coming out as a wheeze when he meant to bark. She pauses and stares at him a little oddly—and he’s close to telling her to get the hell out if all she’s come to do is judge him—but she starts cleaning him again before he can. Wiping at the stubborn flecks of blood in his facial hair and at the sweat that’s left his forehead drenched. He doesn’t even know it’s there, doesn’t even notice it until she wipes it away and says:

“This water isn’t cold, Haymitch.” She hums, gentle with her movements, the first softness offered towards him in what feels like years. “It’s still room temperature.”

Oh.

“I’m losing my mind.”

Seeder shakes her head, “No, you aren’t.”

“How the fuck would you know?” He sneers and immediately feels like the piece of shit he is when she barely flinches this time, already used to him turning the venom slowly poisoning him on her. He stares up at the ceiling, mumbling a half-assed apology that he really does mean under his breath. She nods understandingly, like she always does, and doesn’t leave even though she should. 

But she stops cleaning him, moves to sit in the chair beside him. It’s only a few feet away, but it might as well be a cavern. She takes the cloth and the quiet softness with her, leaving him with nothing but his own miserable company. It feels like a punishment, though he knows it isn’t

When his throat aches, his nose stings again, and tears blur his vision, Haymitch gives Seeder the only excuse that makes sense. “It’s the lights,” he mutters, his voice hoarse and brittle, like the words themselves are cracking under their own weight.

She doesn’t respond right away. He knows she’s still there—can feel the weight of her gaze—but she doesn’t rush to fill the silence. She just lets it hang between them.

For a moment, he wonders if she’s finally had enough, if she’s going to leave him to rot like he probably deserves. Her silence presses down like the damn IV in his arm, heavy and relentless, and the association he’s made up has given him yet another reason to be angry at her. He expects her to brush it off, to press a cold cloth to his forehead, or start talking about his recovery like it’s something he can plan on a chart.

Instead, she surprises him. “I miss him too,” she says, her voice low and soft. His chest tightens.

The words hit him hard, cutting through the fog in his head like a sharp breath of cold air. He opens his mouth to respond, maybe with something half-clever or half-cruel, but nothing comes. Haymitch blinks, the buzzing light above him suddenly louder, harsher, but not enough to drown her out.

He doesn’t need to ask who she means. And she doesn’t say it outright either. He’s glad; he wouldn’t be able to handle hearing Chaff’s name outside of the confines of his mind.

Of course, she misses him. They all do.

The room feels smaller all of a sudden, or maybe just quieter. Haymitch swallows hard, dragging the heel of his palm across his nose, not bothering to react to the pain of semi-dried blood pulling at his nose hairs. 

Haymitch squeezes his eyes shut, wishing she hadn’t said it, wishing the words didn’t hit the soft, tender parts of him he’s spent years pretending didn’t exist. He lets the words settle like the faint hum of the sea he can almost remember. But Haymitch has never seen the sea in person, so he’ll never be able to remember it, even if he tried.

He waits for the anger that usually follows Seeder’s visits to flare, but it doesn’t. There’s nothing left to burn.

“I’m glad one of us can say it out loud,” he manages after a long moment, his voice scraping against the silence.

Seeder’s eyes stay on him, calm and steady. “Doesn’t make it easier.”

“No,” he rasps. “It really doesn’t.”

The weight of his own words pulls Haymitch’s gaze from the ceiling. He opens his eyes and turns his head just slightly, enough to catch the edge of her expression—the tight line of her mouth, the shadows under her eyes. The grief that mirrors his own.

He doesn’t know what else to say. Doesn’t know if he even can say anything. So he settles for the truth, raw and uneven as it feels on his tongue. “Bastard probably had the right idea,” he mutters, his eyes flicking back to the ceiling. “He knew what this place would do to him.”

Seeder huffs out a breath that’s almost a laugh, though it sounds more like a sigh. “If he were here, he’d tell you to stop wallowing and get your ass up.”

Haymitch can hear him saying it now.

“He’d tell me to pour him a drink first,” Haymitch counters, though there’s no venom in his tone. Just a quiet, aching fondness.

Seeder exhales sharply, a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob. “You gonna make me miss you too, Haymitch?”

The words hit like a gut punch, and Haymitch clenches his fists, the IV tugging painfully at his arm. He doesn’t answer because what the hell is there to say to that?

For a long time, neither of them speaks. 

He swipes at his nose again with the sleeve of his already blood-streaked shirt. He shouldn't have said anything. Shouldn’t have cracked the door open.

He tries to swallow, but his throat is too dry. His chest trembles with something he isn’t ready to call crying.

“…Remember when…” The words come out broken, half-swallowed, and gasping between breaths. “He’d…hide that damn flask in his prosthetic? Thought he was so clever.”

Seeder huffs quietly, shaking her head with the faintest flicker of a smile. “He was clever. We just pretended not to notice.”

Haymitch lets out something that could be mistaken for a laugh—if not for the sharp breath that follows, hitching painfully. It hurts his throat. “One time…he forgot it was in there during Snow’s banquet. Or maybe a birthday. Took it out and the whole thing clinked—loud as hell during a speech. I thought the Peacekeepers were going to drag him out right there.”

Seeder chuckles softly, shaking her head. “And what did he say?”

“Said it was ‘for emergencies only.’ Told Snow he’d been gifted it by some high-ranking Capitol official and didn’t want to be disrespectful.”

“And they believed him.” Seeder sighs, exasperated but fond.

Haymitch’s lips twitch, but the smile doesn’t last. “Should’ve been here,” He mutters. His voice is hoarse, the weight of it dragging through the sterile air. “He’d have hated this place, but—he should’ve made it.”

Seeder’s expression flickers—briefly—before settling into something unreadable. She doesn’t answer right away. Her hands fold neatly in her lap, and for a long moment, the only sound between them is the quiet hum of the IV drip.

Then, softly—like it’s not meant for anyone else but him—she says, “It’s not the same without him.”

The ache in Haymitch’s chest tightens like a fist around his ribs. “Yeah. Well.” His lips twist bitterly. “We could use his bullshit right about now.”

The memory sits between them, like something fragile wrapped in glass. It stretches just long enough to remind them of what they’ve lost before the weight of absence settles in again.

Haymitch’s grip tightens around the edge of his blanket. His knuckles ache from holding on too hard, too long. The ache beneath his ribs sharpens, rising until the pressure feels unbearable. He feels it rising—grief, anger, guilt—swirling under his skin until the only thing left is exhaustion. “Shouldn’t have been him.”

“I know,” she says quietly.

Haymitch doesn’t look at her when he feels the first tear slip down his cheek, doesn’t bother wiping it away. His breaths come quicker, chest tightening as the weight of everything bears down on him again. It breaks him down and doesn’t bother remaking him.

“I can’t do this,” he gasps, his voice breaking. “I can’t…”

Seeder doesn’t argue. Seeder doesn’t try to fix it. Doesn’t pretend it’s something he can shake off. Seeder doesn’t move to comfort him.

“I know.” She nods, “You’re doing it anyway.”

It’s not the answer he wants, which probably means it’s the one he needs. She leans back in her chair, her presence grounding in a way that makes him want to scream and sob all at once.

The light buzzes on, relentless as ever. But Seeder doesn’t leave. She stays in that chair, shoulders slightly hunched, staring at nothing—maybe the same nothing Haymitch’s been drowning in. She doesn’t leave, even as the hours drag on and that out-of-body irritability and anger unthaws. And for the first time in what feels like forever, Haymitch doesn’t beg her to go.

Haymitch doesn’t thank her. He doesn’t have it in him. But when she reaches for the cloth again, wiping the dried blood from his chin, he doesn’t pull away.

Past (i) - You

[8] - DISTRICT ELEVEN

You remember the gleam of the sun off their shiny white helmets like something out of a nightmare.

It sticks with you more than how the tears blurred your vision, or the way your mama dug her fingers into your shoulders—anchoring herself to you. Stopping you both from doing something truly foolish. 

You remember how your neighbors fell to their knees, screaming and crying at the injustice. Held up by family and friends, the side of shacks, or by nothing but sheer grief as Peacekeepers stormed into homes, dragging out men and women without so much as an explanation. 

Why? 

Why were they here when it used to be beneath them to travel so much as a foot past the city limits without superiors ordering otherwise? Why were the people you loved, and never prepared to lose, taken to face a judgment that didn't balance out all the good they'd done?

Whips and extra work and reduced rations and, and…

You remember them taking your daddy above all else.

You remember what y’all were doing right before, too. You got a real good memory; everyone always tells you so. You wish you didn't. You wish you didn't get to remember the feeling of warmth and safety and calm blanketing you, just before it was snatched away by the sun gleaming off white armor as they stormed your shack.

You wish you never remembered the way your big, unshakeable daddy became small as they forced him onto his knees. You wish you could remember anything but the shrill shriek your mama made as they slapped cuffs on his wrists.

You’d wish, you'd wish, you'd wish on a thousand dandelions to forget the wet sheen in his eyes as he tried to speak over their voices—voices that drone on about things too big for your small head. The way you cried, the way he refused to. You were one of the many who begged for mercy, for something more powerful than the people who dragged your daddy to the gallows to save him.

You wish you didn't remember how nothing answered you, nothing came and saved your daddy as they tightened the rope around his strong neck. The same neck and shoulders that carried you above the crowds, above the world. 

The same ones that thrash and struggle and go still after he finds your eyes in a crowd of hundreds, thousands—your stricken, angry face the last thing he chooses to see.

[8 ½] - DISTRICT ELEVEN

You don’t like school. 

It feels like a cage, all those rows of desks and words on the chalkboard that don’t mean anything, not really. What’s the use of learning things when all you’re doing is marking time until they decide you’re ready for the more advanced fields? Or worse, when they decide you’re ready for the Games? It's not like you need to learn anything they wanna teach you anyway, you won't be the mayor one day, won't hold any power that's worth more than the dirt you walk on now.

You didn’t like school much before, but you definitely don’t like it now.

It’s too quiet, too full of eyes that look at you for a little too long. And the teacher, Mr. Burrow, gives you…special attention that you hate, attention that feels prickly, like thorns under your skin. Not the kind of attention that makes you wanna try harder, but the kind that makes you wanna curl up in on yourself like a roly-poly, only coming out when the coast is clear. 

He’ll come up behind you while you’re working, hand on your shoulder, voice oily-sweet, murmuring about how brave you must be, how proud your daddy would’ve been if only he’d made better choices. He doesn’t know a damn thing about your daddy. Doesn’t know what he stood for or the way he’d pat your head and tell you that, one day, things would change.

If you ever need anything, any help understanding how your father could be so thoughtless, I’m here for you. You can stay behind after everyone leaves, I'll help you understand why he had to die, he’d say, but you ain’t dumb.

Since they killed your daddy—and there is a difference, he didn’t just die, it didn’t just happen to him one day—you can’t bring yourself to go, not when they talk about him like he was a fool, like he wasn’t worth mourning. Not when they look at you like that. They think you should be grateful to have a seat in the classroom, to have a teacher who knows so much.

The only thing worth going for is Sage.

Now, Sage might actually be something someday. He already is, but you mean in the eyes of the ones in charge. 

He’s waiting for you by the bakery, fidgeting in front of the display case. He always has a look about him, like he’s just waiting for someone to tell him he shouldn’t be there, even though he’s got every right to be. Tall as he is, with that mop of light hair and pale skin, he stands out—even more so out on the fields. And he’s always scowling, eyes darting around like he’s just waiting for something bad to happen.

