Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

July, 68 ADD

DISTRICT 2 WAS A POWERHOUSE. Second only to District 1 in wealth and prestige, it stood as a beacon of power and privilege within Panem. Unlike the outer districts, where survival was an everyday battle against poverty and starvation, District 2 thrived under the Capitol’s watchful eye. Nestled against the mountains, its villages were a patchwork of luxury— grand apartments with marble columns, sprawling mansions with iron-wrought gates, and streets so pristine they could have belonged inside the Capitol itself.

The Victor’s Village, in particular, stood apart from the rest. It was a monument to success, an architectural marvel built from the finest stone, as if carved from the very mountains their district was famous for. Statues of past victors adorned the entrance, their expressions frozen in time— some victorious, some solemn, all reminders of what it meant to succeed in the Hunger Games. Ophelia Hadley had walked past those statues hundreds of times as a child, tilting her head up to stare into the marble eyes of those who had come before her. She had always wondered if she would one day stand among them, immortalized in stone.

It wasn’t that she had a burning desire to kill. Unlike some of the other Career tributes, who grew up thirsting for the chance to prove themselves, she hadn’t spent her childhood dreaming of the Arena. She had trained, yes, because training was expected of every child in District 2, but she had never thought she would actually go. There were others who wanted it more. Others who had been groomed for it since birth.

Yet, when the reaping came for the 68th Hunger Games, it was Ophelia who stepped forward.

Volunteering in District 2 wasn’t a simple process. The reaping could stretch on for hours, not because people were too afraid to go, but because they fought over who had the right. No name was ever truly drawn from the glass bowls. It was more of an audition, a stage where hopefuls battled with words and reputation, arguing over who deserved the honor. It was twisted, in its own way. The other districts cowered at the idea of their names being called, yet here, in the Career districts, tributes stepped forward willingly, eagerly, as if they weren’t walking toward their own potential deaths.

And in the end, Ophelia had been the one to claim the spot.

Had she expected it? Not really. She had spoken confidently, laid out her strengths, but there were other girls— older, stronger— who could have easily taken her place. Perhaps she had been chosen because she was unexpected, an underdog even among the Careers. She was quick, nimble with a knife, but her peers had been training longer, hitting harder. She was strong in her own right, but not the strongest.

Her parents hadn’t expected her to volunteer. They hadn’t needed her to. In District 2, there was no real risk of being forced into the Games unless you wanted to be there. And yet, she had done it anyway. Why? To prove something. To make them proud. To make them see her. It wasn’t that her parents had been cruel, exactly. They were simply distant, as most parents in District 2 were. Love was a luxury that couldn’t be afforded when your child might be sent to their death before they reached adulthood.

But that distance had always stung.

She and her younger brother had grown up more like acquaintances than family, bound by blood but not necessarily by warmth. It wasn’t until they grew older that their parents made an effort, perhaps realizing that time was running out, that soon their children might be gone. But the damage had been done. Ophelia still craved their approval, still wished for a connection that had never truly been there.

So she stepped forward, and the crowd had cheered, her name echoing through the square.

Her mentor, Enobaria, greeted her with a smile like a predator baring its teeth. She had won her Games through brutality, sinking her sharpened teeth into the throats of her opponents. The Capitol had adored her for it. She was a victor who had turned survival into spectacle, who had taken the brutality of the Games and made it into a story they could sell.

Ophelia didn’t know if she had that kind of ruthlessness in her.

Yet, as Enobaria spoke of the coming days— the chariot ride, the training, the interviews— it became clear that hesitation had no place in the Games.

She wouldn’t be alone. The other tribute from District 2 was a familiar face: Remus. He was younger than her, only fifteen, but his size made up for it. Nearly seven feet tall, his frame was long and lean, more wiry than muscular, but imposing nonetheless. They had trained together in the past, though she had always been the more aggressive of the two.

Their partnership would be an easy one. They knew each other, trusted each other. That was more than most tributes could say.

The train ride to the Capitol was quiet. They sat across from each other, watching the scenery blur past the window. The closer they got to the city, the more unreal it all seemed.

“My friends said I was too much of a coward to volunteer,” Remus said suddenly, his voice breaking the silence.

Ophelia didn’t respond right away, simply counting the clouds in the sky.

“I’m starting to think they were the real cowards,” he continued. “Not one of them volunteered.”

She finally turned her head to look at him, her expression unreadable. Normally, she was full of witty remarks, always ready with a sharp tongue. She and her brother had spent years battling with words, seeing who could land the best verbal jab. But here, now, she had nothing to say.

Remus let out a breath, shaking his head. “Am I the only one pouring my heart out here? I know you didn’t volunteer just for the fun of it. What made you throw your name in there?”

Ophelia glanced down at her hands, resting in her lap. Her dress was a deep berry color, soft against her skin, the fabric slightly worn but still elegant. Her mother had braided her hair earlier that morning, the caramel-colored strands curling around her shoulders. Her nails were long, rounded at the tips, her fingers absentmindedly picking at a stray hangnail.

District 2 was wealthy, powerful. But wealth couldn’t buy love. Prestige couldn’t fill the empty spaces where affection should have been.

“I just want my parents to love me,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper.

Remus didn’t respond right away. Perhaps he understood. Perhaps he didn’t.

The train sped forward, carrying them toward the Capitol, toward the Games, toward whatever fate awaited them.

And for the first time, Ophelia wondered if she had made a mistake.

Ophelia had a fear of horses.

It was something she knew was irrational, even childish, especially considering the far greater and far deadlier concerns that awaited her. Like the fact that she might not survive past the week. But despite that knowledge, she clung to Remus’s side like a lost child, her fingers twisting into the heavy silver fabric of his suit as they stood waiting to board their chariot. Her small hand was barely noticeable against the metallic sheen of his costume, which gleamed under the glaring Capitol lights.

One of the two horses beside them shifted, its velvety muzzle pressing against Ophelia’s neck, inhaling deeply. It was drawn to the overwhelming floral fragrance of the shampoo her stylists had drowned her hair in, the scent so strong she was surprised it hadn’t burned the strands straight from her scalp.

She jolted violently, letting out a sharp yelp when the horse snorted directly into her ear, the hot puff of air making her stomach twist. Remus, ever the picture of amusement, chuckled as he lifted her effortlessly by her shoulders and set her down in front of him, as though she weighed no more than a feather. The irony of it was not lost on her— Ophelia wasn’t fragile, wasn’t particularly dainty, yet standing beside him, she looked positively frail.

“It likes you,” Remus commented, his brown eyes twinkling with laughter.

Ophelia scoffed, crossing her arms over the jewel-encrusted corset of her outfit. Unlike the sleekness of his, hers was adorned with multicolored gems, reflecting the ostentatious wealth of District 2’s craftsmanship. The bodice was fitted tightly to her frame, while the sheer, crystal-laden skirt shimmered with every tiny movement, sending fractured light in every direction. “No, it doesn’t. It can smell my fear.”

“Then hide it better.” His tone turned slightly sharper as his gaze flickered toward the other tributes, utterly uninterested in her theatrics. “And do the same with the others. You know we’re better than them, so act like it.”

And he was right.

They were superior— stronger, faster, more prepared. They had been training for this their entire lives. She had watched the Games from the time she was old enough to understand them, sitting in her highchair back home in District 2 while the screen flickered with the brutal deaths of tributes who weren’t skilled enough to survive. Dolls were replaced with daggers. The bedtime stories she grew up on were of glorious Victors, not fairy tales. She was born for this.

The signal came for them to mount the chariot, and Remus grabbed her palm in his own, his grip firm. Their physical contrast was almost comical— his towering figure only made Ophelia seem even smaller, something that could work in her favor or ruin her entirely when it came to sponsors. She would have to prove her strength in the coming days.

From the viewing platform above, Enobaria watched them impassively, her sharp eyes studying every detail of her tributes as their chariot followed close behind District 1’s. Her arms were crossed, the gold plating on her teeth flashing under the lights as she leaned slightly toward the screen displaying the live feed.

Brutus, slouched beside her, let out a snort. “Your girl looks like a damn light show. I’m going cross-eyed with all those damn sparkles.”

Enobaria turned her head slightly, leveling him with a withering glare. “At least she doesn’t look like a fish.”

To her right, the District 4 Victor grinned, his sea-green eyes alight with mischief. “Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure. She might have been better off looking like a fish than a walking chandelier. The Capitol’s going to remember my tributes more. You know, since they weren’t blinded.”

Brutus laughed, but it was short-lived as Enobaria’s elbow jabbed sharply into his ribs. Finnick merely smirked.

“I give her three hours in the arena,” he added casually, stretching his arms behind his head. “My tributes will mop the floor with yours.”

Training was a game for Ophelia and Remus— one they had played their entire lives. It was nothing but a refresher course. The Capitol might have made a spectacle out of it, but for them, this was routine.

Ophelia’s caramel-blonde hair had been pulled back into a tight bun, stray strands plastered to her forehead with sweat. She moved with precise efficiency, her muscles already conditioned from years of training. Remus, beside her, had his shaggy brown hair pulled into a loose tie at the nape of his neck, his movements just as controlled and lethal.

The two spent most of their time rotating between stations, perfecting their knife and spear throwing, their footwork, their close combat techniques. The Training Center itself was massive, with different sections designed to simulate various environments of the arena.

Nearby, the District 1 tributes were locked in a fierce sparring session, their swords clashing loudly. The girl— Fabricia, if Ophelia remembered correctly— was slightly taller than her, her sleek black hair bound in a high ponytail. Her piercing green eyes held an almost feline sharpness, an eerie, almost predatory glint in them. She reminded Ophelia of a panther, all quiet, dangerous grace.

Remus ruffled Ophelia’s hair as he passed, loosening her bun in the process. She shot him a glare, smoothing it down.

“We’re allies, right?” she murmured under her breath.

Remus snorted, rolling his eyes. “No. I’ll leave you to rot by yourself.”

She narrowed her eyes at him, unamused. His expression softened as he leaned down, his voice quieter this time. “The only way I’d leave you is if I were dead. And even then, I’d fight it.”

Ophelia didn’t want to think about that. She knew only one of them could survive, but she refused to dwell on it now.

“We can’t avoid natural selection,” she muttered.

Remus’s jaw tightened slightly. “Nothing about this is natural.”

Ophelia spent the next two days of training under the sharp eye of Enobaria, who, despite her usual indifference toward mentoring, had taken a particular interest in ensuring that Ophelia would not make a fool of herself in the arena. Enobaria was not one for coddling. She gave critiques like they were commands, her words as sharp as the teeth that had been filed into points as a reminder of her own victory years ago.

The training mat was unforgiving beneath Ophelia’s back as she landed hard after yet another failed takedown maneuver. The impact sent a shock up her spine, but she bit back a groan and quickly rolled to her feet. Enobaria stood over her, arms crossed, her expression unreadable except for the slight twitch of irritation in her jaw.

“You’re fast,” Enobaria admitted, tilting her head slightly, “but speed won’t save you if someone gets their hands on you.”

Ophelia exhaled sharply, brushing a loose strand of caramel blonde hair from her forehead. “I won’t need to rely on hand-to-hand combat,” she replied, her voice firm despite her frustration. “My knives will finish the job before they even get close.”

Enobaria scoffed, an almost amused smirk curling the corner of her lips. “Right. Because every fight happens exactly the way you want it to.” She took a step forward, her presence suffocating in its intensity. “What happens when you lose your knives?"

Ophelia opened her mouth to argue, but Enobaria raised a hand to cut her off. “That’s what I thought. You don’t get to decide the terms of every fight, Ophelia. Learn to work with the worst-case scenario or be the first body to hit the ground.”

She jerked her head toward another section of the training center. “Go to the rope climbing station.”

Ophelia hesitated, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. She glanced over at the towering rope course with a slight grimace before turning back to Enobaria, giving her a pointed look. “I’m not good with it.”

Enobaria merely raised a brow, unimpressed. “Then don’t let them know that.”

Ophelia furrowed her brows slightly, her lips pressing into a tight line. Enobaria continued, her tone edged with the same ruthless logic that had won her the Games years ago. “You don’t show all your techniques in training. You don’t give them a full view of what you can do, or they’ll use it against you. Keep them guessing.” She took a step closer, her gaze hard. “Make them underestimate you.”

Ophelia held her mentor’s stare for a long moment before finally giving a small nod. Without another word, she turned on her heel and made her way to the rope climbing station, her mind already shifting gears, considering how she could use Enobaria’s advice to her advantage.

After completing the rope course and earning a nod of approval from Enobaria, Ophelia returned to her knife-throwing station. Two rounds. Three rounds.

“Practice until you can’t miss.”

The phrase echoed in Ophelia's head as she readied another throw— only to halt when someone stepped into her line of sight. She froze, the blade mere inches from cutting into flesh.

It was Finnick Odair.

He looked utterly unbothered, his lips curling into a lazy smirk.

“Careful there, sweetheart,” he said smoothly, tilting his head. “Not all of us have nine lives.”

Ophelia’s grip slackened, her expression caught somewhere between startled and embarrassed. “I—I’m so—”

“Relax.” Finnick cut her off with a small chuckle. “I’m not going to bite.” His smirk widened, his sea-green eyes dancing with amusement. “Can’t say the same for my tributes, though.”

And with that, he winked and walked away, leaving Ophelia standing there, knife still poised in her hand, pulse pounding in her ears.

Enobaria had prepared her for this.

Caesar Flickerman’s dazzling smile, the relentless flashing of cameras, the sea of Capitol citizens draped in garish fabrics and drenched in perfumes so strong she could smell them from the stage—it was all part of the show. No, not just the show. The Game.

“Play along,” Enobaria had told her in that sharp, knowing voice. “It’ll make it easier for you. More importantly, it’ll make you look better to the sponsors.”

So, Ophelia did just that, sitting gracefully in the plush interview chair, careful to maintain a pleasant yet demure expression. The maroon dress her stylist had chosen enveloped her petite frame, its gauzy fabric billowing like a delicate cloud around her. The puffed sleeves and structured bodice gave her the look of something soft, harmless, innocent— a deliberate choice, a carefully constructed illusion. But beneath the silk and lace lay something far deadlier.

A nightmare dressed as a daydream.

The Capitol adored a contradiction.

Caesar, ever the master of theatrics, greeted her with a flourish, extending a gloved hand to help her to her feet. “Isn’t she just a vision in red?” he declared, his voice amplified by the speakers around the grand stage. The crowd erupted into applause, their cheers high-pitched, bordering on hysterical.

Ophelia giggled, a light, melodic sound, and gave them a coy little wave. Her icy blue eyes flickered toward the audience, catching sight of Enobaria in the crowd. The older woman nodded approvingly, arms crossed, her expression unreadable. Brutus sat beside her, stony-faced as ever, though he gave the barest nod in her direction.

“Oh, Caesar,” Ophelia cooed, reaching out to pinch his cheek in a playful, girlish manner. “You’re just a peach!”

The crowd ate it up, delighting in the exchange, and Caesar beamed at her, basking in the energy of the moment. But beneath all the laughter and pleasantries, Ophelia knew what was coming. She wasn’t naive.

The real questions were on their way.

Caesar’s eyes softened, his voice taking on a practiced gentleness. “Now, Ophelia,” he began, drawing out her name with the ease of a seasoned performer, “I can tell there’s more to you than just beauty and charm. The Capitol sees a bright young girl before them, but I suspect there’s something deeper, something you’re keeping from us. Tell me, dear, what is it that scares you most about the arena?”

And there it was.

This was it. This was her in. This was the narrative he was spinning for her, the angle that could win over the audience, could earn her the gifts she would need to survive.

Just play along.

She inhaled sharply, as if struggling to find the words. Her lower lip quivered, her lashes fluttering, the perfect display of hesitant vulnerability. “I’m afraid of my brother watching me die.”

A hush fell over the audience. Her voice was quiet, trembling, but carried enough weight that the microphone caught every syllable. “He’s only ten,” she continued, her fingers curling into the fabric of her dress. “I don’t want him to see me...” Her voice broke, and she swallowed hard, blinking rapidly as though holding back tears.

The cameras zoomed in, catching every flicker of emotion on her delicate face. In the crowd, Finnick arched a brow, a knowing smirk playing at his lips. He saw right through her act, but that was the point, wasn’t it? It was a game, and she was playing to win.

Caesar, ever dramatic, pulled out a pristine silk handkerchief and dabbed at his own dry eyes before offering it to her. “A brother!” he exclaimed, shaking his head as if overcome with emotion. “How touching! What’s his name, doll?”

She glanced up, a small, wistful smile gracing her lips. “Cato.”

July, 68th Hunger Games

The moment the hovercraft released the tributes onto their platforms, Ophelia’s vision blurred under the overwhelming brightness.

Snow.

The arena was a vast, frozen wasteland, a glaring expanse of white reflecting the harsh sunlight back at her. Though they had been outfitted in thick snowsuits and heavy parkas, the cold still bit at her exposed cheeks and nose, turning her skin pink within seconds. She had expected frigid conditions—the weight of her uniform had been a dead giveaway—but the sheer brutality of the icy air was a shock nonetheless.

Across the distance, she spotted Remus immediately. His height made him an easy target, but it also meant he would be one of the strongest competitors. She needed to get to him first, needed to grab their weapons and regroup with Fabricia and Lucius. The Careers had solidified their alliance before leaving training, as they always did. It was their best shot at survival—for now.

As the countdown ticked away, her muscles coiled with anticipation. Her breath came in steady puffs, disappearing into the air like smoke.

Three.

Two.

One.

The moment the horn sounded, chaos erupted.

Tributes launched themselves toward the Cornucopia, the mad dash for weapons and supplies turning into an immediate bloodbath. Ophelia moved with practiced efficiency, weaving through the frenzy with startling speed despite the bulk of her gear. Her fingers closed around the hilt of a set of knives— four, just as she’d planned— before she snatched a spear for Remus and darted back.

Fabricia and Lucius had already armed themselves with swords, their movements fluid and deadly. A District 8 tribute lunged toward Fabricia from behind, but Lucius was faster. His blade sliced cleanly across the boy’s throat, and a wet gurgle followed before the cannon fired.

Ophelia barely spared a glance. Instead, she scanned the chaos for Remus— found him locked in combat with the District 12 boy, a frail thing no older than thirteen. It wasn’t a fight. It was a slaughter. Remus’s hands twisted sharply, and the boy crumpled, lifeless. Another cannon echoed through the arena.

By the time the bloodbath ended, seven tributes were dead. The snow beneath their feet was no longer pristine white but streaked with deep crimson. The Capitol’s hovercrafts descended to collect the bodies, and the remaining tributes scattered into the wilderness.

Ophelia stuck close to her pack, her boots crunching in the snow as they trudged onward. Lucius led the way, his hand a firm presence against Fabricia’s back as he guided her forward. Hours passed before they found shelter— a narrow cave carved into the side of a mountain. Small enough to remain hidden. Large enough to house four Careers.

Fabricia exhaled, shaking the snow from her hair. “I hope these damn trackers work,” she muttered, rubbing her hands together for warmth. “Our sponsors better be generous.”

They would be. The Careers always had sponsors. The only question was when.

But as the wind howled outside their makeshift sanctuary, Ophelia had a sinking feeling.

The cold was the least of their concerns.

Ophelia and Remus sat pressed together against the rough stone wall of the cave, their bodies huddled close for warmth. The night air seeped in through the mouth of the cave, sending a persistent chill through the group. On the opposite side, Lucius and Fabricia lay curled up in their sleeping positions, their steady breathing signaling they had drifted into sleep.

Remus, ever the watchful one, remained alert, his gaze periodically flickering toward the entrance of the cave. Beside him, Ophelia shivered slightly, her caramel hair falling in loose waves over her shoulder as she stared absently into the darkness beyond.

“What do you think our families are doing right now?” Ophelia’s voice was hushed, delicate— like a whisper carried by the wind, yet heavy with longing.

Remus exhaled softly, tilting his head so it rested lightly against hers. The faint scent of pine and something uniquely her filled his senses. “Probably sleeping,” he mused, his tone carrying a weight of realism that left little room for sentimentality. “Like you should be.”

Ophelia let out a small, tired laugh, but there was little humor in it. Her lips were raw from how often she had chewed on them, a nervous habit that she couldn’t quite break. “That’s not fair to you,” she murmured. “You need rest, too.”

Remus sighed and pressed a quick, comforting kiss to the crown of her head— not out of affection, but out of an unspoken understanding. “Just for a little while,” he urged, his voice lower now. “You’re no good to any of us if you collapse from exhaustion.”

She wanted to argue, but she knew he was right. Still, the thought of letting herself fall asleep while he stayed awake felt like a betrayal, as if she were burdening him with the weight of their survival. She gave a small nod but made no move to close her eyes. Her breathing remained the same, her fingers twitching against her knee as she fought against the lull of sleep.

Remus chuckled under his breath. “I mean it.”

Ophelia huffed, shifting slightly as she admitted, “I can’t. My brain won’t allow it.”

Remus muttered something incoherent before pulling away slightly, a small smirk tugging at his lips as he looked down at her. “Well, if we’re both stuck awake, we might as well keep ourselves entertained.”

She wrapped her arms around her knees, tilting her head in thought before asking, “What’s the first thing you’ll do when you get out?”

Remus shot her a sharp look, almost like she had just insulted him, but then he sighed and played along. “Eat. And then... I guess I’d use the winnings to pay off my parents’ house. Maybe get a dog.”

Ophelia’s lips twitched into something close to a smile. “A dog? What kind?”

“The biggest one the Capitol has,” Remus answered, reaching out absentmindedly to tuck a strand of her hair behind her ear. “If I got something small, I’d feel like a giant. More than usual, at least.” He was quiet for a moment before returning the question, “What about you?”

Ophelia hesitated, her expression softening. There was so much she wanted to say, but she knew better than to show too much of herself. Not when the cameras were always watching. “I want to see my family again,” she said finally. “My brother. I miss him.”

She didn’t elaborate, but the sentiment hung between them, unspoken yet understood. She didn’t want to be an emotional spectacle. She didn’t want to be seen as weak.

Eventually, her exhaustion won, and she drifted into sleep. Remus stayed awake a while longer, his own eyes growing heavier with each passing moment.

By morning, the Career pack was on the move. They left the cave, setting off into the frostbitten landscape in search of food— and weaker tributes. The Games had gone on long enough that the pressure was suffocating. Ophelia was the only one who hadn’t made a kill yet.

She felt it looming over her like a shadow, the unspoken expectation. Remus had never pressured her, but Fabricia and Lucius? They were different. Fabricia, ruthless and efficient, had already proven her skill in combat. Lucius, her unwavering shadow, followed her orders with absolute loyalty. They were an undeniable pair, bound together in a way that neither Ophelia nor Remus could decipher. Whether it was strategy or something deeper, it didn’t matter. What mattered was that they would turn on her the second she became dead weight.

She refused to let that happen.

It was afternoon when Remus, walking slightly ahead of her, pinched her side. She looked up at him, confused, until he jerked his chin toward the trees.

There, crouched in the snow-laden branches, were the District 11 tributes. The male and female, barely visible in their white parkas, blending almost perfectly with the landscape. The stylists had been clever. Camouflage.

But not clever enough.

Ophelia’s stomach twisted. Was it dread? Or excitement? The thought unsettled her. But this was what she had trained for. This was survival. Her fingers ghosted over the hilts of her throwing knives before she withdrew them, rolling the cool metal between her fingers. She whistled under her breath, as if this were nothing more than a casual routine.

The blades left her hands before she could second-guess herself. One struck the male in the forehead. The other embedded itself into the girl’s chest.

Two cannons echoed through the frozen air.

Fabricia and Lucius turned just in time to watch the bodies plummet from the trees, their limbs lifeless, their eyes vacant.

Fabricia let out a delighted laugh, striding toward Ophelia with an unsettling amount of enthusiasm. She clapped her hand firmly on Ophelia’s back, her grin wide. “Nice one, Two.”

Lucius merely smirked, shaking his head in quiet approval.

Ophelia stepped forward, her hands steady as she pulled the knives free from flesh and bone. The crimson that stained the snow beneath them was stark against the white.

She didn’t even know their names.

Somewhere, her parents were celebrating. Her brother was cheering her on.

This was the Games. This was survival.

And somehow, as sick as it was, it almost felt like fun.

Seventeen.

Ophelia walked in silence with the Career pack, her boots crunching against the snow as she bit at her bottom lip. The cold had dried out her lips, leaving them chapped and raw, but that wasn’t the only reason she gnawed at the tender skin. Anxiety still churned deep in her stomach, a lingering unease after her first kills. The images were burned into her mind— the way the District 11 tributes had fallen, the brief glint of terror in their eyes before they faded into nothing. She swallowed hard, trying to push the thoughts away as Fabricia led the group through the frost-covered trees.

The air was deathly still, the only sounds coming from their footsteps and the occasional shifting of the wind through the skeletal branches. Lucius walked just ahead of her, his axe swinging lazily at his side, while Remus kept pace beside her, his gaze scanning their surroundings with calculated ease. They moved like hunters— because that’s exactly what they were.

A rustle in the underbrush caught Fabricia’s attention first. The District 8 girl stood in the clearing, her thin form wrapped in a patched-together coat that barely seemed to keep out the cold. She had been rummaging through the snow, perhaps searching for something edible, unaware of the eyes now locked onto her.

Fabricia smirked, tilting her head as she took a slow, deliberate step forward. "Well, well," she drawled, her voice sickly sweet, "looks like we found ourselves a little lost lamb."

The tribute’s head snapped up, wide eyes filled with fear as she took an instinctive step back. Ophelia’s stomach twisted at the sheer panic in the girl’s face, but the feeling barely had time to settle before Fabricia chuckled and took another step toward her. "Better run, little lamb. We do love a good chase."

For a moment, the girl hesitated, frozen in place like a deer caught in the headlights. Then, she turned sharply and bolted into the trees.

Fabricia didn’t move right away, instead letting out a breathy laugh as she adjusted her grip on her sword. "That’s more like it," she mused, eyes gleaming. "Come on, let’s have some fun."

Remus and Lucius didn’t need further encouragement— they took off immediately, their powerful strides cutting through the snow with ease. Ophelia hesitated for the briefest second, something inside of her resisting, but then her legs were moving. She was running, just like them, her heartbeat pounding against her ribs as she joined the hunt.

The District 8 tribute was fast, but she wasn’t trained for this. The Careers had been hunting their entire lives, conditioned to chase down their prey and take them apart piece by piece. The girl weaved through the trees, her breath coming in ragged gasps as she tried to stay ahead of them, but the uneven terrain was against her. The snow-covered ground concealed the hazards beneath, and Ophelia could already see it coming— the moment when the tribute’s luck would run out.

It happened faster than expected. The girl’s foot caught on a frozen rock buried beneath the snow, and she went down hard, a strangled cry escaping her lips as she crashed onto the icy ground. She tried to scramble up, but Fabricia was on her in an instant, pinning her down with a brutal efficiency that made Ophelia’s stomach lurch.

Fabricia didn’t waste time. She grinned down at the struggling girl beneath her, pressing the tip of her sword against the tribute’s throat. "You really should’ve run faster," she murmured almost mockingly, before driving the blade forward.

Ophelia barely flinched when the cannon fired. The sound echoed through the trees, signaling yet another death, yet another name crossed off the list. Lucius let out a satisfied huff, swinging his axe over his shoulder as he turned back toward the group. "Nice one," he muttered, nodding toward Fabricia, who simply wiped the blood off her blade against the snow before rising to her feet.

Ophelia forced herself to look at the body. Forced herself to take in the blank expression, the blood seeping into the white ground. It should’ve horrified her. Maybe, somewhere deep inside, it did. But instead, all she felt was the cold. Just the cold, numbing her fingers, numbing her mind.

This was the Games. This was survival. And she was still breathing.

Sixteen.

Fabricia had killed three.

Ophelia had killed two.

Remus and Lucius had only killed one each.

The remaining two kills had fallen at the hands of the female tribute from District 4 and the male tribute from District 7, both of whom were still out there, lurking in the frozen expanse of the arena. The Career pack had been moving through the snow-laden forest, their breath curling in white plumes before them, when a scream split through the trees like a jagged knife.

It was unlike the others they had heard before—this was not the sharp wail of a tribute realizing they had been bested in a fight, nor the choked-off cry of someone bleeding out in the snow. No, this was raw horror, something deeper, something primal. It sent an involuntary shiver down Ophelia’s spine that had nothing to do with the cold.

Then, a cannon.

Thirteen.

Fabricia exhaled through her nose and unsheathed her sword in one swift motion. “That’s one less problem,” she muttered before stalking towards the sound, the fresh crimson stains on her jacket standing out against the white of the landscape.

“Fab, stop! We don’t know what’s out there,” Lucius hissed, scrambling after her. He unsheathed his own blade but didn’t seem eager to use it just yet. His eyes darted around warily, scanning the shadows between the trees. The arena had been unkind so far—brutal temperatures, ice-slicked terrain, and the occasional, bloodthirsty surprise lurking in the snowdrifts.

Ophelia hesitated. Her fingers tightened around the hilt of the knife at her hip, her heart hammering against her ribs.

“We should…” she murmured, but her voice trailed off into nothing. She glanced at Remus, whose grip had gone white-knuckled around his spear. He nodded wordlessly, and together, they followed Fabricia and Lucius into the unknown.

Another cannon fired.

Twelve.

Gasps rippled through the lavish penthouse of a Capitol watch party. Delicate hands clutched pearl-encrusted collars, jeweled fingers tightened around fragile champagne stems.

The cameras zoomed in on the carnage playing out on the icy battlefield: Titus, District 7, kneeling over the limp body of the girl from District 4. He had cracked her chest open with a frozen slab of rock. Blood steamed against the cold, melting the snow beneath her. Her cannon had fired moments ago, but Titus didn’t stop.

He had snapped.

Finnick Odair leaned back against the velvet-upholstered couch, his jaw tight. The shock among the Capitol citizens rang hollow in his ears. This was what they wanted, wasn’t it? They wanted their horror to be curated, their brutality just palatable enough to entertain. But this—this was what happened when they pushed too far.

On-screen, Fabricia and Lucius came into view, stopping dead at the sight before them. Titus lifted the girl’s heart in his hands, blood trickling between his fingers. He brought it toward his mouth.

Then, he heard them.

Fabricia’s breath hitched— a rare, almost unnatural reaction from her. Lucius didn’t hesitate. He shoved Fabricia behind him, raising his sword as Titus gripped the bloodied rock once more.

The stone flew, swift and merciless.

It struck Lucius square in the face.

A cannon fired.

Eleven.

Fabricia’s scream cut through the cold, raw and guttural. It was the first real emotion Ophelia had ever heard from her. Then, Fabricia charged, her rage propelling her forward.

Titus was strong— far stronger than she was. He caught the blade in his bare hand, the steel biting deep into his palm before he twisted it away and slammed her down onto the frozen ground. The impact knocked the breath from her lungs, and for the first time, Fabricia looked… small.

Ophelia and Remus arrived just in time to see it happen. The realization hit like a weight in her chest.

Fabricia had always been cruel. Bloodthirsty. Efficient. She was everything a Career was supposed to be. Ophelia, on the other hand… she wasn’t sure she ever would be. She wasn’t supposed to think about the faces of the people she had killed. She wasn’t supposed to feel them pressing into her thoughts when she tried to sleep. She wasn’t supposed to hesitate.

But she did.

She wasn’t like Fabricia.

But she was loyal.

Without another thought, Ophelia pulled a knife from her belt and threw it, the blade cutting through the frigid air toward Titus’s throat.

Except he moved.

And Fabricia— whether by instinct or cruel irony— was dragged into his place.

The blade buried itself into the back of her head.

A cannon fired.

Eleven.