When he spots you, his expression softens, his face lighting up. He shuffles over, looking at you in that serious way he has. “You don’t have to work today, right?” he asks, already knowing the answer.

You shake your head.

“Nope,” you say, hands in your pockets, watching him with a faint smile.

“So…are you coming to school?” he asks, hopeful, as he fiddles with the strap on his worn satchel.

You shake your head.

“No?” he says, his brows creasing with that concern you know too well. “Why not?”

You shrug, already halfway turned toward the open road. “Because,” you say simply.

He makes a face, hurrying to catch up. “Because what?”

“Because I don’t wanna. It’s not like it’s gonna do anything, me going.” You put your hands on your hips, squinting up at the sky. “Besides, I have somewhere way better to go.”

He sighs, biting his lip, already worried. “Well, we’re gonna get in trouble if we skip.”

“No one’s making you come, Sage,” you say with a shrug, turning on your heel to head toward the fields. “But no one’s gonna pay us any mind. Kids go wandering all the time. People only pay attention when it suits them.” You say it like it’s true. You’re mostly right. No one pays unattended kids much attention, not here. Unless, of course, it’s the wrong kind of grown-up with the wrong kind of attention. The kind of grown-up who notices just a little too much, their eyes lingering for too long. But you shake that thought away, and you keep walking, unbothered, letting him trail behind you until he’s half-running to catch up.

He pauses, trying one last time as if you'll change your mind if he says it just right. “But—”

“Come on, Sage.” You grin, rolling your eyes. You've been doing it a lot since you learned how. He hesitates, looking toward the direction of the school building, his lip caught between his teeth. But then he sighs, his shoulders slumping a little, and he hurries after you. It’s always like this—he complains, he worries, but he follows anyway.

You cross the fields, weaving in and out of the rows of crops, waving to workers you know and ones you don’t, Sage following a few steps behind, muttering about how much trouble you’re going to be in, how school’s important. He’s still going on about it when he trips over a tree root and goes sprawling, face down in the dirt with a yelp.

“Ow,” he mumbles, pushing himself up, tears welling in his eyes. “I’m okay… I just…”

You shake your head at the sorry sight he makes sprawled out in the dirt. “Sage, you big crybaby.”

“‘M not crying,” he mutters, his face bright red, but there’s a watery glint in his eyes.

You sigh, crouching beside him, brushing the dirt from his cheeks with one hand. Sage winces, sniffling as he blinks back tears, and you feel a warm, gentle pull toward him, something both annoyed and soft. Then, without thinking much of it, you lean over and kiss his cheek, a quick peck that leaves him wide-eyed and blushing.

“What…what was that for?” he stammers, blinking up at you.

You look away, your ears burning. “My mama always gives me a kiss when I get hurt,” you mumble, wiping your hands on your dress. “And it stopped you from crying, didn’t it?” You grab his wrist before he can respond, tugging him back to his feet. “Now come on.”

“Oh. Okay,” he says softly, his cheeks still pink as he lets you pull him along. He barely gets the words out, too stunned to argue. He’s quiet the rest of the way, barely looking up from his feet, but you catch him sneaking glances at you every few steps.

He stays close, clutching your hand as you lead him along, weaving through the fields, dodging rocks and gnarled roots. You lead him off the path, through a small grove of trees that smell sweet and damp, the kind of place that only you know about. You can’t go to any of your other secret spots because they were all shown to you by…well, it doesn’t matter much now, does it? 

The two of you settle down in the grass, the air thick and warm, the leaves casting dappled shadows on your faces. It’s the closest you can get to peace here. You’re both quiet for a while; the only sounds are the rustling of leaves and the occasional bird.

After a long silence, Sage speaks up, his voice low and careful. “‘M sorry ‘bout…your daddy,” he says, his gaze fixed on his hands, fingers picking at the edge of his bag.

You don’t look at him, but you sniffle, rubbing the back of your hand under your nose. You can’t cry now, not after calling Sage a crybaby. The words hang between you, something you don’t know what to do with, and you just nod, keeping your gaze fixed on the far-off horizon as your chest tightens.

When you don't speak, he rushes to fill the silence. You'd feel bad about making him nervous if you could feel anything other than grief.

“Mr. Burrow, he gives you special attention, doesn’t he? Picks on you? I… I know that’s why you don’t like school. I know…that’s why you skip.” He goes quiet again, but then his words are slipping out like he doesn’t want to say them, but can’t hold them in any longer. “He says things. He talks about people. People like your daddy. He…he said those rebels deserved what they got.  Said they were dangerous, and all of us are smarter than that, smarter than those foolish people.” He stumbles over the words, voice barely a whisper. “I hate it, too.”

You swallow hard, the anger bubbling up in your chest. You’ve heard Mr. Burrow talk about rebels, about the people who were brave enough to believe in something better. You’ve heard the way he twists their bravery into foolishness, the way he looks down on them. People you knew. People who risked everything so kids like you wouldn’t have to keep their heads down. 

Those weren’t just “rebels.” They were people you grew up with, people like your daddy. People who were trying to make life better. 

Sage shifts uncomfortably, the nervous energy in him building as he speaks. “I just… I thought maybe that’s why you don’t wanna go.” He swallows, his fingers fidgeting with a loose thread on his shirt. “Why you always skip.”

You take a breath, the air feeling thick in your lungs. “Why’d you come with me, anyway?” you ask, turning the conversation back on him. “You love school and all that learning shit.”

He gasps, his face scrunched up, looking scandalized. “Don’t cuss. What would your mama think if she heard you?”

You scoff, crossing your arms. “Well, she ain’t here, is she? Now answer my question.”

He shifts, his cheeks pinkening again as he stares down at his lap. “Well… because you’re my best friend,” he says. He bites his lip, then adds, “And… I like you more than school, so…”

Your eyes go wide, feeling warm all over, like your skin is catching fire from the inside out. Your heart flutters in a way you don’t know what to make of. You stare at him, a little owl-eyed, until you finally say, “Oh… okay then.”

Sage stares at the ground, scuffing the dirt with his shoe. “You’re…you’re not gonna make fun of me?”

You shake your head, trying to keep your face neutral. But there’s a little grin tugging at the corner of your mouth, and before you can stop yourself, you give him a light shove and knock him off balance just enough that he tips sideways, landing in the dirt with a surprised yelp. “Shut up.”

He laughs, and he straightens up, brushing the grass from his clothes and watching you with those wide, earnest eyes, like you’re the only person in the world. And for a moment, you forget about the weight you carry, the hurt that follows you like a shadow. For a moment, it’s just you and Sage, hidden under that big old tree, pretending there’s no such thing as Peacekeepers or rebels or gallows in the square. 

Lil’ Oakley. 

They’ve called you that for as long as you can remember, and maybe even longer. Probably because of the way you used to follow your daddy around everywhere, two steps behind him or high up on his shoulders, so high you swore you could see the whole district from there. 

Your daddy was the sun that shone above you, and you were his pride and joy. He took you everywhere he could if Mama wasn’t there to stop him. She’d just shake her head and laugh when he’d come back with you trailing behind, your shoes caked in mud, your pockets full of bugs, berries, and shiny pebbles.

Your daddy could never tell you no, not really. He told you it was because you looked just like your mama, and he could never tell her no, either. But when you’d ask around—whether you meant to or not—people would always say the same thing: you didn’t look a lick like your mama. You took your daddy’s whole face, every line and angle of it. They’d say that’s another reason they call you Lil’ Oakley, because it’s like he carved you out of himself, down to the dimple in your cheek when you smiled.

“You got her eyes, though,” your daddy would say, tapping the side of your face as if he were making a point no one else could see. “Her stubborn streak, too, if we’re being honest.”

That always made you giggle, and he’d lean close, dropping his voice like he was sharing a secret. “But you got my heart. Don’t let your mama hear it, but I think that’s the best part.”

You didn’t know how much you’d miss hearing him say things like that. You didn’t know how much you’d miss all of him.

Now, you’re not sure what to do with the quiet he left behind. People still call you Lil’ Oakley, but it feels different. Like they’re trying to keep something alive that slipped away the moment he was gone. You wonder if they’ll keep calling you that, now that he’s not here to shade you. How could someone cast such a large shadow and not even be standing anymore? It doesn’t seem possible, but then, so much doesn’t seem possible these days.

You’d ask your daddy about it, like you always did when you had a question too big to hold in your chest. He had a way of answering impossible questions, of making them seem small and manageable, like pieces of a quilt that could be tied together if you were just patient enough. But now, it looks like you’ll have to start figuring out those impossibilities on your own. And that scares you, more than anything.

Because you know, one day people will stop seeing you as Lil’ Oakley. One day, they’ll start coming to you for answers instead of reminding you how much you’re like him. And you don’t know if you’re ready for that, ready to go from the sapling to the big oak tree, to be more than the shadow of someone else.

You haven’t even had time to figure out who you are yet.

For now, though, you tell yourself you’ve still got time. Time to grow, time to learn, time to be the kid your daddy always called his pride and joy. Because he wouldn’t want you to rush it, wouldn’t want you to try to be him too soon. He’d want you to stand tall in your own way, to figure out how to be you first, before you take on the weight of being anything more.

You sit in comfortable silence, the weight of your troubles fading just a little, the warmth of Sage’s presence like a shield against the things that wait outside the trees.

You look to the sun; it's getting close to lunchtime.

"C'mon," you say, tugging Sage’s sleeve. "We can help my mama. She's cooking big tonight."

Sage’s eyes light up, his face breaking into a wide grin. “Is she making gumbo?” he asks, his voice filled with such excitement that you can’t help but laugh.

“Not if we don’t help, she isn’t. Now put some pep in your step!” You say, breaking into a quick stride. He doesn’t need any more convincing. Sage matches you, stumbling a bit but keeping up, his eyes shining.

You hurry back toward your Shacktown, running side by side. The houses grow closer together as you near your little corner of Eleven, winding through the familiar paths between weathered shacks and little gardens where folks try to coax life out of whatever will grow. People call out as you pass, voices warm and familiar. 

Mrs. Davis is out on her porch, swaying back and forth in her old rocking chair, waving with a knowing smile as she watches you two skitter by. She’s always there, like a lookout, watching over the town. You wave back, and Sage throws in a polite, “Evenin’, Mrs. Davis!”

A little farther down, Old Man Reeves is out hanging the day’s wash as his sister, Miss Azalea, helps. Her arms are strong and weathered, fingers steady despite the years. He tips his hat, chuckling at the sight of you. 

“Ain’t y’all supposed to be in school?” A voice calls from one of the porches. You can’t see who it is, but it doesn’t matter. You and Sage just giggle and run faster, ducking around corners and through backyards as the adults shake their heads with fond smiles.

You pick up the pace, silently prompting Sage to race you, the cool air rushing past as a couple of the littlest kids—too young for school, barefoot and wild—take off after you, their laughter ringing out as they chase you down the path and their small feet kicking up dust. You pretend to run slower for them, letting them think they’re catching up as they squeal with laughter, darting in and out of the tall grass. You turn a corner and see the crooked roof of your home, the familiar sight of clotheslines, and the bright patch of herbs growing by the door.

You burst through the doorway, panting and breathless. “Mama!” you call, and she appears from the little kitchen nook, hands on her hips, shaking her head.

“Now didn’t I tell you to stop runnin’ in and out of my house?”

“Sorry, Mama,” you say, grinning wide, not sounding sorry at all as you catch your breath. Sage follows behind, ducking his head.

He mumbles a sheepish, “Sorry, ma’am,” trying to look serious.