Ophelia gasped, her hands flying to her mouth, fingers trembling as a strangled cry escaped her lips. The horror of what had just happened made her knees buckle, her vision narrowing as panic wrapped itself around her chest like a vice. Her breath came in short, frantic bursts, and for a moment, the chaos around her dulled into a distant hum, swallowed by the sheer magnitude of what she had done.

But there was no time to drown in her guilt.

Titus had taken the knife.

She barely had time to register the way his face twisted with rage before he lunged, the blood-slick blade glinting in the pale winter light. He was a force of nature, relentless and unyielding, his hulking frame bearing down on her like an avalanche. It was Remus’s voice that tore through her haze of terror.

“Ophelia!”

He crashed into her, shoving her out of the way just as the knife arced downwards. She hit the frozen ground hard, the cold biting through her clothes, but she barely noticed. All she saw was the flash of Remus’s spear flying through the air, striking Titus in the shoulder.

It should have slowed him.

It didn’t.

Titus was still standing. Still coming.

Ophelia scrambled back, her breath hitching as she stared at the lifeless body near her feet. Fabricia. Her ally. Her friend. Gone. A sob bubbled in her throat, but it couldn’t escape. Something inside her cracked, splintering under the weight of what she had done. Did Fabricia know, in those last moments, that her death had been a betrayal? That the person she had trusted, had whispered to in the dead of night, had been the one to doom her?

The Capitol audience must have been enthralled by the tragedy, but even they could not mask their discomfort. Perhaps it was the split-screen showing Titus now pinning Remus to the ground, his fists colliding with Remus’s face again and again, the sickening crunch of bone audible even through the static of the arena’s cold wind. Remus’s nose cracked, his lips split, and blood painted the snow beneath him in a growing pool of crimson. He was choking on it, struggling to breathe between the ruthless onslaught of Titus’s blows.

Finnick couldn’t look away. His hands clenched into fists at his sides, his jaw tight. He had seen a lot in the Games. Too much. But this— this was carnage. Even for the Capitol, this was a grotesque display.

Remus’s scream sliced through the air, raw and ragged.

Ophelia forced herself to move, crying out in vain, "Remus!" Her feet flew before slipping on a patch of ice, her body lunging forward and her hands reaching helplessly for Titus. She shoved with all her strength, trying to pry him off her friend, but it was like pushing against stone. He barely stumbled before regaining his footing, his lips curling into a snarl. With terrifying ease, he threw her to the ground. The impact stole the breath from her lungs, and pain flared in the back of her skull as her head struck the ice-covered ground. The world spun, the blinding sunlight above making her squint as dark spots danced in her vision.

Then he was on her.

His hands closed around her throat.

Ophelia gagged, her nails clawing at his iron grip. The cold seeped into her bones, her fingers twitching from the creeping numbness that threatened to take hold. Her lungs burned, her vision blurring as Titus loomed over her, his face wild with something beyond mere bloodlust.

“I’m going to tear your heart out,” he growled, his voice thick with malice, his grip tightening, crushing. “Just like I did to the other girl from Four.” He bared his teeth, his eyes gleaming. “This time, I’ll take a bite.”

No.

A spark of something ignited inside her, flickering to life beneath the suffocating weight of his hands. Fear. Desperation. Determination.

Her fingers closed around the cold handle of her last knife.

With the last of her strength, she drove the blade into the side of his temple. The resistance was brief. Then the warmth of his blood splattered against her chilled skin, and his body slackened before he crumpled to the side, lifeless.

Finnick turned away.

A cannon fired.

Ten.

Ophelia sucked in a ragged breath, coughing as she rolled onto her side. Her entire body shook, but she forced herself upright, her gaze darting to where Remus lay in the snow. Bloodied. Broken. Barely clinging to life.

She crawled towards him, her hands trembling as tears clouded her vision. But then she stopped. She felt the blood before the smell registered in her mind. But once it had, it became overwhelming. His chest barely rose and fell. His face, once full of warmth and life, was battered beyond recognition. He was too weak. If she touched him— if she looked too closely—

It would be real.

It would be too much.

A cannon fired.

Nine.

Ophelia flinched.

She squeezed her eyes shut, the tears freezing against her cheeks. She could not bring herself to touch him. To say goodbye.

She hoped his family would forgive her.

She hoped he would understand.

The cheers in the Capitol had faded into silence, the usual revelry replaced by an eerie stillness. Even they could not celebrate what they had just witnessed.

Finnick let out a slow breath. The weight in his chest was unbearable. He had spent years enduring the spectacle of the Games, the cruelty of it all—but there were some things that never got easier.

Without a word, he turned and walked out of the room.

The days stretched endlessly as Ophelia remained hidden in the cave, curled into herself as though making her body smaller could somehow shield her from the horrors beyond. The scent of blood— Remus’s blood— clung to her hands, soaked into the strands of her hair, seeping into her very skin. She couldn’t bring herself to wash it off. It felt like an anchor, a tether to the boy who had been her ally, her only friend in the arena. If she let go of that, she feared she might lose him entirely.

The stale air was thick with the mingling scents of sweat, charred wood, and iron. It made her stomach churn, but she suppressed the nausea. She knew better than to be careless. Vomiting meant weakness. Weakness meant death. The past forty-eight hours had brought her two sponsor gifts— small packets of dried meat and a flask of water— just enough to keep her alive, though hardly enough to make her feel strong. But survival was about endurance, not comfort.

The cannons had echoed through the arena after Remus’s death. She had counted them, again and again, as though engraving the number into her mind could make sense of the dwindling odds.

Four left.

Four, including her.

Just four more.

Four.

She could wait them out. Hope that nature, bad luck, or the Gamemakers took care of them for her. Or she could act. Take control of her fate and finish what the Capitol had designed her to do.

No. She wasn’t a killer. Not really. Was she?

She stared at the weapons laid out before her: two swords, a spear, four knives. She had trained for this. She had been molded for it, sculpted into something sharp and dangerous, but her hands trembled despite the callouses and scars. She wasn’t like the others. She had never been like the others.

But she wanted to go home.

Breathing in sharply, she gripped the four knives, their weight grounding her, and stepped out of the cave. The sun had begun its slow descent, casting long shadows over the ruined landscape of the arena. She would make it out. She had to.

It took six hours of methodical, quiet searching before she found them—the final three. They had allied, as she had suspected. The District 7 male and the two District 9 tributes, huddled around the remains of a fire, speaking in hushed tones. She should have brought one of the swords. But it was too late to hesitate.

The District 7 tribute moved first, his axe cutting through the air with deadly precision. Ophelia barely managed to duck in time, feeling the wind of the swing brush past her hair. She reacted on instinct, throwing a knife, watching as the blade buried itself in his forehead.

Cannon.

Three left.

The District 9 tributes lunged at her, but she was already moving. Another knife flew from her grasp, embedding itself in one tribute’s thigh. The second barely had time to register what was happening before she struck again, sending them both to the ground, clutching at their wounds.

She turned, wrenching her blade from the dead boy’s skull, but something stopped her.

The air trembled. A deep, guttural rumbling reverberated through the arena. The trees groaned before they snapped, an eerie, piercing sound that sent a chill through her.

An avalanche.

The Gamemakers’ final trick.

The mountain above them roared as snow cascaded down, a relentless, devouring force. Ophelia’s breath hitched, but she didn’t hesitate—she ran. Her legs burned, her lungs screamed, but she pushed forward. Behind her, the injured tributes struggled, their screams swallowed by the deafening collapse of ice and debris.

Cannon.

Cannon.

Two.

One.

Enobaria watched her with a stony expression as Ophelia lay motionless on the examination table, her thin hospital gown barely covering her trembling frame. The nurses worked efficiently, checking her vitals, measuring her blood pressure, their hands ghosting over the bruises marring her throat— Titus’s final mark upon her.

The head doctor approached, his gloved hands cool against her skin as he examined her, leaving no inch of flesh untouched. Ophelia remained still, numb, unseeing. But Enobaria saw.

“Don’t,” she snapped, her voice sharp, dangerous. Her sharpened teeth bared in warning, sending a ripple of fear through the room.

The doctor hesitated. He knew exactly what she meant. He had done it before— to the others. To those who had emerged from the arena, battered, raw, vulnerable, only to be reshaped into something the Capitol found more palatable.

Ophelia didn’t fully understand, but she didn’t need to. She knew, in some instinctual way, that Enobaria was protecting her. She did not ask why. She did not want to know.

When they were finally alone, Enobaria spoke, her tone measured, deliberate.

“You did good.”

The words held no warmth, but neither did they carry mockery. It was a statement, an acknowledgment. A survivor’s greeting.

Ophelia broke. The sobs tore from her chest, her body shaking as she gasped for breath, her hands fisting the thin fabric of her gown. She had not spoken since the arena, since Remus’s name had last passed through her lips. If she spoke now, would she lose the last piece of him? The nurses had already washed away his blood. She had nothing left of him but the ghost of his name in her throat.

Enobaria was not a comforting presence. She did not deal in soft touches or soothing words. But she understood. So, she placed a firm hand on Ophelia’s shoulder and murmured, “It’s not your fault.”

Ophelia wanted to believe her. But she couldn’t.

Her parents welcomed her with open arms, their faces alight with pride.

“You were incredible, Ophelia.”

“We’re so proud of you, sweetheart.”

They spoke as though she were a hero. But she wasn’t. She was a survivor. And survivors were just the ones who had outlasted the dead.

The home in the Victor's Village was grand, a gift from the Capitol, a monument to her victory. But it felt foreign, cold. Her family had moved in before she had even stepped foot back in District 2. They had been ready for her success. They had expected it.

She moved through the house like a ghost, unmoored, weightless. This was what she had fought for. This was why she had trained, why she had bled, why she had killed.

So why did she feel hollow?

Cato sat at the top of the staircase, watching as she approached. His expression was unreadable, but there was something in his eyes that made her stop. When he stood and opened his arms, she hesitated only a moment before stepping into them, burying her face against his shoulder.

“Welcome home,” he whispered.

She squeezed her eyes shut.

For the first time since the arena, she felt real. Solid. Seen.

But she would never be whole again.

Chapter Text

August, 68 ADD

THE DAYS BLURRED INTO ONE ANOTHER as Ophelia remained in her bedroom, the four walls and ceiling above her bed becoming her entire world. The grandiose home in the Victor’s Village, gifted to her as a prize for her survival, felt like a mausoleum— cold, silent, and far too large for someone who now felt so very small. Dust settled on the edges of her furniture, the air stagnant with the scent of linens untouched and air unbreathed. The outside world was something she was no longer a part of; she was a relic of the arena, existing in a limbo of whispered memories and phantom blood staining her hands.

Her mother knocked frequently, the sharp raps against the wooden door an intrusion she ignored. The woman would call out— sometimes gently, sometimes exasperatedly— but Ophelia never responded. She simply lay in bed, staring at the ceiling as her mother’s voice softened into a sigh before retreating down the hall. It was a ritual, something expected. A sign that she was still here, still locked away in the room where time had ceased to move forward.

Her father never knocked. He had always been a man devoted to his work, maintaining the weaponry stored within the Nut. That hadn’t changed. If anything, he buried himself deeper in his work, the weight of his daughter’s victory— or perhaps the manner of it— something he chose not to confront. He returned home late, ate his meals in silence, and went to bed without asking how she was. Perhaps he assumed she would be fine, that she had been bred for this, trained for this, conditioned to survive. Or perhaps he simply didn’t know what to say to a daughter who had walked through fire and come out irrevocably altered.

Cato was the only one who entered her room. He never knocked, never asked for permission. He would simply step inside, tray in hand, and set it down beside her bed. He never stayed long, never pushed her to speak. He didn’t try to force her to eat, though his gaze would linger on the untouched meals piling up outside her door in the hall. The scent of the food, warm and rich, would curl through the air, but Ophelia could never bring herself to eat more than a few bites before pushing the plate away. The act of chewing, swallowing, tasting— it felt like too much. It felt like indulging in something she no longer deserved.

Twenty-eight days passed. Twenty-eight days of listening to the muffled sounds of life beyond her bedroom door. Twenty-eight days of picking at the fraying hem of her nightgown, of tracing the patterns in the ceiling above her bed, of existing but never living.

On the twenty-eighth day, she moved.

It was a slow, unsteady thing— her limbs weak from disuse as she slid out from beneath the heavy covers. The air against her skin felt foreign, her muscles aching as she stretched them for the first time in weeks. She forced herself forward, her bare feet silent against the wooden floor as she moved toward the adjoining bathroom.

The water was scalding as she stepped beneath the spray, but she welcomed the sting. She let it burn away the layer of sweat and grime clinging to her skin, watched as the filth swirled down the drain in dark rivulets. Her hair, tangled and knotted from weeks of neglect, became pliant beneath the weight of water and soap. She scrubbed until her skin was raw, until the scent of the arena was gone, until she could almost pretend she was clean.

By the time she emerged, dressed in a fresh nightgown that clung damply to her still-warm skin, the house felt different. Lighter. Or perhaps she was the one who had changed, if only slightly.

She padded down the hall, the sound of her own breathing loud in her ears. The scent of breakfast— eggs, toasted bread, something sweet— lingered in the air as she reached the kitchen doorway. Her mother stood at the stove, her back turned as she flipped something in a pan. The moment she noticed Ophelia standing there, she whirled around, a bright, too-wide smile splitting her face.

“There’s our Victor!”

The words struck like a slap. Ophelia stiffened, the breath in her lungs turning sharp and painful. Her mother’s voice was too bright, too celebratory, as if this were some grand achievement. As if Ophelia had won a prize rather than slaughtered her way to survival.

She turned away without a word, her footsteps hurried as she made her way back to her room. The door clicked shut behind her, sealing her back inside her self-made prison. But this time, she felt different. She felt raw, exposed, as though something fragile within her had cracked wide open.

She had left the room once.

Perhaps, one day, she would leave it again.

September, 68 ADD

The house was quiet, save for the faint sounds of Cato’s steady breathing beside her. He lay on his back, arms tucked behind his head as he stared up at the ceiling, his legs taking up far too much space on her bed. Ophelia lay beside him, her hands resting lightly on her stomach, fingers twining together and then untwining, as if the movement alone could unravel the knot in her chest.

She didn’t know how long they had been lying there in silence, but eventually, she exhaled softly and broke it. “I have to go to the Capitol with Enobaria next month,” she murmured, her voice quiet, hesitant. “For an interview.”

Cato didn’t say anything right away, his blue eyes fixed on the ceiling as if he could see something neither of them could. Then, finally, he asked, “How long will you be gone?”

Ophelia shrugged, the movement slight. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “But I hope it isn’t for long.”

Cato remained silent, his lips pressed into a thin line, his brows drawn together. He let out a slow breath before speaking again, his voice rough but firm. “You can’t hide forever.”

Ophelia scoffed, rolling her eyes. “I am not hiding, you twerp.”

Cato turned his head slightly to look at her, his expression unimpressed, his smirk laced with teasing. “You’re hiding,” he said simply, his tone edging into goading territory, knowing it would get under her skin.

Ophelia’s glare was immediate, and without thinking, she reached out to shove him off the bed. He let out a yelp, but before she could celebrate her small victory, he retaliated, pushing her back with enough force to make her jolt.

“Oh, you little—” Ophelia huffed, twisting onto her side to shove him again. But Cato was quicker, his ten-year-old frame surprisingly strong as he caught her wrist and wrestled her into the mattress. The two of them scuffled, roughhousing in a way that was reminiscent of their childhood before the Games had changed everything. For a few brief moments, there was no Victor’s Village, no looming Capitol interview, no weight of blood and survival pressing down on her shoulders. It was just the two of them, siblings entangled in playful combat.

And then, Cato did the unthinkable. He licked his finger and, before Ophelia could react, stuck it straight into her ear.

She gagged immediately, recoiling with a disgusted squeal. “You absolute— ugh!” She shoved his face away, pressing her palm against his cheek with enough force to squish it. “You’re so annoying!”

Cato, undeterred, merely grinned against her hand before taking the ultimate revenge— he licked her palm.