Your mama shakes her head, coming closer to look him over, checking him from his scuffed-up shoes to his freckled nose. She gives Sage a warm smile, her eyes crinkling at the corners. “Sage, how many times I gotta tell you? You can call me Mama, too.”

You roll your eyes as Sage turns bright red, his mouth opening and closing as he stammers, “Y-yes, ma’am—I mean, Mama—uh…”

“Aw, hush now,” she says, chuckling. Then she raises an eyebrow, giving you both a look. “Ain’t y’all supposed to be in school?”

Before Sage can open his mouth and blow your cover, you jump in. “No, Mama, it’s just a catch-up day, and, and we’re already caught up.”

Sage, catching on, nods vigorously. “Uhhh, yeah! We’re…we’re alllll caught up.”

Your mama stares you down, the knowing look on her face making you shift uncomfortably. “Mhm. Well, if y’all are here, then y’all are gonna be workin’. Go on, clean up,” she says, pointing to the door.

“Yes, ma’am!” you both say, and you race back outside, heading for the water pump by the side of the house.

You take turns working it, its cool metal handle sticking in your grip as you pump until a steady stream pours out, cold water splashing over your hands as you scrub away the dirt from the road. Sage nearly splashes you, but you manage to dodge, shooting him a grin as you shake your numb, wet hands in his direction. Sage stumbles again, but you catch his arm, steadying him with a grin as he blushes, mumbling a thanks.

Once you’re clean, you hurry back inside, ready to help. Your mama’s in her element, her sleeves rolled up, stirring the big pot that’s already filling the room with the warm, spicy smell of gumbo, the rich scent curling around you like a hug. She hands you a spoon, nodding toward the vegetables laid out on the counter.

“Peel these,” she says, then gestures to Sage, who stands at attention like he’s taking orders from the president. “And you, go fetch me some more water from the pump. Big pot like this, we’re gonna need all we can get.”

Sage nods, scurrying outside again, and you watch him go, grinning to yourself as you start on the pile of vegetables. The spoon’s a little dull, but you’ve gotten good at working with what you’ve got, slicing each piece just the way you were taught.

After a while, the pot is full and bubbling, steam rising as Mama tastes the broth, closing her eyes with a satisfied sigh. She wipes her hands on her apron, then nods at you. “Why don’t you go on and let everyone know, baby,” she says, her voice softening. “Tell ‘em to come on and eat. We got plenty.”

You don’t need telling twice. You grab Sage’s hand and dart out the door, racing from house to house, calling out to each neighbor as you pass. “Mama says come eat! The gumbo is ready!” Your voice echoes through the streets, and you can see faces start to appear in doorways, hands waving as people call back.

One by one, folks start to emerge, following the sound of your voice. Mrs. Davis is already on her way, her steps slow but steady. Neighbors drift from their homes, the call of a hot meal drawing them together.

They arrive with their own bowls, each bringing something to add to the pot—Miss Azalea arrives with cloth-wrapped okra, Old Man Reeves has a small jar of spices he’s been saving, and the Johnsons bring a little basket of tomatoes from their garden. The little kids from earlier run up to you, grinning wide, their faces smudged with dirt as they hold out a few wild greens they picked along the way. The pot is seasoned with more than just food; it’s filled with bits of everyone’s lives, the little pieces they can spare. 

Some of the neighbors are family, blood kin who come with stories of shared ancestors, and others are family in every way that counts, people who’ve helped raise you, who’ve stitched up skinned knees and shared what little they had. A jar of pickled vegetables here, a scrap of salted pork there. They come from every direction.

The food is ready, the smell of your mama’s gumbo thick in the air, and everyone gathers close with bowls in hand. The little ones bounce on their toes, wide-eyed and eager as their mamas and grandmas remind them to wait, to let the grown-ups serve it to them. The older folks sit on creaky chairs or lean against the doorframes of shacks, their tired faces softening as they watch the scene unfold. 

Inside, the kitchen fills with laughter and warm greetings, with the clatter of bowls and the rich smell of the gumbo. People find seats on benches, on the floor, anywhere they can fit, and your mama passes back bowls, ladling a serving into each one, her smile bright, her laughter loud. You and Sage squeeze in next to each other, his elbow bumping yours, both of you grinning as you watch the room fill up with warmth and people.

But when the bowls are handed out, and everyone gathers close, their faces lit by the dim glow of lanterns and the setting sun, there’s a pause. A heavy silence settles over the group, thick and expectant. Normally, your daddy would lead them in the blessing. His voice would rise above the crowd, steady and sure, his words weaving everyone together like the baskets he used to make.

But he’s not here anymore, and the weight of that absence hangs heavy in the air, and the space he left behind feels as large as the empty sky above your Shacktown. The silence stretches, and you can see the older folks glancing at one another, unsure of who should speak.

For a moment, no one moves. No one speaks. Sage is sitting next to you, looking like he might faint if anyone even thinks of asking him to do it. His shoulders are hunched, his cheeks pale, and his hands fiddle nervously with the hem of his shirt, his eyes darting to the ground like he’s hoping it’ll swallow him up.

Then your mama glances at you. Her gaze is the saddest you've ever seen it, and she nods once, giving you permission for something you didn’t even know to ask for. “Go ahead, baby,” she says softly, her voice gentle but firm enough that it feels like it’s already decided.

You blink, your throat tightening as you push yourself to your feet. The eyes of the entire Shacktown are on you now, and it’s terrifying. Your breath catches. 

Can you do this? 

You’re eight years old. You’re not your daddy. You don’t know if you can fill the space he left behind, and for a moment, you think about sitting right back down. But one of the older women smiles and says, “Look at lil’ Oakley,” full of warmth and pride, it keeps you standing.

“Go on, now,” another voice adds a rough but kind encouragement.

Your legs are shaking, but you clasp your hands together like you’ve seen your daddy do a hundred times and close your eyes.

The words don’t come right away, and they don’t come easy. You try to draw on the many speeches you remember your daddy giving. Your chest feels tight, and your heart is beating so fast it might burst. But then, you take a deep breath and start, your voice small.

“We…we give thanks,” you begin, the words tentative but growing stronger as you speak. “For the hands that made this food. For the soil that grew it and the water that fed it. For the ones who gave so everyone could have enough.”

You pause, swallowing hard as the next words catch in your throat. “And…for the ones we’ve lost. We hope they’ve found the Harvester, and that their spirit is full.” Your voice wavers, and your hands start to tremble as the weight of your daddy’s absence presses down on you. “And we’ll…we’ll keep them with us, always.”

Your voice breaks, and your throat tightens so much you can’t say anything else. Tears sting your eyes, and for a moment, you think you’ll really have to sit down, that you’ve ruined the whole thing. But then someone calls out, their voice warm and sure:

“You got it, baby.”

“Take your time, lil’ Oakley.”

“C’mon now, he’s right here with ya.”

And for a moment, it feels like he is. Like your daddy’s there, his strong hand on your shoulder, steadying you, guiding you the way he always used to. You breathe in deeply, the air filling your lungs, and somehow, you find the strength to continue. “And we give thanks for each other. For the chance to sit here together and share what we have. That’s enough—more than enough.”

When you finish, there’s a moment of silence, and then a ripple of approval runs through the group. Their voices are like the rustling of leaves in a breeze.

“That was good, lil’ Oakley,” someone says, their voice thick with pride.

“Sounded just like him,” another adds, their face crinkling with a smile, and there’s a chorus of agreement, heads nodding, smiles spreading.

“Looks like we’ve got another leader on our hands,” one of the older men says, and there’s a ripple of laughter, full and genuine, that makes your cheeks burn.

You sit back down, feeling hands patting your back, squeezing your shoulders, each one grounding you. Not filling the space your daddy left behind, but making it a little less lonely. Sage nudges you gently with his elbow, leaning close enough that you can hear his whisper over the hum of voices.

“You did a real good job,” he says softly and earnestly, his cheeks pink as he looks at you.

You blink fast, your vision goes blurry, and you quickly swipe the back of your hand under your eyes before anyone can see. “Thanks,” you mumble, your voice a little rough, but you manage a small smile that lingers as you both turn to your bowls and dig in.

The moment passes, the crowd digging into their bowls, the gumbo a comfort that spreads through your chest as the sounds of laughter and conversation rise around you. 

For a little while, it feels like everything’s okay again, like your daddy’s still here, sitting beside you, watching over the people he loved. Or even just his spirit, sitting among the neighbors, alive in their smiles, their laughter, their shared stories. And even though the ache in your chest doesn’t disappear, it feels just a little lighter.

The gumbo pot sits at the center of it all, the steam rising in fragrant curls as everyone takes turns ladling a bowl. Your mama moves among them, passing out bowls and offering seconds, her face glowing with pride. Sage volunteers to help ladle out seconds, his face red from the warmth of the pot, a bright smile spreading across his face as he hands back bowls to the neighbors.

You hadn’t known it then, but this would be one of the last meals you’d share with him.

Not long after, Sage was adopted by Mr. and Mrs. Pitstone, the bakers who’d taken him under their wing. It should have been a good thing—a kind family, a roof over his head, food every night. But it wasn’t the same. He wasn’t the same. They took him out of the fields, so you didn’t see him working beside you anymore, didn’t hear him humming off-key songs or tripping over his own feet as he tried to keep up with you in the rows.

And at school, he wasn’t in your class anymore. You skipped as often as you could get away with, anyway, but on the days you went, he’d be sitting with the older kids, his face hidden behind books and notebooks, his eyes downcast. He never looked your way, and you learned to ignore the ache in your chest that flared every time you saw him in his clean clothes, his hands soft, no longer calloused from labor.

You were angry, then. Angry that they’d taken him away, that he didn’t even try to stay in touch, didn’t try to keep up the way he used to. They took your daddy from you, and then, as if that hadn’t been enough, they took Sage too. It didn’t feel fair—not that anything ever felt fair in Eleven.

Now, you avoid the bakery whenever you can. You walk the long way around, take side streets just to keep from seeing him through the window, his tall, gangly frame moving behind the counter, his hands gentle as he kneads dough. 

You wonder if he misses it—misses the long days with you in the fields, your mama’s gumbo, the nights spent aching from work but laughing all the same. You wonder if he misses you, if he ever thinks back on those days and wishes, even for a moment, that he could come back.

Present (I) - You

THE CAPITOL

You feel weightless.

No. 

Not weightless.

You don't feel anything, anything at all. 

You can't feel your fingers or your toes. 

Not your hands or feet.

Arms or legs, your torso—your side.

It burns. You can certainly feel that. You can feel nothing but that for what seems like years. A tender pain every time you breathe and a sizzling one every time you don't. 

It occurs to you sometime later, or maybe no time at all, that you can't see. 

Where are your eyes?

It's pitch black. Not like the lights are off, but like your eyes are closed despite it feeling as if they’re wide open.

Are you dead? 

You don't remember dying. 

You would remember dying, wouldn’t you? 

You don't remember anything or anyone coming for you. No Death, no Harvester. 

You lose consciousness between one breath and the next. 

When you come to, it's to blurry figures dancing around your head. They swim in and out of your focus. White coats, white lights, rough hands. You open your mouth to say something, to ask a question, maybe? You’ll never know because they slip the mask over your nose and mouth before you can. 

Your ears are full of cotton; whatever words they’re speaking above you are muffled. They’re hardly words at all. You feel the cool metallic glide of scissors sliding from your vagina to the divot where your collar bones meet, cutting off your clothes. Hands lift your limbs. Your left hand and right foot in tandem. Something soft and wet drags against your skin, working in slow, methodical circles from your fingers and toes. The back of your hand and the front of your foot. Shin, calves, and forearms. Front and back of your knee, biceps. Thigh and shoulder. Another pair of hands moves your head this way and that, cleaning your face as the slow scrubbing circles your neck and moves down to your breast. It’s the first time you truly feel the hands hidden under the rubber gloves. Thoroughly feeling your left breast, thumb pressing underneath and then on top. Moving the fat and muscle around, stretching the skin. Squeezing and releasing and squeezing again. Checking or…just feeling? The thumb rubbing against the edge of your nipple feels inhumane, something wearing human hands. 

There are more muffled words before the hand is replaced by warm and wet. A mouth? No, whatever they’re using to clean you. 

The entire process is repeated with your right breast. It distracts you enough to almost forget about the hands working below your waist. Hips to crotch to vagina and back again, working their way down your other leg. They get to your stomach, and you flinch full bodily.

Soft and lukewarm becomes coarse and icy hot. Your side—your wounds. Your vision is still blurry, but you can still see them holding you down long after you feel hands cuffing your wrists and ankles. That doesn't stop you from trying to kick and punch as they dig further into your side. It feels like they're being rough just to spite you. 

“...told you… Should've tied…bitch down.”

“And I…no need… Now…turn…over.”

The world spins as you're tilted, and you groan when your weight is put on your side. You wheeze once you're pushed onto your front. The rest of your clothes must’ve been cut off because the warm and wet is scrubbed down your back all the way to your butt. Someone spreads your thighs, and someone else cleans the rest of the injury. Tears spring to your eyes. You can barely breathe in this position. 

“Hurts…” you rasp. “Too…hurts.” You try to get their attention, putting all your minimal energy into flapping your hand. Someone grabs it using the vantage point to stab you in the elbow with something. Whatever they're pumping into you burns nearly as much as your wounds.

“Should we…of her wounds?”

“No… Won't…there for long.”

You've never been exposed to these kinds of Capitols before. Cold, sterile. Treated, not like a victor, but as a task to get done. The fire in your veins cools into a smolder, lulling you to sleep. A state of stagnation.

-

You jerk awake. Blessedly, you can see fully. And what you see is blindingly white and glossy. You're propped up by the gurney you're on. Your fingers grab at nothing, suspended in the air because…

When you jolt, the railings you're handcuffed to stop you from going far. You're in a gown as white as the walls around you. There’s an IV drip on your right, held in the crook of your elbow with tape. You only know that someone's in the room when they speak.

“Calm, calm.”

You zero in on her, a short woman standing at the front of your bed. Your heart monitor picks up as you take jagged breaths through the oxygen mask strapped to your nose and mouth. 

“Calm down. You're safe now.” She soothes, raising her hand as she approaches you, only working to make you more anxious the closer she gets. She begins to pet your hair. “This is all just a precaution, you understand. Until President Snow can determine your loyalties.”

Loyalties? What does that mean for the others? For Finnick? 

You're a little foggy, a little blurry around the edges, but gather enough strength to look up, stare into her glittering Capitol eyes, and say, “...where are the others?” 

You cough around the last word, but refuse the straw she tries to press to your mouth.  She shakes her head disappointedly at you, and this—this is the type of Capitol you're used to. Preppy and intrusive with your space because she thinks she's owed it.

“Where is Finnick?”

“Oh, you poor, poor thing.” She places a hand over her heart. “You don't know, how could you possibly? The arena was attacked by terrorists. It was just horrible.” She sighs, petting your hair as you stare up at her in confused horror. It feels like she's comforting herself more than you. 

You know Katniss escaped, though you aren't sure how. You saw it briefly, her being lifted in the air, before you finally succumbed to blood loss. There are no other victors in the room with you, but it doesn't mean they aren't here too. Finnick may be a room over, right next to you, strapped to his gurney just like you are. Who else? You'd wish this on no one, especially not Finnick, but for you to be here, he must be here too. That's the only outcome that makes sense. 

This nurse is being nice to you. So you must not have been branded as a traitor. What does that mean for the revolution? For Finnick? 

Finnick, Finnick, Finnick. 

She pouts. “President Snow was able to rescue a few of you before the rebels were able to get to you, thank goodness.” You don't understand. What does—how… Rescue? Then…then Snow, he must’ve handpicked a handful of you to keep alive and…and executed the others? Branded them as rebels, and that's the end of it?

“No,” you shake your head in jerky motions. Because that would mean… “No, no, no—Where is he? Where's Finnick?” You demand, tears filling your eyes again, but no hands are pressing into your tender spots. You feel cut open, burned to your atoms. You stare ahead at nothing, your blood is cotton, your bones have dissolved, your muscles are paper, and your mind and body are separated as you begin to float away. 

The nurse beside you is talking; you know this because of the muffled noise trying to make its way into your ear canal. Something she says, though, the sounds become letters become words become sentences in your mind long after she’s said it. Almost as if someone snapped in front of you, you come to. 

You blin,k and you’re seeing behind your eyes again, back in your body. You turn your head to her slowly, dry and cracked lips falling open as you ask, “...what?”

The nurse frowns dramatically. “The rebels, they escaped. Katniss, Finnick, and the little twitchy one, I believe. It's hard to accept that they would betray us in such a way—I completely understand how you must be feeling, sincerely. I never thought it possible for them to be so cruel. Sweet Katniss. And we’ve known Finnick since he was a boy. To use you and poor Peeta like that,” she clicks her tongue. “Well, I guess there truly are no limits those beasts won't go to—”

What? Finnick. Finnick made it out? How? Your relief is battling with your confusion. He's safe. You don't know how, but he’s safe and alive, and Snow can't hurt him. You laugh, melting into the bed. 

“Oh dear.” She puts her hand on your forehead. “Perhaps there's something wrong with your head? No matter. Dr. Steele will take care of you. After your procedure, of course.”

That gets your attention.

“Procedure?” You ask. “What kind?” 

She doesn’t answer your question, only smiles as the doors slide open, and a stern-looking man with closely cropped neon green hair stalks in. She smiles and smiles and smiles as your gurney is lowered and detached, hovering out the door. 

You float down the hallway, followed closely by the man. You try to glean as much as you can from your surroundings, but it’s practically nothing. Nothing but shiny white walls and big white doors. You’re approaching a fork, two different hallways, when one of the doors you pass opens up. You crane your head back to catch a glimpse of what comes out. You see another gurney, another burly guard-nurse following behind it. You hear her before you see her, cursing up a storm, but her handlers don’t even acknowledge her. 

“Johanna!” you yell, straining against your restraints. “Johanna!” The insults stop for a moment, and you know she’s heard you. 

“They snatched you u,p too?” Johanna calls after you before breaking out into laughter. She laughs and laughs and laughs. So much so that even after they take her down the left hall and you the right, you can still hear it. 

“...where are they taking her?” You ask, uncertain if you really wanna know. 

“That’s none of your concern.” He says and leaves it at that. You’re left to focus on your breathing as you continue on in silence, with nothing to break up the quiet other than footsteps and the sound of your audible panting. You’re teetering on the edge of a panic attack when he finally speaks again. Leaning closer to you, he whispers for your ears only. 

“You were always my favorite victor. It’s an honor to meet you.”

-

Before you knew what the procedure was, you hoped they wouldn’t put you to sleep again. What if you didn’t wake up? What if, while you were gone, something else became theirs? Your body. Your mind. Theirs to admire. Theirs to touch. Theirs to—

That was before. 

They were kind enough to numb the areas, you guess. Slathering an orange paste all over you. Not that you could truly tell with how they had you strapped down. Then they stuck you with needles, deep into the muscle. And, with pain like that, you’d have taken your chances with being put to sleep. It doesn’t last for long, the numbing. They shaved off your calluses, feet and hands still raw and pink. It hurts to move your fingers and toes; you imagine it’ll hurt to stand. 

They went too deep; you tried to tell them it was too deep. But it was like you spoke a different language, tied down as you were. A pig squealing at the butchers that the knife is too sharp. A full-body polish, they had called it. The scars on your side may as well have never existed. You’re brand new. You don’t even know whose body you’re in anymore. It’s more theirs than yours anyway. Maybe it always was.

“This one's a toughy, huh?” The doctor had said as his fingers dug into your side, baring his permanently dyed gums in a laugh. First, down at you and then, with his colleagues around the room. A bright and nauseating green-pink gradient.

They transfer you to a room, but to call it a room may be too generous. You don't remember the trip, not how long it took or what they said to you—if they said anything at all. It’s hard to say if you were even conscious for it.

You do remember being unhooked and lifted off the gurney, being placed on the cot, and them leaving out the door without another word.

You shift, trying to find a way to sit up without pulling something or breaking in half. The burning in your side tugs at you, but you can’t even escape into the numbness anymore. You blink hard, trying to gather enough strength to stay conscious.

Then the door opens.

The nurse—the one from before with the overly bright eyes and the way-too-soft hands—steps back into the room. She looks down at you for a moment, standing still in the doorway as if giving you a chance to get yourself together, but you’re too sore, too broken to do anything but look up at her, eyes wild and clouded.

“You’re going to have to stand now,” she says flatly, the words cutting through the haze of pain and exhaustion.

You don’t respond. You can’t. You’re not sure if it’s out of sheer defiance or because you’re so tired that your muscles are already starting to lock into place.

The nurse sighs, a sound that mixes pity with annoyance. Her fingers find your wrist, jerking you up by the force of her grip. The moment your feet touch the cold, unforgiving floor, you know you’re not going to make it.

But you have no choice.

Barefoot. Your skin’s raw, your soles already stinging from the rough treatment, and the ground beneath you seems to mock you. You try to ignore it—try to ignore the burn of the cold metal on your skin, but the sharp ache doesn’t let you forget. The sharpness of your pain flares again as she drags you forward. You stumble, almost tipping into her. 

"Come on, now," she says, her voice a little more insistent this time. "We haven’t got all day."

You don’t have the strength to argue. You don’t have the will to fight back.

With every step, the weight of the silence grows heavier, like a thick fog trying to drown you. You can’t even hear the sound of your own feet dragging against the ground anymore, just the harsh pull of your breath and the constant ache that gnaws at you. Each hall you pass feels endless, the harsh fluorescent lights overhead blinding, as if they’re intentionally stripping you of any hope you might have had left.

There's no point in trying to memorize the path; it all looks the same. And your brain can't be bothered to focus on any words you pass. 

The only way you're getting out of here is in a body bag.

The walls are sterile and perfect. Nothing here feels real. The polished floors stretch out before you, gleaming under the fluorescent lights like a twisted, gleaming path leading you toward your fate. The facility is quiet, almost too quiet, except for the rhythmic sound of the nurse’s heels and your uneven steps behind her. You chance a glance back and expect to see bloody footprints behind you, but what you see back there is the same as what you see before you. 

Nothing. 

You wonder, briefly, if she’s enjoying this—dragging you through these halls. You wonder if it’s deliberate, the way her fingers press into your arm, like she’s guiding you, or perhaps controlling you, making sure you don’t stumble or fall.

“You’re going to see the President now,” she says, as if it’s supposed to be some sort of comfort. “He’ll want to speak with you.”

You can barely hear her over the pounding in your head, but you know what she means. President Coriolanus Snow. You have a few questions of your own, chief among them is why you aren't dead yet. 

He has to know he won't get any information out of you, doesn't he? You hardly know anything worth telling to begin with; your knowledge begins and ends with the arena. He'll surely kill you after he finds out how useless you are to him in that regard.