Ophelia let out a strangled shriek, jerking her hand away as she wiped it aggressively on the blanket. “Cato!”

“Go take a shower,” he drawled, propping himself up on his elbows, his smirk infuriatingly smug. “You smell bad.”

October, 68 ADD

Enobaria walked with measured purpose through the backstage corridors of the Tribute Center, the rhythmic click of her boots against the marble floor echoing between the gilded walls. Ophelia trailed beside her, wrapped in a dark red satin slip dress that shimmered beneath the soft overhead lights, the fabric pooling around her ankles as she moved. Her caramel-colored hair cascaded in voluminous waves down her back, styled to perfection by the Capitol’s finest hands. The gown, chosen deliberately, was the exact hue of District 2’s banners— a silent but unmistakable declaration of where she belonged, even if she no longer felt like she did.

"Keep your answers concise. The Capitol likes charm, not rambling," Enobaria instructed, her voice as sharp as the tips of her teeth. "And smile, but not too much. You’re a warrior, not some giddy little girl. They need to see that you belong here, that you deserve every second of their attention."

Ophelia nodded, her lips slightly pursed, the barest glimmer of amusement in her expression. "Isn’t it Caesar’s job to make me look good?" she mused, tilting her head slightly as they neared the glowing threshold leading to the stage. "If I forget my lines, won’t he save me?"

Enobaria gave her a withering look, arms crossed over her chest. "Caesar will guide you, sure, but if you think he’ll let you flop onto that stage like some halfwit, you’re mistaken. You play along with him, not the other way around. The better you perform, the better he makes you look."

Before Ophelia could respond, a burst of applause erupted from the stage, and the booming voice of Caesar Flickerman rang through the grand theater. "And now, the star of the Sixty-Eighth Hunger Games, District Two’s own, Ophelia Hadley!"

Ophelia’s breath hitched for the briefest of moments. She turned her gaze to Enobaria, who met her eyes with a silent command: Be the victor. Be more than what they made you. Be undeniable. Then, with a final exhale, Ophelia straightened her shoulders, lifted her chin, and stepped forward into the dazzling glow of the stage lights.

A roar of adoration rose from the audience as she glided onto the stage, waving with poised elegance, a perfect picture of grace and strength entwined. Her smile was radiant, her every step calculated yet effortless, and she delivered it all with the seamless precision the Capitol adored. She knew what they wanted— beauty, confidence, a victor worthy of their obsession— and she would give it to them.

Caesar met her at center stage, his trademark blue suit gleaming beneath the lights, his ever-present grin stretched across his painted lips. "Ophelia!" he greeted, the warmth in his voice a performance in itself. "Look at you! Absolutely breathtaking!" He gestured toward the plush, jewel-toned seat beside him. "Come, sit, sit! The people are dying to hear from you."

Ophelia settled into the chair with effortless poise, crossing her legs as she turned her attention to him, keeping her smile in place. The audience hushed just enough for the interview to begin.

"It’s been quite a whirlwind for you, hasn’t it? Tell us, how has life been since your big win?" Caesar’s voice carried a note of familiarity, as though he were speaking to an old friend rather than a girl barely out of the arena.

Ophelia let out a light, airy laugh, tilting her head as she responded, "Like a dream! Everything has been so surreal, Caesar. I wake up every morning expecting to be back in the arena, but instead, I’m here, living this incredible life. It’s—" she gestured gracefully with her hands "—beyond anything I could have imagined."

That was one way of putting it, she thought to herself. Thankfully no one could tell the underlying meaning behind it all.

Caesar clapped his hands together, delighted. "That’s what we love to hear! And tell me, dear Ophelia, now that you’re the most sought-after young lady in all of Panem, do we have any special boys back home pining for our Victor?" He wiggled his eyebrows, his teasing tone drawing a ripple of laughter from the audience.

Ophelia giggled, a practiced but effortless sound, shaking her head with playful exasperation. "Oh, please, Caesar! After watching my Games, I doubt any boy at home can handle me!"

The crowd erupted into cheers and whistles, enchanted by her coy humor, and even Caesar leaned back with a hearty laugh. "Now, that is an answer!"

November, 68 ADD

The Victor’s Tour had begun in District 1.

Ophelia stood on the stage, the manufactured cheers of the crowd ringing hollow in her ears. The Capitol’s applause had long since faded, replaced by something quieter, something heavier. The people before her were not screaming with joy, not waving banners or reaching for her like they had in the Capitol. No, these were the faces of those who had lost. Mothers with empty arms, fathers with hollow eyes, younger siblings clutching onto memories instead of hands.

This was Fabricia and Lucius’s district. Their home. Their family.

Ophelia could see them in the crowd. A father standing tall with his hands clenched at his sides, a mother who looked as if she had aged a decade in only a few months, and a little girl no older than Cato, with Fabricia’s dark hair and her wide, tear-filled eyes. The moment she saw her, something inside Ophelia cracked.

She gripped the cue cards tighter, the paper crinkling beneath her fingers. Enobaria had written them for her, each word sharp and efficient, nothing flowery, nothing unnecessary. Just enough to keep her in line, to keep the Capitol satisfied. But standing there, staring at the girl who had lost her sister, who would never see her again because of Ophelia—

She couldn’t breathe.

But she had to speak.

"To those who provided sponsor gifts, your generosity is greatly appreciated," Ophelia recited, the words feeling foreign, rehearsed. "Because of your contributions, I am able to stand here today."

No one reacted. Not really. A few obligatory nods, a handful of claps, but it was not real. She couldn’t blame them. She didn’t believe the words either.

The worst part was yet to come. She had to acknowledge them. Fabricia. Lucius. The ones who had saved her, who had fought beside her, who had died because of her.

She forced herself to look at the screen behind the grieving family. There, blown up for all to see, was Fabricia’s face. Lucius’s. Their images frozen in time, smiling in their Capitol portraits, unaware that their fate had already been sealed.

Ophelia’s stomach churned.

One more line. Just one more line and she could leave.

Her throat was dry, her voice barely above a whisper as she forced the words out. "To the families of my allies, I am deeply sorry for your losses. Fabricia and Lucius were essential to my survival."

A weak ending, but Enobaria hadn’t given her anything more. And even if she had, Ophelia doubted she could’ve said it. Her voice would have cracked, and the cameras would have caught it, and Snow would have seen, and—

She needed to get off that stage.

She turned too fast, nearly stumbling as she moved, her dress too tight, the high neckline suffocating. She couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Couldn’t escape the ghost of hands tightening around her throat, holding her down, stealing her air—

Titus. Was he here? Was he still with her, clinging to her like the blood that never quite washed away? Would he always be there, waiting in every shadow, lurking in every crowd?

Ophelia’s fingers clawed at the neckline of her dress, desperate to loosen it, to feel something, anything, other than the cold grip of memory. Her knees buckled beneath her, and she barely made it backstage before collapsing, curling in on herself as she gasped for breath that would not come.

Her nails dug into her skin, leaving angry red streaks in their wake, but she felt none of it. Only the crushing weight of the past, of the cannons and the screams and the blood-soaked earth beneath her palms.

Footsteps.

A sharp intake of breath.

And then, Enobaria.

Ophelia had known she would come. She had felt her stare all morning, watching, waiting. Enobaria had seen the way her hands trembled when she clutched the cue cards, had noticed the stiffness in her movements, the too-wide eyes, the panic simmering just beneath the surface.

This was inevitable.

Two Peacekeepers descended on her, their grips firm, unyielding, hauling her upright as if she were nothing more than a problem to be solved. She thrashed weakly, her body resisting even when her mind knew it was useless.

Then came the sharp sting of a needle plunging into her side.

No. No, no, no—

Enobaria saw red. She wanted to tear them apart. Sink her teeth into their throats and make them bleed for this indignity, for treating her Victor— her tribute— like something to be handled. Controlled. Silenced. But she didn’t. Because she couldn’t.

Instead, she stepped between them, her hands cupping Ophelia’s face, forcing her to look at her.

“Look at me,” Enobaria ordered, voice sharp, steady, unyielding.

Ophelia’s lashes fluttered, her icy blue eyes unfocused, already heavy from the sedative, her chest rising and falling in slow, uneven breaths.

“You are fine,” Enobaria told her, her grip firm, grounding.

The words were meant to reassure, but they rang hollow.

Ophelia’s lips parted, her voice barely above a whisper as she echoed back, “I’m fine.”

A lie. One that was expected of her.

Enobaria’s hands tightened ever so slightly. “You are fine.”

But they both knew the truth.

No one ever walked out of the arena fine.

District 4 was next. Another speech. Another family to face. Another reminder that she had made it out and their children had not.

Ophelia lay in her bed on the train, her eyes fixed on the ceiling as the hum of the tracks beneath her pulsed in time with her thoughts. Sleep had been elusive. It always was when she wasn’t home, though home had become a tenuous concept since the arena. She exhaled slowly, rolling onto her side before pushing herself upright. The sheets pooled around her waist before she swung her legs over the side of the bed. The soft fabric of her nightgown whispered against her skin as she stood, padding barefoot toward the door.

Maybe walking around would help. Maybe movement would still the storm in her chest.

She wandered through the dimly lit corridors of the train, the lavish Capitol design gleaming under the soft glow of the overhead lights. The opulence of it all made her skin itch.

When she reached the living area, she hesitated at the threshold. Brutus stood by the bar cart, his broad frame relaxed as he poured himself a drink, the rich amber liquid sloshing against the glass.

He glanced up when he noticed her, his mouth curling into something that wasn’t quite a smirk, but wasn’t devoid of amusement either. "You’re up late."

Ophelia didn’t answer immediately. Instead, she watched as he lifted the bottle again, refilling his glass with practiced ease. The quiet clink of the liquor against the rim filled the silence between them.

“I don’t like sleeping away from home,” she said at last, her voice soft, barely above a whisper.

Brutus stilled for a moment, his hand tightening slightly around the glass before he brought it to his lips. He took a slow drink, considering her words before he finally responded. "You better get used to it."

She remained silent, watching the way his throat moved as he swallowed. The flickering light of the sconces cast shadows over the sharp angles of his face, making him look older, wearier. Or maybe that was just how he always looked.

Brutus set his glass down and, without looking at her, reached for another. He held it up slightly, an unspoken offer.

Ophelia’s lips twitched, a ghost of a smile. "I’m not of age."

Brutus snorted, finally turning his head to look at her. "That can slide."

She hesitated only a moment longer before stepping forward. The floor was cool beneath her feet as she crossed the space between them, reaching for the drink he extended. Their fingers didn’t touch, but for a moment, she thought she felt the warmth of his presence, steady and unmoving.

Ophelia settled onto the couch, curling one leg beneath her as she cradled the glass in her hands. Brutus took his usual seat across from her, leaning back as he took another sip.

For a while, neither of them spoke. The silence stretched between them, comfortable in its weight. The steady clink of ice against glass was the only sound between them.

Then, finally, Ophelia whispered, "Does it ever get any easier?"

Brutus didn’t answer right away. His gaze flickered toward her, unreadable, before he looked back down at his drink. He turned the glass in his hands, watching the liquid swirl before he exhaled slowly through his nose. "No," he said at last. "But you learn how to carry it."

Ophelia studied him, the way his shoulders held the weight of too many years, too many ghosts. He had won his Games decades ago, but it had never left him. None of it ever did. She lowered her gaze to her own glass, watching the way the liquid trembled ever so slightly in her grasp. She took a small sip, the warmth of it burning down her throat. And then she nodded.

The Peacekeepers injected Ophelia with morphling prior to each speech, so as to prevent another meltdown like her first tour stop. Ophelia could barely remember what it felt like to be truly awake. By the third stop, the injections had been replaced with pre-filled syringes that she could administer herself— after Enobaria issued a sharp, thinly veiled threat to the Peacekeepers about what would happen if they kept manhandling her girl.

Each stop blurred into the next until it came time for her fifth stop. District 6. Titus’s district.

His mother was waiting for her.

No amount of morphling could dull the impact of that realization. The moment Ophelia saw the woman standing amidst the sea of sullen faces, a slow-burning nausea built in her stomach. Titus had been a monster in the arena, but he had been someone’s son. He had been a boy who had wanted to live.

As Enobaria pressed a syringe into her hand, Ophelia hesitated. For the first time, she didn’t immediately press it to her skin. She stared at the needle, her fingers trembling. She didn’t want to be numb. Not for this.

“I don’t need it,” she muttered, voice hoarse from disuse.

Enobaria’s sharp, golden eyes flickered over her, assessing. Then, without a word, she took the syringe back, slipping it into her pocket. Brutus grunted his disapproval but didn’t interfere. He knew better than to argue with Enobaria when her mind was made up.

Ophelia stepped onto the stage, her limbs sluggish, her head a foggy mess of exhaustion and dread. The district was silent, the weight of their stares nearly unbearable. She cleared her throat, the microphone’s feedback screeching through the speakers, making her wince.

“Hi.”

Her voice cracked.

The word was barely audible, and the uneasy silence stretched. She swallowed hard, hands tightening around the cue cards she had been given, the scripted words blurring together. Her breath was uneven as she tried to read them.

“I’m here to… to talk.”

A murmur rippled through the crowd. Ophelia’s fingers twitched. Her throat tightened. She glanced down at the cards, the shallow platitudes about sacrifice and honor suddenly unbearable. Her grip faltered, and they slipped from her hands, fluttering to the stage floor like dead leaves.

Titus’s mother was watching her. The resemblance was striking— the same shape of the eyes, the same sharp cheekbones. For a brief, awful moment, Ophelia saw him instead. Saw the way his eyes had bulged when he had wrapped his hands around her throat. Saw the blood, the snow, the raw desperation. Her heart pounded against her ribs.

She exhaled shakily.

“I didn’t know Titus,” she admitted. “Not really. I only saw him a handful of times before the Games. During training, during our interviews.”

Her hands clenched at her sides. The crowd was silent, waiting. The weight of the Capitol’s cameras was a physical thing, a suffocating presence hovering over her like a storm cloud.

“He just wanted to come home.” Her voice wavered, barely above a whisper. “Just like the rest of us. And I’m sorry that he couldn’t.”

Her gaze found his mother’s, as much as it could through the lingering haze in her mind. The woman’s lips parted slightly, a hand rising to her mouth as if to stifle a sob. Her eyes were shining. Ophelia’s chest constricted.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. The microphone picked it up anyway.

Then she turned and walked off the stage.

Enobaria caught her by the arm before the Peacekeepers could. Brutus was on her other side, his grip steady but not harsh. Ophelia’s breathing was ragged, her limbs shaking from something deeper than exhaustion. The moment they were out of sight, she collapsed against Enobaria’s side, gasping for air.

Brutus cursed under his breath. Enobaria lowered her onto a bench, her face impassive but her hands steady as she pressed a firm palm against Ophelia’s back. The girl was trembling, struggling to breathe.

The morphling syringe was back in Enobaria’s hand.

“No.” Ophelia shook her head violently, squeezing her eyes shut. “No more. I want to feel.”

Enobaria’s jaw tightened. Brutus exhaled roughly, rubbing a hand over his bald head. “She needs it.

“She said no more.” Enobaria’s voice was sharp as a knife’s edge.

Brutus didn’t argue. He simply stepped back, watching as Ophelia struggled to calm her breathing. Her throat was raw from the panic, her nails bitten to the quick— she had learned after her first attack not to claw at her own skin, after she had raked deep scratches into her own neck. They had covered the marks with layers of makeup, but she could still feel them.

The last two stops of the tour passed in a strange, fragile equilibrium. Ophelia refused the injections, and Enobaria made sure her wishes were respected. Or so Ophelia believed. What she didn’t know—what she would never know— was that her escort had started slipping small doses of morphling into her morning coffee.

Brutus saw. He said nothing.

Finnick hated the Capitol events.

They were all the same— grand, grotesque, and gilded in excess. The feasts, the ostentatious displays of wealth, the filmy fabrics and impractical fashions— it was all a distraction, a thin veneer masking the true reason for these celebrations. Another Victor crowned. Another child slaughtered and made into a spectacle. Another pawn added to Snow’s collection.