Why did he separate you and Finnick by lying? He could've done so from behind the scenes, and it would've been heartbreaking, but inevitable. This feels intentional. He gained something by doing so, but you just can't figure out what. 

The hallway stretches on and on, and with every step, it gets colder. The scent of the sterile air burns your nose, mixing with the staleness of sweat that coats your skin. Your throat is dry, and your mouth is full of cotton. All you want is to be done with it—to get to where you’re supposed to be. But the dread you feel thickens, turning your stomach to ice.

Your thoughts are fractured, unable to hold onto anything for long, but one name rises over everything else: Finnick.

His face keeps appearing in your mind. Him in the arena, teary-eyed and broken down. Him begging you to stay hidden, him beautiful and alive. Maybe it's because you’re so used to him being there, always just within reach. Maybe because he’s the only thing that hasn’t felt wrong, that hasn’t tried to hurt you. You don’t even know where he is now. If he made it to Thirteen. If he’s safe.

Then, you realize why your mind keeps looping back to Finnick. You're scared.

The nurse’s hand presses against your back, now pushing you forward more urgently. “Keep moving. It won’t be much longer.”

It’s all you can do to keep your feet moving. The thought of stopping, of sitting down again, is too tempting—but there’s no way you can give in. Not now. She won't let you. You reach a door. A thick, solid door, gleaming like the rest of the facility, heavy with the weight of whatever comes next.

“Inside,” the nurse orders, pressing a button, prompting the door open.

You hesitate for only a moment before you step in. The room is larger and colder than you expected. The air smells like metal, like sterile hands and unspoken threats. Like greenery and faint, wet sweetness. Roses painted in blood. You can feel your pulse quicken as you take another step into the room. White and grey, roses in every corner.

And there he is. President Snow. Sitting behind a desk, his expression almost cordial, watching you with an intensity that makes the air feel even heavier.

You want to speak, but your mouth is dry, and no words come. 

You are scared. You don’t want to be, you were expecting to never see him again—and if you did, it would be as he's executed. Neither of those things came true, and you're scared. Shouldn't you feel empowered knowing you disobeyed him? Knowing that there's a whole operation dedicating its time and power to taking him down—and you were a part of it?

No. No, it makes you terrified. That and the subconscious response he's trained your body to have around him. You're a creature of instinct now. Prey backed into a corner. 

“Ah, there you are,” Snow says, his voice as smooth as ice and twice as cold. He looks you over, cataloging you from your lowered head to where the medical gown stops at the middle of your thighs—thighs pressed together to stave off the cold—before stopping at the unsteady rocking of your feet. “You must be terribly sore. Please, take a seat.”

You would like to deny him. You want to deny him, a small act of rebellion. But the pain in your feet makes it hard to focus. Shifting your weight from heel to toe, you search for some relief, some part of your feet that doesn’t ache. You find none. Rocking unsteadily from the soles to the outer edges, every inch feels the sting of their relentless polishing.

Besides, you know a command when you hear one. He’s not offering, but even if he were, you’re still too tired to do anything other than move towards the chair. You keep your back straight and your eyes focused on the floor as you hobble over to the only chair that sat in front of his desk. For a moment, you can pretend this is like any other meeting you've had with him. Sit, listen, collect, be pet if he's in a particular mood, and then the sweet relief of finding Finnick wherever he's waiting for you.

But it's a short-lived fantasy. You're not supposed to hurt before the meeting. Any physical pain you feel should be contained to a time and a room number on a piece of paper. 

You are scared. You're terrified. So much so that you're shaking with it. Or is that the exhaustion? The pain?

As you near the chair, though, you stop. He’s watching you, and his gaze makes your stomach drop. You don’t know why you hesitate now, but you can’t stop your mind from racing. This room. This situation. Everything about it feels wrong.

He stops you. Not with words or even by raising his hand. It's his eyes. 

Not there, they seem to say. 

Instead, his eyes slowly glide to an area on the floor, you're reminded of the glide of the scissors they used to cut you out of your clothes. You blink. Following his gaze down, down, down—there—to the rug and the pillow that sits atop it.

You almost think you’ve misunderstood. Why would he want you to sit on the floor? He can't possibly… It can’t possibly be that he wants your mouth, can it? You swallow, but your body moves without you, which is what it's used to doing in rooms like this with men like him. 

Luckily, or unluckily, for you, the pillow feels like silk against your raw skin. It's incredibly plush, so soft and gentle on your skin. The first soft touch you've felt since you woke up.

“There,” Snow says. “Doesn’t that feel better?”

You can’t look at him. Can’t even look at the chair he sits in. You roll your tongue around your mouth, feeling the indent of your molars and then your incisors, back and forth. 

You nod.

He watches you for a beat, a small, satisfied smile curling the corners of his lips.

And then he speaks again.

“I’m sure you’re quite baffled by your being here.” He prompts you to speak, to ask a question instead of just telling you himself. A tactic, surely. To limit the information he gives you.

You ask the one thing that’s eluded you since you woke up here.

“Why aren't I dead?”

Snow’s lips curl faintly. Not into a smile this time, but not a frown either.

“Straight to the point. Have I ever mentioned that being an exemplary quality of yours?”

“I don't know. Sir,” you correct yourself, risking a glance up at him to gauge his reaction, his being pleased with you shouldn't be such a relief. 

“If you're asking why you didn't meet a grizzly end in the arena, rebels attacked right as Miss Everdeen overpowered the shields. But that's not what you're referring to. Is it?” 

Your eyes return to your hands sitting limply on your lap, but a gloved finger curled under your chin pulls your gaze back to where he wants it. Back to where he'll always want it.

“Is it.”

Not a question, but he wants to hear the truth from your lips anyway. Your jaw clenches, teeth grinding, and throat tightening. There's a pressure behind your eyes, under your chin, deep in your throat. You blink back what feels suspiciously like tears. Your lips tremble, and you sink a canine into the bottom one. 

“No, sir,” you say with blood in your mouth, and he smiles down at you with blood in his.

He leans back. “You are alive because I want you to be. Despite being a traitor of the state, despite the betrayal,” you flinch, “I saved you after they left you for a slow, agonizing death. Because I am merciful.” Rubber rubs against rubber as he laces his fingers together. “I like to think I know you quite well, better than most, even. You're far from stupid. You're quite intelligent, even. Useful. You'll continue to be useful, won't you, my dear.”

Your head begins to nod without any input from you, but your eyes catch on his handkerchief. Blue, the color of the sea, mixed with green. Sea glass playing background to a simple white rose.

“You lied.” You say instead, and it's just as damning.

The way his brows raise is almost imperceptible, easy to miss if you weren't watching for it.

“You told me,” you say, relearning in real time how to speak above a murmur again, “you told me you'd allow us to stay together if I stayed on my best behavior. And you told Finnick the exact opposite. That…that you'd kill one of us. Kill me. You lied,” you say, each word landing like a blow you’re too weak to deliver otherwise. 

It's the most you've spoken since you woke up, and the silence you sit in afterwards is daunting. Your throat aches, but you don't clear it for fear that it'll remind him that you're alive when you shouldn't be.

For a moment, Snow says nothing. His head tilts, the gesture almost indulgent, like he’s humoring a child mid-tantrum. And then he chuckles, and it cuts through the fragile illusion of your rebellion.

“Oh, dove,” his voice is soft and low, a mockery of tenderness as his fingers toy idly with the white rose pinned to his lapel. “Is that what he told you?”

You blink up at him, disoriented. He clicks his tongue, a sound that makes your stomach twist, shaking his head as though you’ve disappointed him.

“I recall having a much different conversation with Mr. Odair,” he continues, his gloved hands resting calmly on the desk before him. He’s at ease, completely unhurried, as though there isn’t a single thing you could say or do that might rattle him.

Your pulse stumbles. “No,” you manage, but your voice falters.

“Oh, yes,” he continues, his words are slow and deliberate, each one a weighted stone dropping into deep, still water. His pale eyes gleam with something you can’t name, and would never want to. “He told you exactly what you wanted to hear, didn’t he? What you needed to hear to let him slither back into your good graces. Along with other places, I’m sure.”

The insinuation feels like a slap, leaving a hot flush of shame rising to your cheeks and ears. You try to tell yourself not to react, not to give him the satisfaction, but your breath hitches anyway. His words are needles, sharp and precise, sewing doubt into the seams of your mind. You don’t bother correcting him, but he doesn’t stop. Your silence only emboldens him.

“Look at the mess caused by Miss Everdeen and Mr. Mellark,” he muses, his tone cool and clinical now. “And they were from the same district. Imagine the chaos, the anarchy, if I allowed you and Mr. Odair to continue as you were. Together, you’d have been...dangerous.” His gaze sharpens, piercing through you. “Now they all know what I’ve always known. You, poor, innocent you, were tricked. Used.”

Your head shakes, a reflex more than a decision. It’s small, halting, but it’s all you can manage. You were wrong. His words are poison, not needles, and they seep into the cracks of your mind, twisting the truth into something unrecognizable.

“No,” you whisper, but it’s a breath, a wisp of sound. 

That’s not right. That doesn’t align with what you know to be true. The truth you can feel in your bones.

No. No, that’s not true. Finnick is not like that. Finnick, your Finnick, wouldn’t lie to you. Not like this.

You know Finnick. You know him like the back of your hand, like the constellations you used to trace in the night sky. He’s your North Star, the steady, unyielding constant in a world that’s always trying to tear you apart. He’s one of the only truths you know.

“You’re wrong,” are the words you decide on rather than asking what his version of events is. You can’t let him know there’s even a doubt in your mind. Your words hang heavy in the air, trembling with conviction. Snow doesn’t speak right away, but the curve of his lips tightens, his amusement thinning into something colder. 

The hair on the back of your neck stands up. Danger. 

“Oh?” His brow arches. “Is that so?”

“No,” you say, the only word you seem to know. “That’s not—that’s not him. That’s you.” You force your eyes to meet Snow’s, and you don’t look away. “That’s not my Finnick.”

Snow doesn’t respond immediately. Instead, his gloved hand reaches out, brushing along your hair in a gesture that might seem soothing or kind. It isn’t. All you can think about is the animals you’ve seen in Eleven, being shushed and stroked as they’re lined up for slaughter. You think, suddenly and desperately, of Rue, and you wonder if this is how she felt in those final moments when you tried to shield her from the inevitable.

Snow sighs softly, but it doesn’t sound exasperated. If anything, it sounds almost...wistful, as if he’s reminiscing with an old friend rather than tormenting you.

“So clever,” he murmurs, his gloved hand withdrawing as he sits back. “So conniving at such a young age. Charmed the masses, killed his own allies... It’s commendable, truly. What he’s willing to do to survive.”

Your breathing stutters, your heart pounding painfully in your chest.

“It may be difficult for you to understand,” Snow continues, “but I was always rather fond of Mr. Odair.”

Your stomach turns violently. You know what becomes of Snow’s fondness. 

“He reminds me of myself as a boy,” Snow says, his pale eyes distant, as though looking past you. “He’s willing to do whatever it takes to survive.”

Your heart hammers in your chest, your breathing shallow. “But–but why would he…he loves me,” you say, your voice cracking, trembling all over. “He does. He doesn’t need to do…that.”

Snow tilts his head slightly, as if the notion amuses him, like you’ve said something endearingly naive. “And what a valuable ally you are,” he says softly.

“He didn’t use me,” you say, nothing more than a croak. The words feel small in your mouth.

“Honesty, my dove.” Snow leans forward, resting his chin lightly on his steepled hands, a faint note of reprimand in his tone. “We do not deal in falsehoods. They have no place in this room.”

You force yourself to look at him, your nails digging into your palms. “He gains nothing by–by using me,” the word tastes bitter on your tongue. You can barely get it out. “So…so I know you’re wrong,” you say, though your voice falters.

“Don’t sell yourself so short,” Snow says, almost gently, and the softness is worse than his malice. 

He leans back in his chair, watching you intently, and his gaze feels like it’s burrowing under your skin. “It wasn’t entirely one-sided, hm? You gained companionship,” he says, but it feels like judgment. “A ‘safe’ haven. Perhaps he gained something far more tangible: leverage, protection, someone to ease the burden. Love is not a sustainable resource. Love doesn’t fill an empty stomach. Love doesn’t keep out the cold or stop pneumonia from setting in. A true survivor knows that.”

You stare at him, your mind racing, your heart screaming that it’s a lie. That it has to be a lie. But the way he says it, so calm, so sure of himself—it makes you hesitate. Just for a moment. And that moment is enough.

Your mind feels sluggish, your thoughts clouded by the weight of his words. “You’re wrong,” you whisper, but the conviction is slipping. “He loves me.’’

“Am I?” He tilts his head again, and you regret ever opening your mouth in the first place. “You loved your father, didn’t you?” Snow asks, his tone light as the question rips the air from your lungs. “Why didn’t that love stop the noose from breaking his neck?”

The room tilts, the words slamming into your stomach with the force of a train, with the force of a noose. You feel your throat tighten as the weight of the memory crashes over you. All the while, Snow watches you with that maddening calm.

You can’t breathe, can’t think.

“These are only theories, of course,” Snow continues dismissively. Agreeing to disagree over some sort of philosophical debate. “Until we can ask him ourselves, we can only speculate.”

You can feel the pressure building behind your eyes, your throat tightening with the weight of unshed tears. But you won’t cry in front of him. You won’t give him the satisfaction. You swallow hard, clenching your fists so tightly that your nails dig painfully into your palms, and force yourself to hold onto the only truth you have left.

You know Finnick. You know him better than anyone. But his voice, his touch, his smile? They all feel distant now, clouded by Snow’s words. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t. 

Could he? 

The question festers, and you hate yourself for even thinking it. Yet,  you can think of nothing but it.

Snow regards you for a moment longer, letting his last words settle into the room like a fog. His pale eyes linger on you, savoring the way your breath hitches, the faint quiver in your lip you try so desperately to still. His smile widens like a crack splitting across stone, as if the fracture itself satisfies him.

Leisurely, he adjusts the vase of roses on his desk yet again, his gloved fingers brushing one of the pristine white petals. The movement is infuriating, in its calmness, in its repetition. “But speculation has its uses, doesn’t it?” he muses. “It reveals things—truths we’re too afraid to confront.”

You swallow hard as you fight to keep your expression blank. You’ve already given too much away. Too much in the way you shift, the way your hands fist the fabric of your gown. But no matter how still you force yourself to be, you can feel his words burrowing into you.

Before you can fully steel yourself, he pivots, his gaze sharpening as it lands back on you. “Of course,” he begins, his tone now deceptively relaxed, “this raises an entirely different matter. As you would know, we normally don’t punish the family of traitors for one man’s failures.”

Your breath stutters in your chest, but you say nothing. He’s laying a trap, and you don’t know yet where it leads. But your unease builds, rolling over you in icy waves, your body tense and bracing for impact.

“However,” Snow continues, eyes finally leaving you to rove around his office, “with the influx of rebels, we’ll now have to trial any family as rebel sympathizers. Necessary policy adjustments, I’m sure you understand.”

For a moment, your vision goes black and fuzzy around the edges, and you’re certain you’ll pass out. Your hands grip the fabric of your gown so tightly that your knuckles ache. But you don’t let yourself react. Not aloud. Not where he can hear it. That’s exactly what he wants.

He leans forward slightly now, his eyes snapping back to you with a look that makes you flinch, cowering in on yourself. “Your mother still lives in that big, beautiful house by herself, doesn’t she?”

No, no, no. He can’t—he wouldn’t—

There are things happening to you that you can’t categorize or describe. You’ve never felt this kind of fear before; you never thought it possible.

“I allowed her to continue living there, of course,” Snow says, clasping his hands together with a faint creak of leather. The sound is too loud in the silence. “All because of my mercy.”

The world tilts. Your vision tunnels again, and you feel yourself sway, the air around you thick and suffocating. You’re in the blood rain again. You’re going to vomit.

That can’t be true. It can’t. The rebels promised she’d be safe. They swore it. They said they’d get her out, no matter what happened to you. It was their final thank-you, they said. For everything you’d done. For what you’d sacrificed.

They swore it.

Does anybody keep their promises?

You bite down hard on the inside of your cheek, struggling to hold onto the thread of control slipping through your fingers. You can’t call his bluff. You can’t risk it. He’s waiting for you to break. He’s waiting for you to give him exactly what he wants.

But your mind races, clawing desperately for some certainty, some thread of hope to anchor yourself to. You force your face to stay neutral, but you can feel the heat rising in your cheeks, the tremor in your hands that you can’t quite still. Snow sees it. He always sees it.

And he knows. He always knows.

“Such a shame,” he says, and you’d call his voice venomous if it wasn’t so indifferent, “that we’re forced to make these changes. I had hoped to avoid unnecessary…losses.” He lets the word hang in the air. “But rebellion leaves me with so few options.”

You want to scream at him, call him a liar, but your throat feels like it’s closing, your fear stealing your voice.

“Isn’t it curious, though?” he continues, tilting his head slightly, as if lost in thought. “How easily safety can be taken for granted. Mercy, after all, is such a fragile thing. It can’t survive in chaos. It can’t thrive in defiance.” His gaze sharpens as he straightens in his chair. “Mercy is a finite resource. Much like love, it must be earned. Sustained.”

His words are daggers, each one sliding deeper, twisting, finding every vulnerable piece of you. He knows where to aim. He always has.

Your silence stretches too long, and Snow smiles again, that faint, hollow thing that feels more like a scar than an expression. “I do hope your mother continues to enjoy her home,” he says, and you could almost imagine having this very conversation over tea with how casual it is. “It would be such a pity to see her…displaced.”

The word hangs in the air like an executioner’s axe, its implications ringing louder than the word itself, ready to lop your neck off. You bite down harder on your lip, the metallic tang of blood sharp on your tongue. You make yourself nod once. Small, stiff, mechanical. It’s the only thing you can do.

“Good,” Snow murmurs, leaning back again. “I knew you would understand.”

You sit there, frozen. Your heart pounds painfully in your chest, each beat like a hammer driving you deeper into despair. Every instinct screams at you to respond, to fight back. But what could you say? Denying him will only make him push harder. Agreeing with him will hand him everything he needs.

So you say nothing.

But Snow smiles anyway, as if your silence is victory enough. Winner in a game you didn’t even realize you were playing.

Your gaze drops, falling down, down, down to your hands. Smooth, raw, shaking. Your nails dig into your bare thighs, trying to ground yourself in a body that no longer feels like your own.

And Snow watches you. Weighing you. His expression softens, not into kindness, never that. It is a pale imitation of gentleness. Then, slowly, he rises to his feet, his hands smoothing the front of his coat in a motion so deliberate it feels ceremonial. The small smile playing on his lips isn’t just satisfaction—it’s pride, as though he’s accomplished something significant. Something he’s proud of.

“This isn’t cruelty, my dear,” he says pensively, and you could nearly trick yourself into thinking you’re a cherished companion of his. If you believed he was capable of feeling such a thing for anyone. “Though I imagine it must feel that way to you. No, everything I’ve done, all of this, is because I care.”

Your stomach twists, bile rising in your throat. Care. He says it like it means something.

“I care for you,” he continues. “Not just as a citizen of Panem, though that alone would be enough. But as an individual. Someone with… so much potential. You see, I believe in your capacity to survive, your ability to thrive.”

His words are honey-laced with arsenic, dripping with false warmth. You want to shout at him, scream that you don’t want his care, don’t need his belief. But your throat feels thick, clogged with his lies and your own terror, and all you can do is listen as he spins his web around you.

“For as long as you prove your loyalty to Panem,” he says, each word measured, “I will continue to care for you. To provide for you. To protect you.”

You hear what he’s leaving unsaid. Loyalty to Panem means loyalty to him. Protection is only offered so long as you fall in line. Anything less than compliance will cost you everything.

You feel the leather of his glove against your cheek before you see his hand come closer. A thumb rubs over the apple of your cheek, trailing down to your chin, lifting your gaze up past the chair, past his legs, up to his eyes. They’re shaded from this angle, making his eyes even more ghastly.

Your body tenses, but you don’t speak. What could you possibly say? Snow leans forward now, his pale gaze fixed on you, his voice dropping just slightly, as though sharing a secret meant only for you.

“You should rest. Gather your strength. But first, you’ll need to check in with the doctor.”

The doctor. The word pulls you out of your haze, confusion flickering across your face before you can stop it. The doctor?

Snow notices, of course. He always notices. He smiles, small and sharp, as if your confusion is some sort of private joke. “Oh, you’ll want to hurry,” he says lightly, releasing you. “Punctuality is a virtue.”

Your lips part, the faintest beginning of a question forming on your tongue, but you don’t get the chance to ask it. Snow presses a button on his desk, the soft click echoing through the room. Behind you, the door opens, and the draft brushes the back of your neck. It’s faint, almost imperceptible, but it makes your skin crawl. You’re already cold.

Two gloved hands grab your arms, firm but unrelenting. Peacekeepers. One on each side. They haul you to your feet, the sudden motion making your side burn, and a pained gasp slips out before you can stop it. Your hands and feet have already frozen over; any pain from them is dull in comparison. You don’t have the strength to fight them, and even if you did, you know better than to try. You let them drag you, your feet barely finding the floor as they march you toward the door.

You stare at Snow, your gaze locking with his as they pull you backward. He doesn’t move, doesn’t flinch, his eyes holding yours as steadily as if he were the one restraining you.

“Give my regards to Dr. Steel,” he says, his voice pleasant.

The door slides shut behind you, cutting off the sterile air of his office, but the weight of his words lingers, settling heavily in your chest. You don’t struggle against the Peacekeepers. You don’t have the will. Your bare feet slide against the cold, polished floor as they drag you down the endless halls.

-

The room they drag you into is a reflection of everything you’ve seen since you woke up.

The walls are the same glaring white as the halls, smooth and seamless, offering no hint of where one panel ends and the next begins. Everything gleams: polished steel, blinding white tiles, fluorescent lights that buzz faintly above you. There’s nothing personal in the room, no warmth, no imperfections, only sharp edges and flat surfaces. 

There are no windows, no natural light, only the harsh glow of the strips overhead. 

Even the air feels unnatural, stinking of faint chemicals. It’s sharp and artificial, like antiseptic and ozone. It pricks at your nose, makes the back of your throat sting. You can feel it settling on your skin like a film. At the center of the room, under the merciless overhead light, is the chair.

It’s not really a chair, not in the way you’d think of one. It’s something designed for function, not comfort. The seat is hard, molded plastic or steel, you can’t tell. The rest is made of metal, shimmering silver and chrome, and it’s bolted to the floor, immovable. 