The guests twirled their glasses filled with shimmering drinks, their laughter sharp and hollow, echoing through the marble halls like the clatter of Gamemakers rearranging a chessboard. Finnick could feel their eyes on him. Always on him. Men and women alike, old enough to be his parents, sizing him up like he was the main course rather than an invited guest. A prize to be won, not a person. He rolled his shoulders, scanning the room for any buffer, any familiar face that could shield him from the inevitable vultures who would approach by the end of the night— flashing perfect teeth, reeking of money, slipping Snow his payment in exchange for an evening with District 4’s golden boy.

It had been two years since he won his Games, and two years since Snow had sat him down, folded his hands, and given him a choice that was never really a choice at all. Be a good little Victor. A good little plaything. Or watch the people he loved suffer. Mags. His mother. That was all it took. A handful of lives was enough to own him completely.

So here he was, eighteen, but feeling twice that. Trapped in a cycle that would never end until Snow decided he had lost his value. Until the Capitol grew bored of him and discarded him like they did every other broken toy.

He scanned the crowd again, searching for a familiar face— someone to cling to for the next few hours. Cashmere stood near the edge of the ballroom, exchanging small talk with Gloss. They were two of the few people who understood, who lived in the same hell he did. She, too, was on the Victor roster, a favorite among the Capitol elite. They saw each other often enough in passing at the Capitol hotel, sharing a glance, a small nod, before disappearing into separate rooms down the same gilded hall. Gloss, for whatever reason, had been spared. Perhaps one beautiful, young male Victor was enough. Maybe Finnick’s demand was simply too high for Snow to need another. The thought made him sick.

His gaze drifted further until it landed on District 2’s Victors. Brutus. Enobaria.

And her.

Ophelia.

She was sixteen, but looked younger. Small, fragile, with big, doe-like blue eyes and delicate features that made her seem more doll than girl. Her caramel curls framed her porcelain face, the soft pink of her dress making her look innocent, untouched. A Capitol sweetheart. A darling. But Finnick had seen her in the arena. He had watched as that same girl, who now stood staring blankly ahead with a crystal flute in hand, slit a boy’s throat without hesitation. She was a Career. A trained killer. A soldier bred for slaughter. And yet, looking at her now, he wasn’t sure if she even remembered what she had done.

He hated her.

Or at least, he wanted to.

She was complicit. She was a Career. She had been raised to believe in all of this. To see the Games as a path to glory rather than the nightmare they were. The Careers were always so eager to please, so desperate to prove their worth to the Capitol, to be the best-trained mutts in the pack. And yet—

She didn’t look like a mutt now. She looked lost. Distant. Enobaria was speaking lowly to her, sharp and direct, her serrated teeth flashing when Ophelia failed to respond fast enough. Finnick had heard from one of his clients that her Victor’s Tour had been a disaster. A train wreck, they had called it, laughing into their glass of some imported Capitol wine. There had even been talk of adding her to Snow’s collection— his client had asked as a joke, only to be dismissed outright. No, Ophelia was not fit for that. Not in the state she was in. No one wanted a Victor who was teetering on the edge of a breakdown.

Finnick knew what that looked like. He had seen it in the mirror more times than he cared to count.

Still, what did he care? She was Career. She was privileged in ways he wasn’t. She would never experience the full extent of the Capitol’s cruelty. She had people like Enobaria to keep her in line, to make sure she stitched herself back together before she became an embarrassment. He had no such safety net. No one was going to save him from this life. He was already too deep.

His grip tightened around his glass as he watched her. Ophelia’s nose scrunched slightly, lips pressing into a soft pout as Enobaria murmured something else in her ear. Whatever it was, it didn’t seem to reach her. Her fingers curled around the delicate stem of her flute, knuckles pale, but she didn’t lift it to her lips. The way she held it, Finnick wasn’t sure if she even realized it was there.

Was it an act? Another Career tactic? She had been clever in the arena— maybe she was just as clever now. Maybe she had learned that looking small and sad made the Capitol love her even more. Maybe that vacant look in her eyes was just another layer of performance.

Or maybe it wasn’t.

Finnick’s stomach twisted, but he shoved the feeling down. It didn’t matter. He didn’t care. He had no reason to. She had more resources than he ever had. She would be fine. He, on the other hand, would not.

And still, as much as he told himself he despised her, as much as he wanted to resent her for all the ways their fates had been different— he couldn’t stop looking.

December, 68 ADD

Ophelia walked through the Victor’s Village, her steps slow and aimless as she drifted across the snow-covered path. The cold bit at her exposed skin, but she hardly noticed. Her breath curled in the air before her, disappearing like a whisper, and yet she felt distant from even that simple, physical proof of her own existence. The snow stretched before her in a pristine, untouched sheet, save for the imprint of her boots. It reminded her of the arena, of the icy landscape that had nearly swallowed her whole.

Her mind fractured into memory, a brutal flash of movement and sound. The way her knife had found the skull of the District 7 boy. The way blood had pooled onto the cold ground, darkening the white. The way Remus had crumpled before her, the light leaving his eyes as she screamed his name— her hands covered in his blood, as though she could press life back into him if only she held on tightly enough.

A hand on her shoulder.

Ophelia shrieked, the sound escaping her in a sharp, animalistic cry as she spun around. Her body reacted before her mind could catch up— instinct taking over, honed from days of slaughter. She jerked away violently, her arm rearing back, fingers curling into a tight fist, prepared to strike.

The face before her was not an enemy.

Cato.

Her little brother stood frozen, wide-eyed, his breath caught in his throat. His hands were slightly raised, palms outward, as if he were attempting to calm a spooked animal. Ophelia’s chest heaved as she stared at him, taking in his blue eyes— so much like her own— his furrowed brows, the tension in his small frame. He was only ten. He wasn’t supposed to see her like this. She swallowed hard, forcing herself to breathe.

“I—” She bit at her lower lip, the sharp sting grounding her. Her voice came breathless, barely above a whisper. “I’m sorry, bubba.”

Cato didn’t say anything at first. He just looked at her, his young face shadowed with something too old for him, something he shouldn’t have had to learn at his age. He didn’t flinch, didn’t step back, didn’t chastise her for reacting like a wild thing. Instead, he let the moment pass, as if this was simply something he had come to expect from her now.

“It’s time for dinner,” he said finally, his voice gruff, boyish but steady. Simple, factual, as though he hadn’t just witnessed his sister nearly attack him out of blind panic.

Ophelia exhaled through her nose, nodding slowly. She was still trembling, but she hoped he didn’t notice. The last thing she wanted was to make him afraid of her.

Then, without hesitation, Cato reached out and took her hand. His grip was firm but not forceful, small fingers wrapping around hers with a certainty that was both reassuring and heartbreaking. He tugged at her hand slightly, guiding her back toward their house.

Ophelia let him lead her, allowing herself to be pulled back to reality, to the warmth of home, to something that wasn’t death and memory. As they walked, she kept her eyes on their hands, on the contrast between his small, warm fingers and her own cold ones. He didn’t let go, and she didn’t pull away.

February, 69 ADD

Ophelia’s seventeenth birthday arrived on a cold morning, the early light filtering in through the frost-laced windows of her bedroom. She had barely stirred from sleep when the soft creak of the door announced her mother’s arrival. A familiar scent wafted through the air— freshly baked bread, eggs, and something sweet, honey drizzled over warm oats. A quiet ritual, but one that carried a warmth she clung to.

Her mother set the tray down on the bedside table with gentle care, but before Ophelia could properly acknowledge her, a sudden weight launched onto the bed, nearly knocking the tray over.

"Wake up, wake up, wake up!" Cato’s voice rang out as he burrowed beneath the covers, only to resurface seconds later, his wild blonde hair sticking out in every direction.

Ophelia groaned, burying herself deeper into the blankets, but her lips twitched, fighting back a smile.

"Cato," their mother chided with exasperation. "Let her wake up first."

But Cato was already tugging at the blankets, his impatience uncontainable. With one swift yank, he uncovered her completely, revealing a sleepy-eyed Ophelia, her caramel hair falling in tangled waves over her shoulders.

"There she is! Birthday girl is alive after all!" Cato grinned triumphantly.

Ophelia huffed, sitting up against the headboard, reaching for the tray as she shot him a look that was meant to be stern but fell flat against the warmth in her chest. Their mother shook her head, exhaling a laugh as she ruffled Cato’s hair before making her exit, leaving the two siblings alone.

They spent the morning together, Ophelia savoring every bite of her breakfast while Cato stole pieces of toast when he thought she wasn’t looking. Later, once she had dressed in a soft woolen coat, boots laced tightly against the chill, she took his smaller hand in hers, and they stepped out into the streets of District 2's main town.

The layout of the district accommodated the mountainous terrain. There was a main town, where many of the shops and buildings resided, while smaller villages nestled along the mountains of the area. Prior to moving into the Victors' Village, the Hadleys had lived amongst one of the larger villages lower to the mainland. The decision had been made due to both Mr. Hadley needing a shorter commute in order to work more hours near the Nut, as well as Cato's tendency to get intense nosebleeds in the higher altitudes. Though, despite that, Ophelia and Mrs. Hadley had visited the main town frequently with little Cato in tow. The three of them enjoyed shopping, even if just to browse.

The streets bustled with early morning activity, a steady rhythm of boots on cobblestone, merchants calling out to passing citizens, and the ever-present Peacekeepers stationed on every corner. Their presence was a constant in District 2— this was the heart of the Capitol’s military, after all.

"So," Cato piped up as they wove their way past a weapons vendor, "what do you wanna do for your birthday?" His blue eyes sparkled with mischief, his breath fogging in the cold air.

Ophelia glanced down at him, a small smile curving her lips. "We can put this prize money I won to good use."

Cato’s brows lifted, curiosity flaring. "Oh? So, we’re going on a shopping spree?"

Ophelia simply tugged him along, leading them toward a shop lined with elegant clothing and accessories, the kind that Victors could afford without hesitation. As they stepped inside, the warmth of the store greeted them, along with the faint hum of a television mounted high above the register.

Cato immediately broke away from her, making a beeline toward a display of watches and belts. Ophelia exhaled a soft laugh, shaking her head as she trailed after him, her fingers brushing absentmindedly against a display of gloves.

The television flickered, catching her attention.

“… And what a night it must have been,” Caesar had been saying, his signature grin wide as ever. “Finnick Odair, ladies and gentlemen, proving once again that he’s the Capitol’s most desired young man.”

"You've got that right, Caesar!" Claudius agreed. 

Ophelia’s gaze lingered on the screen cut to footage of Finnick, arm-in-arm with an older Capitol woman, her garish makeup unable to mask the way her jeweled fingers curled possessively around his arm.

Some Victors took advantage of their status in different ways, it would seem, Ophelia thought to herself. While she was shopping with her brother, Finnick was shopping for company. And by the looks of it, different

She turned her attention back to Cato, who had picked up a gold watch, turning it over in his hands. "Oph, can I have this?" he asked.

Ophelia arched a brow, arms crossing as she smirked. "I thought it was my birthday? Shouldn’t you be shopping for me?"

Cato snorted, undeterred. "Yeah, but this one looks good on me."

Ophelia rolled her eyes playfully before reaching out and ruffling his already messy hair. "Rotten twerp," she muttered, earning a squawk of protest from her brother. She laughed, shaking her head as he tried to fix his hair. 

May, 69 ADD

Ophelia stood outside the school, her arms folded tightly across her chest to block out the spring breeze. The bell rang, and within seconds, the heavy doors burst open, spilling out students eager for freedom. She spotted Cato easily— blond hair tousled from the day, an energy in his step that had yet to be dulled by routine. He walked at the front of a group of boys, their laughter echoing against the walls as they talked over each other in excitement.

Then, they saw her.

“Whoa! That’s your sister?” One of them pointed, eyes wide with a mixture of awe and something sharper.

“She was insane in the Games,” another added. “The way you took down those tributes from 11? Brutal.”

“The best kills, hands down,” a third chimed in. “Seriously, you were so cool.”

Ophelia stood still, her stomach twisting at their words. She forced herself to keep her expression unreadable, even as her fingers curled into her sleeves. They weren’t saying anything she hadn’t already heard before— from strangers, from Capitol interviewers, from sponsors who had eagerly sent her gifts when the blood was fresh— but hearing it now, from children who still had the luxury of seeing the Games as nothing more than entertainment, made something in her chest tighten.

Cato looked up at her then, blue eyes scanning her face, reading her in the way only a brother could. He didn’t say anything to them. Instead, he just grabbed her wrist and started pulling her away.

“Later,” he tossed over his shoulder to his friends, his grip firm as he led Ophelia through the crowded street, toward Victor’s Village.

They walked in silence for a while, the sound of their footsteps echoing between them. The further they got from the school, the quieter it became. The din of the district faded, leaving only the occasional call of a Peacekeeper or the sound of wind whipping through the streets. Cato didn’t let go of her wrist until they were past the main roads, where fewer people would see them.

“What’s wrong?” he finally asked, voice laced with something softer than his usual bravado. He wasn’t always like this, but sometimes— when he thought she wasn’t okay— he let the annoying little brother act slip just a little. 

Ophelia didn’t answer right away. She let the question settle between them, let the cold seep through the thin fabric of her sleeves, let her breath mist in front of her lips before she finally spoke.

“I’m not that cool.”

Cato was quiet for a moment. His grip on his school bag shifted, fingers tightening around the strap as he looked up at her. There was something unreadable in his gaze, something that made Ophelia feel like she was being examined— not in the way the Capitol did, not like she was something to be put on display— but like he was trying to understand something even he didn’t have the words for yet.

“I think you are,” he said finally, like it was the simplest truth in the world.

Ophelia exhaled, looking away before the moment could stretch too long. She didn’t argue. Instead, she reached over and ruffled his hair, the action familiar, grounding.

Cato groaned, swatting her hand away. “Ugh, you always do that.”

Ophelia smiled— small, fleeting, but real.

July, 69 ADD

Training the female tribute, who was just a year older than her, proved to be much more difficult than Ophelia had anticipated.

Surely, it would get easier as she got older, but for now, it was like pulling teeth to get her tribute, Sabina, to listen to even the simplest advice. The girl had an ego, sharp and unyielding, like the knives she was so determined to master. Ophelia did not recall herself being this stubborn when Enobaria had trained her. If only Enobaria were here now to help; the older victor had a way of making people listen.

But this was the arrangement they had made—trading off years as mentors. This year, it was Ophelia’s turn, and she was quickly learning that she would have much preferred to wait until the next round of tributes.

“I think I know more about this than you do,” Sabina sneered, rolling her eyes before sending a flurry of knives straight into the bullseye. She turned with a smirk, arms crossing over her chest. “Just because you got lucky last year doesn’t mean you’re better than I am.”

Ophelia kept her expression vacant, schooling herself not to react to the jab. She simply nodded, curt and dismissive, before turning on her heel and walking away. “Got it.”

She wanted to throw her hands up, let the girl do whatever she pleased, and be done with it. But she couldn’t. Not just because she would undoubtedly be punished for negligence, but because some part of her— a part she didn’t like to examine too closely—knew she couldn’t stand by and let this girl walk into the arena completely unprepared. She didn’t want any more blood on her hands.

She strode to the bench where she had left her water bottle, taking a slow sip as her eyes wandered the training center. Nearly all the mentors were older than her, seasoned victors with years of experience. All but one was closer in age to her.

Finnick Odair.

She knew his name, of course. Everyone did. He was eighteen, maybe nineteen now? Still, he was not much older than her. He would do.

He leaned against the far wall, arms folded across his chest, his sea-green eyes tracking his tributes as they practiced hand-to-hand combat on the mat. He was taller than her— not that it took much— and broad-shouldered, his frame athletic but not overly bulky. His sandy hair curled slightly at the ends, and Ophelia wondered how much of it was natural and how much was from the salt air of District 4. His skin was deeply tanned, likely from a lifetime spent on the water. The children of Four fished for extra money, hauling in their catches before the sun had even fully risen. It was one of the ways to survive.