The base is solid, the armrests wide and flat with leather straps hanging loosely from each one. There’s a headrest, tilted slightly back, and you can see the faint indentations on the surface where other heads must have rested before yours. A thick bundle of wires snakes out from the back of it, trailing across the floor to a machine that hums softly in the corner of the room.

The machine itself is alien and a labyrinth of knobs, switches, and translucent displays that flicker with symbols you don’t recognize. You don’t know what half of them mean, and you don’t want to. There’s a cold, mechanical menace to the way it hums, as though it’s alive, waiting for its next command. Two assistants flank the chair; their movements precise, their faces blank. They’re dressed in crisp white uniforms that match the walls, their gloves spotless, their posture unnervingly rigid. With their faces half-covered by masks, each one looks as impersonal as the last. 

Their gazes skim over you like you’re an object, a task to be handled, nothing more. They don’t speak as you’re handed off to them. They guide you forward, their grips firm but devoid of malice. They don’t need to speak. Their purpose is clear.

You don’t fight. You can’t. Your body is too heavy, too raw, your mind too fractured to muster any resistance. They press you into the chair, and it’s colder than you're prepared for, the metal biting through the thin fabric of your gown and downright tearing at the exposed skin that comes in contact with it.

The armrests splay wide, forcing your arms out to either side, held down by tight, unyielding straps. Your legs are similarly restrained, spread apart, ankles cuffed to the chair’s base. There’s nowhere to hide, nowhere to shift, nowhere to go. The headrest cradles your skull like a vice, straps across your forehead and chin, keeping you from moving more than a fraction of an inch. The restraints are snug; any attempts to wriggle free only dig them deeper into your skin. The entire position makes your side flare, the dull ache threatening to boil over, but you grit your teeth and try to breathe through it.

The assistants step back, moving in perfect synchronization, and for a moment, the room is silent except for the low, steady hum of the machine.

The rest of the assistants—you try to count how many of them there are, many of which look so identical that you have to recount over and over—move around you in near silence, their footsteps so faint and unhurried that your mind conjures an image of them floating. 

None of them speaks. They don’t meet your eyes. They don’t even look at you, not really. They’re almost ghost-like in the way they glide from one piece of equipment to the next, retrieving tools, adjusting knobs, checking wires. Their movements are methodical, detached. You feel more project than patient.

Your mind races, one of the only parts of you capable of movement. Snow mentioned a Dr. Steel. Did he mean this room? Was it just a cruel joke about the chair you’re becoming well acquainted with?

And then, he enters.

You hear his footsteps first. Slow, echoing faintly against the floor. A rhythmic, measured tapping. When he steps into view, your first thought is how composed he looks, how calculated. 

He’s a tall man, lean but not lanky, with a presence that makes the room feel even smaller. 

His suit is sharp and tailored to perfection. It is a deep charcoal that seems incredibly out of place in this sea of white and silver. The crisp edges of the fabric cut clean lines against his frame. His hair is swept back, dark blond streaked with silver at the temples, every strand knowing its place. 

His gloves are black, and like the rest of him, the contrast is striking. He walks with a grace that feels out of step with the clinical severity of the space, like he’s been plucked from a dinner party. But it’s his face that unsettles you most. It’s his face that draws you in and keeps you there, whether you want to or not.

He’s handsome, in a way that feels dangerous. Or maybe it’s a face that should be handsome, should be inviting, but there’s something wrong. His features are as sharp as the rest of him, carved by someone who valued symmetry over realism.

His cheekbones are high, his jawline razor-sharp with no hairs in sight, and his thin eyebrows don’t raise or furrow. They don’t articulate anything. They give nothing away; not a flicker of emotion, not a hint of humanity. There’s an elegance to his features, but it’s the kind that masks cruelty.

And his eyes… God, his eyes.

They’re a pale, pale blue. The kind of pale that feels wrong. Something vital’s been leached out of them, drained until there’s nothing left but the cold residue of powder. Snow’s eyes are pale, too. Faded, clouded, like the blue cataracts of the blind. Snow’s gaze always felt like it hung over you, distant and ghostly, like the creeping inevitability of death itself. Impersonal. Unshakable. His eyes were terrible, yes, but their terror came from what they refused to show. They hung above you, lofty and untouched, as if nothing human could ever reach them. Snow’s eyes didn’t look at you; they looked through you.

But his eyes?

They’re the frosted film of the dead.

They almost shine, like a thin layer of ice glinting under a pale winter sun. No, they latch onto you, burrowing under your skin like splinters. They don’t freeze you in place—they cut. Slice. Peel. Sew you back up again with parts missing and gained. His gaze moves too much, roves over you like a scalpel searching for the best place to start. There’s no stillness in them, no blindness. His eyes see everything, and yet they feel utterly lifeless. Glassy and cold and hollow, like the corpse of something that died hungry and refused to stay buried. Like something that doesn’t care to stay dead.

You thought Snow’s eyes were the most unnerving thing you’d ever seen—the kind of stare that made you feel small and helpless, like you were already buried six feet under and just waiting for him to shovel the last heap of dirt. But these? These are worse. So much worse. 

They crawl over your skin, prying, probing, reaching deep like fingers under a wound—a feeling you’ve felt again and again. They don’t feel human, not really. Not because of their color, though that doesn’t help—but because of what lives behind them. Or what doesn’t. There’s no mercy in them. No pity. No distance. Just an emptiness so serrated it cuts you open and digs its way inside.

Snow’s gaze judges you from above. Dr. Steel’s gaze dissects you from within.

You can’t breathe. You can’t think. You can’t look away.

The frosted film of the dead, yes—but you were wrong. There is something alive beneath it. And it’s looking straight at you.

His gloves draw the eye again. Black leather, smudged faintly at the fingertips, likely from years spent working with delicate tools that have worn the pristine shine away. He wears them like they’re a second skin, flexing his fingers absently as he watches the assistants prepare you. You’re not sure if the gloves are for precision or protection, but they make the simple act of movement—of touch—feel intimate in a way that makes your stomach turn.

Dr. Steel doesn’t move like the assistants. He doesn’t hurry, doesn’t glide. His every step is purposeful, an elegant dance where you’re his unwilling partner. He doesn’t need to rush. This room belongs to him. You can feel it in the way the assistants defer to him with every flicker of a glance, the way they stand just slightly straighter when he passes. He doesn’t need to speak to command them.

He circles you slowly, the soles of his shoes clicking softly against the floor. The sound echoes faintly in the room, filling the silence left by the assistants’ quiet movements. His gaze is heavy, lingering on you as though you’re something to be studied, dissected, cataloged. He looks at you like you’re an equation he’s already solved, a puzzle he’s taken apart and put back together again in his mind a hundred times before this moment.

And yet, there’s something in his demeanor that feels uncomfortably…human. It’s not warmth, not even close, but an unsettling kind of fascination, like he’s looking at you and seeing something no one else can.

He speaks.

“Good evening,” he murmurs, his voice low and smooth, the kind of voice that could lull you into a sense of safety if not for the words it carries. He stops just in front of you, clasping his hands behind his back as he tilts his head. “You’re awake. How fortunate. I always find the initial assessment is far more…illuminating when the subject is conscious.”

Subject. The word hits you like a slap, and you bristle instinctively. He notices, of course. 

“I am Dr. Steel,” he continues, his tone polite. “And you, madam, are my newest patient.”

You note the correction from subject to patient, but that’s all you do.

You don’t answer. You can’t. Your throat feels like it’s closing, and you’re not sure you could force words out even if you tried. But it doesn’t matter. He doesn’t seem to want your words.

“Please, don’t trouble yourself with unnecessary questions,” he says, confirming your thoughts. “All will be explained in due time. For now, I’m afraid we have a rather tight schedule to adhere to. You understand, I’m sure.”

Your gaze darts to the assistants, hoping to find some flicker of humanity there, some chance of reason. But they avoid your eyes, their focus entirely on their work. They’re laying out equipment on a tray—white squares, wires, syringes. Your stomach churns at the sight of it, but you force yourself to look away, to stare at the ceiling instead. It’s blank. Endless.

Dr. Steel steps closer, his gloved hand reaching for your face. You flinch, but the straps keep you in place. His fingers brush lightly against your skin, tilting your chin up until your eyes meet his. There’s a curiosity there. Your blood runs cold at the sight of it.

“There’s no need to be afraid,” he says in a way that could be mistaken for kindness. “Pain, after all, is a necessary part of progress. You’ll find that the human mind is far more resilient than you might think. Malleable, even.”

He straightens, his hand leaving your face, and turns toward the medical tray. “Now,” he says, picking up a small white square with a thin wire trailing from it, “we’ll begin with a simple test. Nothing too invasive, I assure you. This is merely an aptitude assessment—a way for me to better understand how best to help you.”

You’re scared stiff despite, and partially because of, his attempts at comforting you. It’s hard to pay attention to him and not the flurry of silent movement in your peripheral vision, or the frantic beating of your heart.

“You’re likely wondering what I’m about to do,” he says without looking at you. A mercy. He presses a button, or maybe he adjusts a dial, and the translucent display glows a faint blue. “Or perhaps you’re wondering why I’m doing it. Both are fair questions, though I doubt the answers will bring you much comfort.”

You sit there helplessly as he presses the square against your temple, the adhesive cold and wet. The machine’s humming picks up like a beast purring as he operates it with ease. Sitting this close, the sound settles like static in your ears, scratching faintly at your nerves.

You jerk your head, instinctively trying to pull away, but a hand—not rough, but firm—keeps you in place.

“What—” Your voice cracks, trembling with the weight of your fear. “What are you doing?” It’s the only question you can force past the panic rising in your chest. A stupid one, because he's right. Knowing what’s coming won’t help you any, but you need to know.

The man pauses, tilting his head slightly, as if your words are the most curious thing he’s ever heard. Slowly, he straightens and looks at you, and you wish you hadn’t asked. He smiles something scarily genuine, and his face doesn’t bend the way it should. No wrinkles crease at his eyes, no laugh lines pull at his mouth. There aren’t even any soft creases in his skin. Not in the Capitol way, not Botox or cosmetic corrections. He is a man unacquainted with joy, and it’s clearly an unpracticed expression.

“I am so very pleased you asked,” he says, and you believe him. “Normally, those in your position waste their breath on crying or begging. They turn this joyous experience into a spectacle. And, well,”  his voice turns conspiratorial. “I’ve always preferred academics.”

You swallow thickly, spit going down like cotton. “What’s the point of any of that?” You ask, surprising even yourself. Your voice cracks, dry as a dead leaf. You lick your chapped lips. “Crying or begging, I mean. I—I doubt it’s worked on you before.”

His smile falters—just slightly, just enough to let you see the flash of something behind it. Interest. He takes a small step closer, looming over you. His sharp eyes wander over your face, eager, assessing, waiting. You want to shrink away, but you can’t. The straps keep you pinned, and what little of your pride remains refuses to let him see you cower more than he already has. So instead, you fix your gaze on the ceiling and finish, “Why would I be any different?” He turns with a small hum and begins to fiddle with the tools on his medical tray. Since your head is strapped in place, your eyes are the only thing you can move to follow him.

“Very astute analysis.” His gloved hands pick up another set of squares, their edges gleaming faintly with gel. “And in such a short period of time.” He presses them to your forehead, one after the other, the freezing adhesive making you blink. “These,” he says, gesturing with a gloved hand to the wires trailing from the squares, “are electrodes. Through them, I will deliver a controlled electrical current to your brain. The goal is to induce a seizure.”

Your head jerks without your input again. His words swim in your head, but you can’t seem to piece them together. Electric current. Brain. Seizure. They don’t belong in the same sentence. They shouldn’t. They can’t.