Ophelia hesitated, then set her water bottle down and made her way across the room toward him. He watched her approach, his expression unreadable, gaze narrowing slightly as she stopped a few feet away. It was clear her presence was neither expected nor particularly welcomed, but she had already come this far.

“How do you do it?” Ophelia asked abruptly, skipping any kind of introduction.

Finnick arched a brow. “Do what?”

She exhaled, tipping her chin toward his tributes. “Get them to listen to you. I can’t for the life of me get my tribute to take any of my advice, and honestly, it’s getting old.”

Finnick let out a soft laugh, more amused than sympathetic. “Maybe it’s because there’s nothing worth listening to.”

Ophelia flinched at that, taken aback by his bluntness. Her head recoiled slightly as she frowned at him. “Excuse me?”

But Finnick didn’t seem particularly interested in her response. He pushed off the wall, stepping in just close enough that his voice dropped into something quieter, more cutting. “You must not be used to people giving you pushback, honey."

The word landed like an insult rather than a term of endearment.

Ophelia stiffened. “I have a name,” she muttered, her frown deepening.

Finnick smiled then, but it wasn’t warm. “Like I said,” he murmured, voice laced with mock indifference. “Nothing worth listening to.”

And with that, he turned on his heel and walked away, moving to join his tributes as they finished their sparring session.

Ophelia remained standing there, stunned into silence as she watched him go. It wasn’t just the words— it was the way he had said them, the look in his eyes. There had been something hard there, something that felt sharper than just disdain. It was strange, disarming.

Eventually, she shook herself out of it, making her way back toward Brutus, who stood with his arms folded, watching Sabina and their male tribute, Augustus, practice with the archery simulator. Archery wasn’t a skill commonly favored by District 2, but it never hurt to have a backup plan in case the knives and spears were claimed first.

“That Finnick guy is mean,” Ophelia muttered, more to herself than to Brutus.

Brutus glanced down at her, exhaling through his nose before giving her a rough pat on the head, almost like she was a particularly loyal dog. “He’s not all that bad,” the older man said. “You must’ve caught him on a bad day.”

Ophelia huffed. Some bad day that was.

Cashmere and Gloss were far more refined than Brutus and Ophelia— polished and poised in a way that made them seem untouchable, even when they were being kind. There was an effortless grace about them, a quiet confidence honed from years of Capitol adoration. Unlike Brutus, who was all bared teeth and brash laughter, the siblings from District 1 carried themselves like royalty. And maybe, in a way, they were. The Capitol’s golden darlings, Victors bathed in silk and dripping in wealth, beloved by sponsors and envied by the districts.

Ophelia shouldn’t have been in awe of them— she was a Victor too, just as deadly, just as capable— but she couldn’t help it. It was hard not to stare at Gloss, his chiseled features made sharper by the warm glow of the train’s lighting. He was six years older than her, making him twenty-three, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t admire him. The strong cut of his jaw, the sleek muscle under his finely tailored shirt, the way his presence demanded attention without him even trying. Cashmere was just as striking, ethereal in a way that made Ophelia hyperaware of everything she was not. Flawless skin, a perfectly sculpted nose, long lashes, high cheekbones. Next to her, Ophelia felt unfinished, like marble that hadn’t been fully carved.

She had never wanted the Capitol’s beauty treatments before. But now, looking at Cashmere, she wondered what it would be like to have the soft curve of her stomach smoothed away, the slight fullness in her cheeks tapered to match the elegant angles the Capitol so adored. She was young, only seventeen, but the Capitol’s expectations didn’t care about that. They had whispered their ideals in her ear from the moment she stepped off the train, flashing perfection in every mirror, in every magazine, in every lingering glance from her escort. She was a Victor, but was she enough?

She never felt like she was. 

Still, despite the gap between them— age, experience, status— Gloss and Cashmere had not turned her away. They tolerated her presence, even accepted it, like an amusing younger sibling who followed them around. She wasn’t sure if it was pity or genuine fondness, but she clung to it regardless. Being a Victor was supposed to mean never being alone, yet loneliness seemed to creep in through the cracks of every conversation, every lavish party, every extravagant feast. If they let her linger in their orbit for a little while longer, she wouldn’t question it.

“I had the weirdest dream last night,” Ophelia murmured, mostly to herself, as she sat beside Gloss on the bench and tied her shoes. She had a habit of speaking her thoughts aloud, as if saying them gave them shape. Another habit: tying her laces too tight, cinching them until the blood flow to her feet threatened to cut off. A remnant of the Games, a subconscious effort to feel anchored to something solid.

Gloss barely glanced at her, but he still humored her. “Yeah? What about?”

“I was a bird,” she said, double-knotting the laces. “Flying, but I couldn’t land. My wings wouldn’t stop, no matter how much I wanted them to.”

He huffed a short, amused breath through his nose. “Sounds like you’re getting too ambitious, kid.”

Kid.

The word settled in her chest, a cold weight pressing down. Was that all she was to them? To everyone? Just a kid?

None of them saw her as an equal, not really. No matter how many sponsors she had won over, no matter how many tributes she had cut down in the arena, they still looked at her like she was something fragile.

She would have to change that.

She had spent her entire life preparing for the Games, training alongside the boys who had thought she was just another pretty thing to be sacrificed when it came down to it. And yet, she had killed more than any of them. She had clawed her way to victory, torn through the competition with a brutality that even Brutus had praised. She was strong— stronger than they gave her credit for. If they wouldn’t see her as dangerous, as someone to be taken seriously, then she would make them.

She was a Career victor. She had earned this life.

The girl from 2 had finally started acting like one of them. It wasn’t a surprise, not really, but it still managed to sink into Finnick with a dull sort of sting, the kind that wasn’t enough to make him wince but stayed just beneath the skin, irritating all the same. He had expected this. Had known from the moment she first opened her mouth with that delicate, hesitant voice that she would end up exactly where she belonged— among the Careers, sharpening her words into weapons as easily as she did her knives.

And yet, the look on Ophelia's face the last time they spoke wouldn’t leave him alone. The way she had flinched, ever so slightly, when he called her out. That wasn’t an act. It wasn’t the cool calculation he had come to expect from girls like her, girls trained from birth to see the Games as their stage, to master the art of deception before they even understood the stakes. No, that was real. And Finnick Odair knew better than most that real was dangerous.

But it seemed she had learned her lesson, adjusted accordingly.

Now, she wore a different mask— one that he recognized all too well. It was the same one he had seen countless times in the Capitol, painted onto the faces of people who sold themselves in a different way, the kind that said, "You will not touch me." It was the mask he saw in the mirror every night before stepping into a stranger’s bed. The same mask that the Careers had worn when they hunted him down in the arena, teeth bared, their laughter sharp enough to cut.

She wore it well.

Her expression was no longer one of quiet uncertainty but one of carefully placed arrogance, eyebrows raised just enough to exude effortless superiority. Her voice, which once held an edge of something too soft for a Career, now came clipped, precise, devoid of warmth.

"You’re getting sloppy," she snapped from across the gym, her tone sharp as a blade. "Pull yourself together, or you won’t last a day in that arena."

Finnick didn’t have to look to know who she was talking to. Sabina, 2's female tribute. A strong fighter, but her pride outweighed her skill— an unfortunate combination. He heard the brief hesitation in her breath, the falter in her stance, before she adjusted, throwing the spear with more control this time. It hit its mark, lodging itself into the dummy’s chest.

"Adequate," Ophelia muttered, unimpressed.

Finnick let out a breath through his nose, focusing back on his own tributes, though he wasn’t really seeing them. He should let it go. She was just another Career, another name that would either be forgotten or whispered in horror depending on how the Games played out. And yet, something gnawed at him, refusing to let him turn away completely.

Maybe it was because he had misjudged her. Maybe because, despite every instinct screaming at him to move on, a part of him wanted to talk to her again.

He shouldn’t. He had no reason to. She was from 2— one of the districts that never had to fight for their survival before they were reaped. One of the districts that Snow favored, where kids volunteered for the privilege of spilling blood.

She didn’t know suffering, not really. Not like he did.

Finnick had spent years trying not to drown in his own existence, his freedom nothing more than a carefully crafted illusion. Ophelia would never understand what it was like to be owned. To know that the Capitol could chew her up and spit her out the second she was no longer worth their time. She would never wake up in cold sweats from the ghost of someone else's hands on her skin, never force herself to smile while every part of her wanted to shatter.

And for that, he could almost respect her. Because he wouldn’t wish this life on anyone— not even a girl from 2 who had learned how to look at him the way the rest of them did.

Like she was above him. Like she had forgotten their conversation ever happened.

It was better that way, he told himself.

Ophelia was selfish. Cold. Two-faced. She had let herself become what was expected of her, and maybe she had been that person all along.

And yet— when he caught glimpses of her, when her mask slipped for just a fraction of a second— he saw something he wasn’t sure he wanted to recognize.

Because if he did, he might just start to hate her a little less. And he wasn’t sure he could afford that.

Finnick lounged beside Mags, his fingers lightly curled around her frail, wrinkled hand. It was a quiet sort of comfort, the familiar warmth of the only person in the room who knew him beyond the Capitol’s golden mask. Her skin, thin and papery, reminded him of the old crocheted blanket his mother had made for him as a boy. Once soft, now worn and slightly coarse to the touch, yet somehow still the only thing that ever made him feel at home. The Capitol was full of excess— artifice upon artifice— but nothing about Mags was false. That was why he stayed close, grounding himself in her presence amid the noise, the lights, the suffocating pageantry of it all.

From the corner of his eye, he caught sight of Ophelia sitting with Brutus and Cashmere. Her golden caramel hair was neatly pulled into a bun, her bangs clipped back with delicate, bejeweled barrettes— Capitol gifts, no doubt. Growing them out, it seemed. A good decision. They had only served to make her look younger, more fragile, which was never a good thing in this world. Finnick had seen her in training, seen the way she moved, graceful and deliberate, all careful precision and controlled strength. She wasn’t fragile. Not in the way the Capitol liked to pretend its tributes were before sending them to their slaughter.

Brutus leaned in, muttering something low in her ear. Finnick assumed it was some crude joke at the expense of Caesar’s ever-changing hair color. This year it was seafoam green, likely chosen by flipping through swatches with his eyes closed and picking the one that matched his latest suit. Ophelia laughed to where it almost sounded like a cackle— genuine, unrestrained, the kind of laugh that made a person forget, just for a second, where they were. She smacked Brutus’s arm lightly, shaking her head. Finnick felt the corner of his mouth twitch upward before he caught himself. That laugh—  it was too real for the Capitol. Almost too real for a Career.

Maybe she wasn’t as awful as the others, but then again, that could just be the illusion she wanted people to see. It was a game, after all. He knew better than to be fooled by a pretty laugh and soft eyes. People like her trained their whole lives to kill and to win. They weren’t meant to care. Still, he found himself wondering. Would anyone ever truly know her? No more than anyone would ever truly know him. The Finnick Odair they thought they knew— the charmer, the Capitol’s golden boy— was just a part he played. Mags knew the real him. His mother had known. But no one else. No one else ever would.

The tributes from 3 were forgettable, all nervous smiles and polite deference to the Capitol’s absurdity. But the ones from 2 stood out, as they always did. Augustus had the golden-boy charm down to an art— Finnick recognized it immediately. The way the boy laughed easily, played to the audience, made them adore him. The way he looked into the cameras like he belonged to them. Finnick knew that look. He had worn it himself. He also knew what came after. The price of survival in a world that wanted to own you. If Augustus made it out of the arena, Finnick almost hoped he wouldn’t survive the aftermath. He wouldn't wish his own fate on anyone, not even another Career.

Sabina, on the other hand, was as sharp-edged as she had been in training. Snarky, quick-witted. The Capitol lapped it up.

“For someone as sweet-looking as yourself,” Caesar grinned at her, “you sure do have a kick to you!”

Sabina didn’t miss a beat. “Well, Caesar, it’s because I’m real. Nothing artificial to me. Unlike your hair color. It looks like it could be served on a cone.”

Laughter erupted, Caesar slapping his knee with unrestrained delight. “Oh, I love this girl!”

Finnick smirked, watching as Ophelia pinched the bridge of her nose in clear exasperation. Brutus let out a hearty chuckle beside her, shaking his head as he ran a hand over his bald scalp. She was stiff, that one. Couldn’t even enjoy a joke. Too serious for her own good. What a waste, he thought idly.

And then he heard her murmur under her breath, just loud enough for those closest to her to catch. “She’s going to get herself killed.”

Finnick blinked, surprised. It wasn’t the words that struck him but the tone— something that almost resembled concern. But that didn’t make sense. Careers didn’t care. They trained to win, to kill, to survive at any cost. Caring was a weakness. And yet… she had looked irritated, not with Sabina’s attitude, but with the danger it invited. As if, in some buried part of her, she actually gave a damn.

His gaze flickered to her again, and as if she could sense it, she turned, locking eyes with him over the shoulders of the other victors. It was brief, a second too long, a heartbeat too heavy. But it was enough. Enough for something unsaid to pass between them before they both turned away, fixing their eyes back on the stage. Finnick ignored the way his pulse quickened, the way something in his chest twisted in response to the look in her eyes.

It was nothing. Just irritation. Just mutual dislike. He didn’t like her. And she certainly didn’t like him.

That was all it was.

It had to be.

Chapter Text

July, 69th Hunger Games

THE ARENA WAS DECEPTIVELY BEAUTIFUL, a cruel trick played by the Gamemakers. If not for the imminent slaughter, one might have admired the way it mirrored the grandeur of ancient Roman architecture. A sprawling amphitheater stretched before the tributes, flanked by towering stone archways and crumbling colonnades that provided both sanctuary and danger. Rows of vacant seating loomed overhead, a stark reminder that this place had once been designed for entertainment long before it became a killing ground.

The bloodbath had been as swift and brutal as expected. Six tributes had fallen within the first five minutes, their blood soaking into the dusty stone floor. Sabina and Bedford had wasted no time, each snatching a weapon and a bag of supplies before vanishing into the chaos. Sabina had known she'd be a target from the start— her sharp tongue and sharper mind had earned her a training score of 9, high enough to draw attention but not high enough to make her untouchable. Bedford, at a 7, was strong but unremarkable beside the District 1 tributes, Augustus and Alba, who had both secured 10s. As expected, the Career pack had banded together, staking their claim in the arena by taking shelter in one of the crevices of the Colosseum, their temporary fortress.

While death unfolded in the arena, Ophelia found herself in the penthouse of a Capitol elitist’s mansion, surrounded by an entirely different kind of predator. The air was thick with the cloying scent of roses and expensive perfumes, punctuated by bursts of raucous laughter as the elite drank and feasted while watching the carnage unfold on massive screens. Ophelia wasn’t entirely sure how she had ended up here— likely because she had followed Cashmere, Gloss, and Brutus like a lost puppy.

She hovered close to Brutus, fingers curled around the delicate stem of a crystal goblet filled with a deep red punch she had barely sipped. The Capitol had a penchant for lacing their drinks with strong liquor, and she wasn’t foolish enough to indulge beyond caution. She was just a year away from Panem’s legal drinking age, though that rule, like so many others, had been twisted in the wake of the Games. The Capitol had no qualms about lowering the age for drinking, just as they had no issue sending children to slaughter. And, of course, they ensured that Victors had access to plenty of vices—alcohol, morphling, anything to dull the edges of what they had survived.

Brutus had drifted away, drawn into conversation with an older victor, while Cashmere and Gloss disappeared into the crowd, swallowed by admirers who fawned over them as if they were beloved celebrities rather than killers. Ophelia remained in the corner, out of place even among those who were supposed to be her own. She was not like Cashmere, with her beauty and charm, or Gloss, with his effortless magnetism. She had survived her Games, but she had not emerged shining. She had been left raw, scarred. People spoke of her in hushed tones, their fascination tinged with unease. The girl who had watched another tribute turn cannibal. The girl who had cracked on her Victor’s Tour.