Your heart lurches in your chest, and you struggle against the restraints, but it’s no use. “Why?” you rasp, your voice barely audible.

“Why?” He tilts his head again, like a bird of prey. “Because the mind is an endlessly fascinating thing. Memories, emotions, identity itself—they’re so easily…edited. Altered. Or removed entirely. And you,” he breathes, “are a most promising candidate.”

He’s already at the machine before you can respond, his hands sliding across its controls with a kind of care you thought him incapable of. The translucent display glows from blue to green, covered in symbols and graphs that blur under your glare. He flips a switch, presses buttons, and adjusts dials. You can see the glow of the display reflected faintly in his eyes, giving them an unnatural brightness. 

He pauses, resting his finger lightly on a button labeled STIMULUS CONTROL. 

“How bad will it hurt?” The question tumbles out before you can stop it. You don’t bother asking if it will hurt. You already know.

He pauses, turning his head to look at you with a kind of delighted curiosity. “Oh,” he says softly, gently, his lips curling back into that strange, unsettling smile. “Horrifically. The kind of pain that can’t be described. The sweetest kind of torture.” He leans closer, so close you can see his blond eyelashes, his voice dropping to a murmur. “But you’ll endure it. You’ll survive. That’s what makes you so fascinating.”

Your heart pounds so violently now that you’re certain it might actually burst. His finger lingers above the button, and your chest heaves as you try to suck in air, but it’s no use. He’s watching you again, his gaze crawling over your face, and you wince like it’s a physical thing.

“I think,” he murmurs, seemingly to himself, “I’ll enjoy our time together quite a bit, madam.”

He nods to someone behind you, and you stiffen as a woman steps into view. Her eyes are vacant, her face expressionless as she moves closer. One of her hands forces your mouth open, her grip mechanical and unyielding. Her other hand pushes something bulky between your teeth. A mouthguard. It’s rubbery and alien on your tongue, the handle protruding awkwardly from your lips. You feel the hard plastic edges dig into the corners of your mouth as the faint taste of chemicals coats your tongue. There’s a hole in the center, you realize—a cruelly calculated design, just big enough to let you keep breathing.

The rubber tastes like ash, chemical, and acrid on your tongue. It wedges between your teeth, forcing your jaw open until your muscles strain and ache. You can’t scream. You can’t even bite down on the pain. All you can do is breathe wet, ragged gasps through the gaping hole they’ve left you.

“We wouldn’t want to ruin that pretty mouth of yours,” he says.

His voice drops to something quieter, more intimate, just before he presses the button. “You know,” he tilts his head, reflecting something you can’t name back at you, “it’s fascinating, really. How little it takes to reshape a thing.”

The machine hums louder, gears shifting beneath the surface.

The electrode pulses against your temple, icy at first, then hotter. The heat spreads outward, jagged and quick, sinking deep into your skull.

Your muscles coil. Tight. So tight your bones might snap under the strain.

A sharp breath leaves your lungs as the woman refits the mouthguard into place.

I’ll be fine.

The thought isn’t yours. It sounds like Finnick.

The rubber pinches at the corners of your mouth.

I’ll be fine.

The hum crescendos.

You smell it before you feel it. Burning hair, maybe yours.

“Sometimes the mind plays tricks when it's under stress,” Steel says, adjusting the electrode along your temple. “It’s common during these sessions. Perfectly normal. Most ignore it.”

The electrode now bites deeper, searing into your skin.

He presses the button.

I’ll be fine—

The first jolt hits you like lightning striking a tree, and for a moment, the world fractures. It feels as though every nerve in your body ignites at once, a surge of blinding, white-hot pain that makes you want to tear yourself apart just to escape it. You think of a cow you once saw struck by lightning. You think of how it thrashed on its side, kicking sluggishly. How its hoarse, broken moos echoed through the field. You remember its eyes rolling back, the way it laid still afterward, trembling like a leaf caught in a storm.

You feel like that cow now. Struck dumb. Kicking. Something raw and primal rips out of your throat, muffled by the mouthguard, but it’s not enough to drown out the sharp, mechanical click of the machine as it surges again. And again.

Your back arches.

The lights grow brighter. So bright.

Your muscles seize, locking you into a position that feels unnatural, unbearable. Your vision flickers in and out, the ceiling above you warping and twisting, morphing into flashes of something else. Memories, maybe. Or hallucinations. Or both. You’re not sure anymore. You’re not sure of anything except the pain, the way it digs into the edges of your mind, leaving pieces of you scattered in its wake.

And then, mercifully, it stops.

You’re dimly aware of your body slumping back against the chair, the straps digging into your skin as you gasp through the mouthguard. You don’t have the strength to move, barely the strength to think. Somewhere in the distance, you hear a voice—his—, but it feels far away. Like it’s coming from underwater.

"Good," you think he says. "That was a promising start."

The world is still, and you float somewhere between the pain and oblivion. The chair hums beneath you, faint vibrations trickling through the bolts holding it to the floor. A high-pitched ringing pulses faintly in your skull.

The straps dig into your shoulders, but the edges of your skin feel numb. Were they always this tight?

Your chest heaves, each breath rattling through the rubbery mouthpiece wedged between your teeth. The taste lingers, bitter and stale. Someone’s speaking nearby—you think—but the words drift in and out, slippery and distant.

You try to swallow, but your throat won’t work properly.

Something shifts behind you, and with a soft click, the mouthguard slackens. Your jaw loosens with it, muscles trembling with the release. It's not a relief. Your teeth feel too far apart. Will they ever fit together again?

The woman wipes something from your lips.

Why?

You blink slowly, dragging your gaze toward the assistants. The edges of their faces blur, indistinct shadows circling you. The hum of the machine tapers off, but the weight of something invisible still sits at the base of your skull.

Your fingers twitch faintly against the restraints. One at a time. Curling. Testing. The tips press into your palm—cold, clammy, unfamiliar.

My hands. My hands. They’re mine.

Your body sags against the chair, limp and wrung out like wet fabric. The mouthguard slips from between your teeth with a slick pop, dangling from its strap as one of the assistants sets it aside. 

It’s over.

Your head lolls to the side, eyes half-lidded, catching glimpses of white shoes moving around you. Distant shapes, smudged by the fuzz at the edge of your vision. A hand touches your wrist, fingers curling over the welt left by the strap. The pressure is light. The kind of touch that makes you want to cry.

Dr. Steel’s voice slips through the fog. “Release her.”

The assistants move without hesitation, loosening the bindings at your wrists, your ankles. They unfasten the straps completely, and your arms drop to your sides, heavy and boneless. The weight of them makes you wince. They guide your arms down to your lap, lifting your head upright with just enough care to stop you from slumping forward.

You don’t move. Not yet. Not until you can trust that the floor beneath you is real.

Your legs dangle uselessly from the chair, trembling too hard to hold you if they made you stand. But they don’t.

It’s over.

You tell yourself that over and over, desperate to believe it.

Steel crouches in front of you, so close that you can see the faint reflection of yourself in his pale, glassy eyes. He tilts his head, studying you with that quiet fascination.

“You’re still with me,” he murmurs, fondly. His hand rises, brushing along your damp forehead to your damp hairline. “Good. We’re making progress.”

His thumb catches on your chin, gently lifting your face to meet his. A small light flickers on in his other hand. It’s bright and invasive as he shines it into your eye.

You try to turn away, but his grip tightens just enough to stop you. The light dances back and forth, pulling at the threads of your focus. His eyes flick between yours, pupils tightening as the light flashes. He hums low in his throat, satisfied.

“Pupillary response is adequate,” he says, as if you aren’t even there. “Coordination appears…intact.”

His palm lingers over your pulse, pressing lightly at the hollow of your throat. His fingers slide up, pressing against your jaw, coaxing your mouth open with patience.

“Let me see.”

You don’t move. You can’t move.

He hums softly, unimpressed, and his thumb slips between your lips, prying your mouth open wider. Your muscles tremble from strain. 

His thumb drags along your cheek, tugging the soft flesh outward, then trails across your gums.

Slow, methodical.

This isn’t my mouth.

This isn’t my body.

I left this chair an hour ago.

His touch lingers at the edge of your teeth. His thumb presses down, tracing the ridges of your molars like he’s cataloging them.

“Good…good,” he murmurs, pulling your cheek to the side. His thumb scrapes the back of your tongue, making you gag, but he doesn’t stop. His thumb presses down, flattening it, testing the softness there. “No fractures. Minimal soft tissue damage. Remarkable durability.”

You hear the soft scratch of pens behind him—assistants scribbling notes, recording the details of your body like numbers in a ledger.

Steel releases your mouth, but the absence feels worse. His other hand lifts from your throat, dragging down the length of your arm. His hands skim along your wrists, thumbs brushing over the faint indents left by the straps. Your skin burns beneath his touch, raw and tender.

“They’re already sore,” he says aloud, absently, for the assistants to jot down. “A healthy reaction.”

He lingers too long, considering something.

You barely notice the assistants anymore. They drift at the edges of your vision, quiet as the shadows on the walls.

Until one of them moves toward the machine.

It’s subtle. Just a flick of the switch. The blue glow returns, flickering faintly across the screen.

Your breath slows.

It’s just a reset.

Standard cleanup.

They’re powering it down.

But the hum doesn’t fade.

Steel's hands pause at your throat, feeling the fragile flutter of your pulse beneath his thumb. It picks up from its sluggish churning. He smiles knowingly. You don’t want to decipher what it means. 

You barely hear his next words.

“But I think you can take more.”

Your body goes rigid.

Suddenly, the straps are tightening around your wrists and ankles once more.

Your mouth falls open, but no sound escapes.

Dr. Steel’s voice is calm, but his smile is razor-thin.

“Let’s begin again, shall we?”

The mouthguard clicks back into place.

The light shifts from blue to green to yellow. 

The hum rises.

You brace for the pain. And then—

And then…

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Footsteps.

Faint, but deliberate. Somewhere behind you. Too far to be Steel.

Your eyes flick to the assistants. None of them moves. Their eyes stay fixed ahead, hands adjusting knobs, pressing buttons in mechanical synchronization. You can’t speak around the rubber biting into your mouth, can’t turn your head far enough to see—

But you know someone’s there.

The hum rises.

Steel leans closer, sliding his hand along your jaw. “Try to stay with me this time,” he murmurs, brushing his thumb lightly across your cheek. His touch leaves something cold behind, an invisible mark. Like a brand.

But the footsteps… they’re still there. Pacing behind you.

You try to shift, the restraints cutting into your wrists. Steel tilts his head slightly, like a parent humoring a child mid-tantrum.

“Is something wrong?” he asks, though his tone says he already knows.

You shake your head—or try to.

He brushes sweat or tears or both from under your eye. Why? “Don’t get distracted. There’s no one here but us.”

Tap. Tap.

Your stomach flips.

The footsteps stop.

Steel doesn’t.

His hands ghost over your temple, adjusting the electrodes. “You’re stronger than most. But strength has limits. We’ll find yours.”

The light flickers from blue to green.

Tap.

Behind you.

Your fingers twitch uselessly against the straps.

You hear breathing now. Someone else’s. Close. So close you feel it against the nape of your neck, hot and damp.

But Steel is in front of you.

Your chest tightens. The hum crescendos.

“Relax,” Steel murmurs, eyes glinting under the harsh white lights. “You’re imagining things.”

He presses the button.

The pain returns like fire licking the inside of your skull—

But this time, you can’t decide what terrifies you more.

Steel.