She traced the rim of her cup with a finger, staring into the liquid swirling within when a voice cut through her thoughts.

“You shouldn’t be standing around here alone, sweetheart.”

She looked up, her vision sharpening as she registered the man before her. He was familiar, though she hadn’t recognized him at first, not through the haze of the room’s dim lighting and the creeping effects of alcohol. His sandy blond hair was unkempt, strands falling over sharp, tired eyes.

“Quarter Quell?” she asked, hesitant. A part of her winced at her own words, realizing too late how impersonal they sounded.

The man huffed a quiet laugh, his smirk lopsided, revealing teeth that had seen their fair share of clenched jaws and bitter words. “Is that all I’m good for?” His tone was light, but there was something else beneath it, something weary. “I have a name, kid.”

Kid.

There it was again. A reminder of what she was. What they all were when they were thrown into the arena.

“Sorry,” she murmured, though he waved it off with an indifferent flick of his hand.

“Haymitch,” he introduced himself before nodding toward her untouched drink. “You might want to pace yourself with that. Goes straight to your head.”

Ophelia handed him the cup without argument, watching as he threw it back in one gulp. Her nose scrunched. “How many have you had?”

He shrugged, setting the empty glass onto a passing butler’s tray. “I don’t count. Just go off what I’m feeling.”

She arched a brow. “And what are you feeling?”

He smirked, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Like I could use another.”

Ophelia glanced back at the screen. Another tribute had fallen. Seventeen left. The crowd cheered. She studied Haymitch, taking in the way his posture slouched, how his hair fell in limp strands, slightly greasy and stringy. He was a Victor, but unlike Cashmere or Gloss, he had no interest in playing the Capitol’s game. He let himself look broken. And she wondered if he had ever been anything else.

“What are you doing over here, anyway?” she asked, tilting her head. “Your kind doesn’t usually take to us Careers too kindly.”

Haymitch smirked, though there was little humor in it. “You remind me of someone. And I figured you needed a friend. Not one of your own kind who left you in the dust for shinier, happier people.” His voice dropped slightly, the words softer. “If you’re anything like me, you’re not too shiny or happy yourself.”

She exhaled, the weight of his words settling heavily in her chest. “I think we’re both pretty pathetic.”

Haymitch chuckled, though his attention shifted over his shoulder. 

Finnick. Seated beside the host of the party, the Capitol man’s hand resting too comfortably on Finnick’s knee. The forced ease in Finnick’s expression, the practiced charm hiding something colder, deader beneath it.

Haymitch knew. Of course, he knew. He was an example that had been held up, showing what would happen if a Victor went against Snow or made a mockery of the Capitol. It was how both Cashmere and Finnick were brought into the lineup of Victors who found themselves in the same lavish hotel rooms with different men and women every time they visited the Capitol. They each had families to lose, someone they loved. Someone they couldn't afford to put in danger.

Haymitch’s voice was quieter when he spoke next. “Have you talked to Snow since you got here?”

Ophelia frowned at the sudden question but shook her head. “No. I think my tour embarrassed him." She paused, eyes still on the screen. "Why?”

Haymitch let out a slow breath, something like relief flickering across his face before it was buried beneath something darker. “Just curious. It’s not uncommon for him to take an interest in new victors.” He met her eyes, his voice dropping to something barely above a whisper. “Consider yourself lucky.”

The tributes had dwindled to five. Half had perished at the hands of their fellow competitors, the others falling victim to dehydration or the precarious craftsmanship of the arena’s risers, their bodies slipping through the gaps and plummeting to their deaths. Bedford had been the latest casualty, succumbing to dehydration— an outcome that left Brutus visibly bristling, his jaw clenched so tightly Finnick could practically hear his teeth grind. It was an embarrassment, a stain on District 2's otherwise ruthless reputation. Augustus from 1 remained, while the last three tributes hailed from 3, 4, and 8.

Ophelia stood between Finnick and Gloss, her delicate features illuminated by the screen’s eerie glow. Despite his usual distaste for proximity, Finnick had inched slightly closer to her— though he wasn’t sure if it was an unconscious action or a deliberate attempt to put distance between himself and the other Victors. At the very least, he knew Ophelia. She wasn’t one of the eager Capitol women who reached for him with greedy hands, nor was she Brutus, who seemed perpetually poised to test his strength against Finnick’s own in some primal show of dominance. He had spent the night enduring an endless parade of touches— hands trailing over his arms, fingers ghosting over his back, a manicured nail running down his chest in a way that made his stomach twist. If one more person touched him without his consent, he was liable to snap.

His gaze flickered downward just in time to catch Gloss subtly reaching for Ophelia’s hand. She accepted without hesitation, her fingers curling around his in a gesture that was clearly meant to be grounding. Finnick nearly sneered at the sight. He wasn’t sure if it was because he loathed the Careers or because it reminded him of the Capitol’s suffocating control over him. Either way, it left a bitter taste in his mouth. He turned his attention back to the screen, silently willing the two of them to move somewhere out of his sight.

He forced himself to look back at the screen, willing the sensation away.

Sabina and Augustus sat near the edge of the arena seating, their heads bent together in hushed discussion. It wasn’t clear if they were strategizing or simply biding time. The other two tributes remained hidden, their figures obscured somewhere deeper in the stands. The arena was silent save for the hum of the cameras and the occasional murmur from the tributes still in play.

Then came the scream.

The sound was raw, panicked, and unmistakably human. The tribute from 8.

Finnick barely had time to register the sound before the cannon fired.

Beside him, Ophelia went rigid. Her lips parted as though she might speak, but nothing came out. A deep flush bloomed across her cheeks— not from embarrassment, but from something much deeper. Recognition.

Finnick exhaled slowly through his nose. He knew that look, knew what it meant to hear a scream like that and have it yank you backward into memories one would rather not relive. He had watched Ophelia's Games, watched as she trembled beneath the weight of it, as she tried to force herself to be what the Capitol wanted. He understood. Maybe that was why, despite his usual indifference toward her, he felt the sharp edge of sympathy digging into him.

Gloss leaned down, his voice a hushed murmur meant only for Ophelia. Finnick couldn’t make out the words, but the cadence was soft, careful. Protective.

Then the scene on the screen changed, and whatever comfort Ophelia had managed to draw from Gloss vanished.

The mutts had been unleashed.

Finnick stiffened, his sharp eyes taking in the monstrosities the Gamemakers had designed. Lions. At least, they had been lions once. Now they were something else entirely. Their manes were wild, matted, and spiked in jagged angles. Their fangs jutted out unnaturally, long and needle-sharp. Their claws were grotesquely extended, so long that it forced them to move with an unnatural, almost hobbling gait. And they were hungry.

The tribute from 3 screamed as the pack closed in. Augustus and Sabina abandoned their hushed conversation in an instant, all alliances forgotten in the face of the greater threat. The four remaining tributes bolted for the center of the arena, but it was too late for Sabina. She was fast, but she wasn’t fast enough. One of the lions lunged, its massive jaw clamping down on her leg. The scream that tore from her throat was pure agony.

Cannon.

Ophelia’s face went ghostly pale. Her fingers slipped from Gloss’s hand as she turned sharply on her heel and fled the room. Finnick barely had time to register her reaction before she was gone, disappearing through the penthouse doors. Gloss, still absorbed in the spectacle, barely acknowledged her departure. He only let out a small, pleased sound as Augustus cut down one of the mutts with his sword, making it to the final two.

Finnick exhaled through his nose, staring at the empty space Ophelia had left. He warred with himself for a moment, debating whether to follow. He wasn’t sure why he cared— she was a Career, one of them. The privileged, the pampered. But the look in her eyes before she ran off wasn’t one of a pampered victor. It was the same look he had seen in his own reflection too many times.

Damn it.

Without another word, Finnick turned and strode toward the door, pushing it open with more force than necessary. He stepped into the hallway, glancing both ways before a voice caught his attention.

“Ophelia.”

It was Gloss, his tone measured yet firm. Finnick turned to see him standing a few feet away from where Ophelia had sunk onto a bench, her hands clenched into fists on her lap. Her breathing was uneven, eyes darting back and forth as if trapped in a memory she couldn’t escape.

Gloss approached her carefully, his usual composed demeanor softening at the edges. “It’s over,” he murmured, crouching down slightly to meet her gaze. “Take a deep breath.”

Ophelia shook her head, her caramel hair slipping over her shoulder. “It doesn’t feel over,” she whispered.

Finnick hesitated a few feet away, watching the exchange.

August, 69 ADD

Ophelia walked alone through the Victor's Village, her boots brushing against the cobbled paths that led between the houses, her arms wrapped loosely around herself as she let the crisp morning air clear her thoughts.

She hadn’t expected to see movement at this hour—especially not from something so out of place. But there it was, a dog, old and ragged, padding slowly along the path a few houses ahead. It looked like a ghost of something that had once been strong, perhaps a hunting dog in its prime. Now, its ribs pressed against its matted, dirt-streaked fur, patches of its coat missing entirely. One ear was tattered, and when it turned its head slightly, she noticed the absence of several teeth between its parted lips.

Ophelia stopped mid-step, breath catching in her throat as she watched the animal. Had it wandered in from another district? Perhaps 5 or 10, places where working animals were more common? Or had it belonged to someone here in 2, abandoned once it outlived its usefulness?

The thought made something tighten in her chest.

She hesitated only a moment longer before slowly lowering herself into a crouch, careful not to make any sudden movements. "Hey there," she called softly, barely above a whisper, the sound gentle enough not to startle the creature. She extended a hand, palm up, an offering of peace.

The dog lifted its grizzled head, cloudy eyes darting uncertainly as it sniffed the air. It did not move closer. Instead, its lips curled slightly, a low, wary growl rumbling from deep within its chest.

Ophelia stayed perfectly still, feeling the fine hairs along her arms rise. She could see it now— how the dog’s cloudy gaze never quite met hers, how its stance was rigid with fear rather than aggression.

"You're okay," she murmured, her voice feather-light.

The dog’s growl didn’t stop, but it didn’t deepen either. It stayed there, frozen between instinct and uncertainty, the invisible line between them thick with hesitation.

She swallowed, considering her next move. If she pushed too hard, it might flee, or worse, lash out. If she left, it might continue to suffer. The decision pressed on her as the dog remained rooted in place, unwilling or unable to trust.

After a long moment, Ophelia exhaled softly and rose to her feet, stepping back without turning away. She kept her movements slow, deliberate, and watched as the dog’s ears flicked at the sound of her retreating footsteps.

She didn’t return inside immediately. Instead, she slipped through her front door, moving straight to the kitchen where the remnants of breakfast still sat on the counter. Bacon— crispy, still slightly warm, its scent rich and inviting. She gathered a few pieces, wrapping them carefully in a napkin before making her way back out to the porch.

With delicate fingers, she placed the food near the steps, stepping away again to give the creature space. Then she sat down on the top step, hands resting in her lap as she watched from a respectful distance.

The dog lingered where she had left it, unmoving, unwilling to let down its guard. But its nose twitched, scenting the air, its body shifting with uncertainty. Hunger was a powerful motivator.

Ophelia simply waited, patient as the morning light spilled further across the Village. Eventually the dog took a step forward before eating each piece of bacon.

September, 69 ADD

Ophelia continued to leave food out on her front porch every morning and evening, careful not to startle the stray dog as she placed down extra sausage links, bacon, pieces of rotisserie chicken, or whatever scraps she had left over from her meals. The dog, wary and slow to trust, always waited until she stepped back inside before approaching the food. Even then, he moved cautiously, his ribs visible beneath patches of thin, scruffy fur, his ears flicking toward every small noise as he devoured whatever she left out for him.

For weeks, this unspoken routine continued. Ophelia never tried to approach too quickly, never forced him into anything beyond what he was willing to accept. She simply existed within his world, leaving behind offerings of food and soft words whenever she saw him nearby.

And then, one morning, as she knelt on her porch with a plate of steak scraps, something changed.

The dog, standing a few feet away, sniffed the air as usual. But this time, he didn't wait for her to retreat entirely. Instead, he took a tentative step forward. Ophelia remained still, her hands resting lightly on her lap. Another step. Then another. His nose twitched, his cloudy eyes studying her as if piecing together some invisible puzzle.

When he finally reached her, his breath warm against her fingers, he hesitated. Ophelia barely breathed as he sniffed her hand for what felt like forever. Then, with the slow, deliberate movement of something that had lived too long without kindness, he nudged his head against her palm.

Ophelia's breath caught in her throat. Carefully, so carefully, she ran her fingers over his head, feeling the coarse fur beneath her touch. He didn’t pull away. For the first time, the old dog leaned into her, as if savoring the warmth of another being. She smiled.

"You're okay," she whispered, repeating the words she had spoken to him the first time they met. And, for the first time, she believed it.

October, 69 ADD

"What are you doing?"

Ophelia sighed before even turning her head. Cato’s voice carried the distinct tone of an eleven-year-old who had just discovered something interesting and immediately needed answers. When she looked over, her younger brother stood at the edge of the porch, arms crossed, one eyebrow raised in exaggerated suspicion.

"Feeding him," Ophelia answered simply, continuing to run her fingers through the dog's patchy fur. He had allowed her to pet him every day since that first time, though he still flinched at sudden movements.

Cato snorted. "You know it's a stray, right?"

"Of course, I know that."

"And you know it probably has fleas, right?"

Ophelia shot him a look, unimpressed. "How would you feel if someone watched you walk around hungry and didn't do a thing?"

Cato opened his mouth, ready with a retort, but then seemed to think better of it. He frowned, glancing at the dog, who was busy licking the last bits of food from the plate in front of him. "I guess that’d suck," he admitted begrudgingly.

Ophelia smiled. "Exactly."

From that day on, Cato started bringing the dog food with her. It started with small things— an extra piece of bacon snuck from his plate at breakfast, half of a dinner roll he didn't want. But soon, it became part of their routine. After breakfast, lunch, and dinner, he would trail behind her with his hands full of leftovers, grumbling about how much trouble the dog was while sneaking him bits of meat when he thought Ophelia wasn’t looking.

Then, one evening, as they sat on the porch watching the dog eat, Cato spoke up. "Can we take him home?"

Ophelia, who had been idly scratching the dog’s ears, froze.

The thought had crossed her mind before, but she had never voiced it. Never let herself fully consider what it would mean to bring the dog into their house, to make him part of their family.

She looked down at the old mutt, at the way his body still tensed whenever he heard an unfamiliar sound, at the way he always kept one eye on the path leading away from the house, as if expecting the need to run.

Finally, she said, "He may not want that. He may enjoy being free to walk around and do as he pleases."

Cato frowned. "But what if he doesn’t? What if he wants a home?"

Ophelia reached out, resting her hand gently against the dog’s back. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away.

She sighed, thoughtful. "Then I suppose he’ll let us know."

November, 69 ADD

The grand halls of the presidential mansion were packed with Capitolites and previous Victors of the Games. Ophelia moved carefully through the crowd, keeping close to Brutus and Enobaria, their presence a buffer against the many eyes that roved the room, assessing, appraising, seeking something to exploit.

Across the room, she caught sight of Gloss and Cashmere, their striking appearances making them easy to spot. Without thinking, Ophelia raised a hand in greeting. Cashmere barely acknowledged the gesture before slipping away, her golden waves vanishing into the throng beside an older Capitolite woman, dressed in layers of silk and jewels. Gloss, however, altered his course, approaching their small group with an effortless charm.

Ophelia tilted her head slightly as he joined them. “Where did Cashmere go?” she asked, keeping her voice light, though unease curled in her stomach.

Gloss glanced at Brutus and Enobaria before answering, his expression carefully schooled. “She’s just catching up with an old friend,” he said smoothly, a faint smile playing on his lips. The words felt rehearsed, his tone too practiced, too polite.

Ophelia hesitated but brushed it off, turning her attention to the conversation between Brutus and Gloss, the two men exchanging remarks about the tour, the tributes, and the way the Capitol devoured every moment of the spectacle. Their words were laced with the kind of jaded cynicism only a Victor could possess, men who had seen the worst of humanity parading before them in the name of entertainment.

Enobaria met Ophelia’s gaze from the corner of her eye, her dark eyes sharp, knowing. Ophelia leaned in slightly, lowering her voice. “Do you wanna get a drink?”

Enobaria's lips twitched, not quite a smile, but something close. A silent agreement passed between them, and without a word, they stepped away from Brutus and Gloss, weaving through the crowd toward the refreshment table.

A server passed by, offering crystal goblets filled with some expensive Capitol concoction. Ophelia took one, watching as Enobaria did the same. She took a sip, the sweet burn coating her throat before she turned slightly to Enobaria. “Is this how all the parties go after the tour?”

Enobaria made a low, amused sound. “More or less. The Capitol loves its champions, after all.” Her voice held an edge, a wry amusement laced with something colder beneath it.

Ophelia hummed, but her attention drifted as movement caught her eye. Across the room, Finnick stood against the far wall, engaged in hushed conversation with an older Capitol man, the gleam of wealth apparent in his fine clothing and bejeweled fingers. Finnick’s face was composed, his expression betraying nothing, but there was a stiffness in his shoulders, a weariness behind his carefully curated charm.

Ophelia stared, something uneasy stirring in her chest.

Enobaria followed her gaze before speaking, her voice low and knowing. “He’s highly favored.” The words were casual, but there was something weighted in them, something that suggested more than she was saying.

Ophelia didn’t respond, her grip tightening slightly around the stem of her glass as she took a long sip.

March, 70 ADD

Ophelia sat at her vanity, carefully wrapping another section of her caramel-blonde hair around the curling iron. The longer strands cascaded down past her shoulders, reaching the middle of her chest, though a few shorter pieces— remnants of her growing-out bangs— still stubbornly framed her face. She sighed as she brushed them aside, only for them to fall right back into place. Her lips pursed in concentration as she watched the curl take shape before gently letting it go.

She was nearly finished, her makeup already done— a soft dusting of blush on her cheeks, mascara making her eyes appear larger, lips painted a delicate shade of rose. It wasn’t often she took the time to get ready like this. Usually, she only bothered with a braid or a simple updo, something quick and practical. But tonight was different. Tonight, she had a date.

The moment she set down the curling iron, her bedroom door swung open without so much as a knock.

“Whoa,” Cato’s voice filled the room, thick with uncontained amusement. “I didn’t even recognize you.”

Ophelia groaned, already bracing herself for whatever nonsense her younger brother had planned. She turned slightly in her chair to glare at him, but Cato only grinned, his blue eyes flashing with mischief. He was still in his training clothes, a little dirt smudged across his cheek, blond hair mussed from whatever sparring match he’d just lost.

“I mean, seriously,” he continued, stepping into her room uninvited, arms crossed as he looked her over. “Since when do you wear makeup? You actually look like—”

“Cato,” Ophelia warned, her patience thinning as she reached for another strand of hair. “Get out.”

He ignored her, strolling deeper into her space like he owned it. “Are you sure it’s you? I feel like my sister got kidnapped and replaced with... what do they call them? One of those fancy Capitol girls.” He pulled a face, exaggerated and teasing. “You’re gonna start giggling and twirling your hair next.”

“Dude, get out,” Ophelia snapped, twisting in her chair to fully face him now, curling iron still in hand.

But Cato, as always, was insufferable. He plopped onto her bed like it was his own, bouncing slightly against the mattress before resting his arms behind his head. “So, where are you going, anyway? And why do you look like that?”

Ophelia’s eye twitched. “I have a date.”

Cato let out a bark of laughter. “With who?”

“None of your business.”

“Must be someone fancy if you went all out.” He gestured vaguely at her face. “What, do you think he won’t like you if you don’t look like… this?”

Ophelia clenched her jaw, gripping the curling iron tighter. “Mom!” she shouted toward the stairs. “Get him out of here!”

There was a pause before their mother’s voice floated up from the kitchen. “Cato, leave your sister alone!”

Cato sighed dramatically, rolling off her bed and trudging toward the door.

“Fine, fine,” he muttered, smirking as he glanced back at her. “Try not to scare off your date."

Ophelia threw a hairbrush at him. He dodged it with a laugh, then disappeared down the hall.

She exhaled sharply, rubbing her temples before turning back to the mirror. Her cheeks were a little red now— whether from frustration or embarrassment, she wasn’t sure. Taking a deep breath, she picked up her curling iron again, determined to finish getting ready in peace.

Her skin was an angry red, furiously scrubbing at the remnants of her makeup with a damp cotton pad. The reflection staring back at her looked tired, annoyed— the soft curls she had painstakingly styled for the evening now hung limp around her shoulders, framing a face twisted in frustration. Her lips, still tingling unpleasantly, pressed into a thin line as she swiped away the last traces of lipstick. The date had been a disaster. The boy— Marcus? Martin? She hardly cared to remember now— had been charming enough at first, but the moment he had leaned in for the kiss…

Ophelia cringed, tossing the soiled pad into the waste bin. It had been awful. A mess of clashing teeth, an overwhelming amount of saliva, and the horrific, desperate attempt he’d made to shove his tongue down her throat. She had pulled away so quickly she nearly smacked her head against the back of the booth. Her stomach twisted at the memory.

As she reached for another makeup wipe, the door to her bedroom flew open without so much as a knock.

Cato.

“Hey, lover girl!” His grin was pure mischief as he flopped onto her bed. “How was the date?” He puckered his lips obnoxiously, making over-the-top smooching noises as he batted his lashes at her. “Did you—” he wiggled his fingers dramatically, “— fall in love?”

Ophelia’s jaw clenched. She took a deep breath, willing herself to be patient. It was a losing battle.

“Get out,” she said sharply, turning back to the mirror.

Cato, undeterred, kicked his legs up onto the bed. “Was he dreamy? Did he sweep you off your feet? Did he—” He made another exaggerated kissing sound. “— kiss you goodnight? Mwah-mwah!"

“Get out! Get out already! Go away!” Ophelia snapped, throwing her makeup wipe at him. It missed, but the force of her voice was enough to send Cato scrambling off the bed, cackling as he bolted for the door.

He paused just long enough to lean over the banister and yell downstairs, “Mom! Ophelia’s being mean to me!”

Ophelia groaned, dragging a hand down her face. She barely had time to compose herself before the soft footsteps of her mother approached, followed by a gentle knock on the door.

“Sweetheart?”

Ophelia let out a long breath. “Come in.”

Her mother stepped inside, eyes immediately flicking to Ophelia’s half-cleaned face and the discarded makeup wipes piling up on the vanity. With a knowing smile, she sat on the edge of the bed, patting the space beside her. Ophelia hesitated for a moment before sinking onto the mattress.

“What happened?” her mother asked, brushing a stray curl from Ophelia’s cheek.

Ophelia exhaled sharply. “He was a total loser!” she blurted, voice cracking. “I had the worst first kiss ever! I practically ate his tongue!” Her hands flew to her face, mortified all over again. “It was so bad, mom. So bad.”

Her mother’s expression softened with sympathy. She reached for another wipe, gently dabbing at the leftover mascara smudged beneath Ophelia’s eyes. “Oh, sweetheart.”

“I don’t know what I expected,” Ophelia muttered, sniffling. “Maybe something... nice? Not... whatever that was.”

Her mother chuckled softly. “You know, when your father kissed me for the first time, I got a nosebleed.”

Ophelia blinked. “What?”

Her mother nodded, wiping away the last traces of foundation. “He bumped my nose, and the next thing I knew, I was bleeding all over his shirt.”

Despite herself, Ophelia let out a startled laugh. “Ew, mom!”

Her mother grinned, pressing a kiss to her daughter’s temple. “The first kiss is rarely perfect, my love. But the right one will be worth the wait.”

Ophelia sighed, leaning into her mother’s touch as the weight of the night slowly eased from her shoulders. Maybe she was right. Maybe, someday, she’d have a kiss worth remembering.

May, 70 ADD

The morning sun stretched over the Victor’s Village, casting long shadows on the cobblestone paths as Ophelia and Cato made their way outside. Ophelia carried a small bundle wrapped in cloth— extra bacon from breakfast— while Cato trailed beside her, hands stuffed into his jacket pockets, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

“Do you think Concrete would like some brownies?” he asked suddenly, tilting his head toward her. His voice was laced with the same casual mischief he always carried, always pushing, always needling.

Ophelia shot him a flat look. “Dogs can’t have chocolate, genius. They’ll get sick and die.”

Cato rolled his eyes dramatically. “Yeah, okay, thanks, animal expert. Just say you don’t want to share.”

Ignoring him, Ophelia focused on scanning the area as they walked. They’d been feeding the old mutt— Cato’s so-called “Concrete”— for almost a year now, leaving food on the porch or coaxing him closer whenever he dared to inch near. The dog had yet to trust them fully, but he had started to linger more often, his wary eyes watching them from the shadows of Victor’s Village.

Cato cupped his hands around his mouth. “Concrete! Here, boy!”

Ophelia winced at the volume, swatting at his shoulder. “Shut up. You’re gonna scare him off.”

Cato scoffed but didn’t call out again, instead falling into step beside her, humming as he tossed a piece of bacon in the air and caught it with his mouth. Ophelia kept walking, her gaze darting along the pathways and under the porches of the abandoned Victor homes.

Then she saw him.

Concrete was curled near the fountain at the front of the Village, his mottled, patchy fur barely rising and falling. His body was slack, legs tucked close, his head resting on the cold stone. Ophelia halted mid-step, the breath catching in her throat.

She didn’t want Cato to see.

Slowly, she shifted her weight, ready to step off the path and go alone. If the dog was dying, she didn’t want her little brother witnessing it— didn’t want to see that look on his face. But she had barely moved before Cato’s voice snapped out behind her.

“Why are you walking away?” His tone wasn’t teasing anymore, and in an instant, he was sprinting to catch up. His eyes followed hers. Then he saw.

“Concrete!” Cato’s voice cracked as he bolted forward, feet pounding against the cobblestone.

Ophelia cursed under her breath, rushing after him. The dog barely stirred at the sound of his name, only flicking an ear before settling again, too tired to acknowledge them. Ophelia reached him first and knelt beside him, heart hammering as she hovered a hand above his flank. He was still breathing, but it was shallow, uneven.

Cato dropped to his knees next to her, wide-eyed and frantic. “What’s wrong with him? Why isn’t he moving? Is he dying?”

Ophelia didn’t answer right away, instead shifting to examine his paws and legs. No blood. No signs of attack. Then she glanced up at the ledge of the fountain, realization dawning. “You tried to jump, didn’t you?” she murmured to the dog. “Wanted some water?”

Concrete let out a low growl as she reached toward him, his lip twitching in warning. He was afraid, partially blind with cataracts, old enough that his bones probably ached with every movement. Ophelia didn’t pull away, only shushed him softly. “Hey, you’re okay,” she whispered, her voice steady and calm. “It’s okay.”

Cato, still panicked, let out a sharp breath. “Oph, do something! Don’t just—”

“You’re freaking him out,” Ophelia snapped, her patience fraying. “Shut up.”

Cato clamped his mouth shut, swallowing hard as he wiped his nose on his sleeve. He stayed quiet as Ophelia moved again, her hands slow and deliberate. The dog sniffed at her fingers, hesitated, then let out a deep sigh before going limp against her touch.

Ophelia slid her arms beneath his frail frame and stood, ignoring the way her muscles burned under the weight. He was lighter than he should be, ribs pressing beneath his thinning coat. She adjusted her grip as Concrete let out a low, exhausted grumble.

Cato stood beside her, watching silently before finally speaking. “Can we take him home now?” His voice was small, uncertain.

Ophelia didn’t answer right away. She only held the dog tighter.

Their father was sitting on the front porch when they returned, a half-drained bottle of beer hanging loosely from his fingers. He glanced up at the sight of them— at Ophelia with the mutt in her arms, at Cato trailing close behind— and squinted. 

“The hell is that thing?” he asked, voice gruff.

Cato grinned, brushing sweat off of his hands as he answered. “Concrete.”

July, 70 ADD

Prior to moving into the Victor's Village, Ophelia and Cato had shared a room. Their beds had been on opposite sides of the room, though only one was ever truly used. The other had remained untouched, a ghost of its intended purpose. More often than not, they would fall asleep side by side, hands clasped between them, as if the contact alone could ward off the nightmares. It was a routine neither of them had spoken about, something unspoken yet necessary. Especially after Ophelia had returned from the arena. The routine had discontinued due to the two moving into separate bedrooms. Ophelia had a growing need for privacy and independence, and Cato had a growing need to continue to pester his older sister. It was a needed change, though lately, the nightmares had grown worse.

With each passing year, Cato edged closer to the reaping age, and the weight of that reality settled on them both like a crushing force. For districts like 1 and 2, being chosen was an honor— a chance to bring glory, to elevate their families. But for the sibling of a Victor, the stakes were far more personal. The Games had already stolen so much from Ophelia. The thought of them taking her little brother, too, was unbearable. Cato slept in Ophelia's room the night prior to his first reaping ceremony.

“You’ll be okay,” Ophelia whispered that night, their fingers interwoven, her thumb brushing over the back of his hand in slow, comforting strokes. “If I can make it out, so can you.”

She wanted to believe it. She needed to believe it. But the words felt hollow, even as she spoke them.

Cato lay beside her, his wide blue eyes reflecting the sliver of moonlight that seeped through their bedroom window. He was only twelve— still a boy, still soft around the edges despite the rigorous training he’d already begun. He was built for the Games, as they all were, but he wasn’t ready. Not yet.

“You’re different, Oph,” he murmured, voice thick with uncertainty. “You’re stronger than me.”

Ophelia sighed, shaking her head as she squeezed his hand. “I’m not strong, Cato. I just got lucky.”

But he didn’t see it that way. To him, his sister was a force of nature— unbreakable, untouchable. He had watched her conquer the arena, seen her fight for her life. She had faced death and won. He had never seen her falter, never seen the cracks she kept hidden from the world. “You were strong enough,” he insisted. “I don’t know if I am. I’m just scared.”

Ophelia turned onto her side, reaching up to cradle his face with her free hand, her fingers warm against his cheek. He was still so young, too young to carry this kind of fear. But then again, weren’t they all?

“Fear is sometimes the best motivation,” she whispered. “But listen to me, Cato. Don’t volunteer. That’s how they narrow it down. If your name is called, just wait. The older boys will volunteer. They always do. Just stand there and stay silent.”

He swallowed, nodding. “Okay.”

She wanted to believe that was the end of it.

And so, when the reaping day arrived, Cato did exactly as she had told him.

He stood amidst the sea of other eligible boys, his heart pounding in his chest as the escort reached into the bowl, fingers sifting through the slips of paper. The name that left their lips wasn’t his. His own remained untouched, nestled safely among the hundreds of others. Relief crashed over him like a wave, but he didn’t move. He didn’t speak. He didn’t volunteer. He stood there, still and silent, as the crowd of older boys erupted in chaos, their voices rising in desperation:

“I volunteer! I volunteer!”

He held his breath and waited, his limbs stiff with tension. It took hours— six for the boys alone. The tributes had to be sorted, and the volunteers fought for their place, clawing their way toward the honor of representing 2. By the time the female reaping began, the sky had started to shift, hues of orange and deepening blue bleeding together. Another four hours passed before it was over.

By then, the relief had settled deep into his bones, but so had the exhaustion.

The moment they were dismissed, Cato didn’t hesitate. He tore through the dispersing crowd, shoving past bodies as he sprinted toward Ophelia. He crashed into her, his momentum nearly knocking them both over. She staggered back but held firm, her arms wrapping tightly around his trembling form.

Cato clung to her, his fists curling into the fabric of her shirt, his face pressed against her shoulder. He was shaking.

“I didn’t—I didn’t get picked,” he choked out, his breath coming in sharp, uneven gasps. “I—I did what you said. I didn’t move. I didn’t say anything.”

Ophelia exhaled a shaky breath, pressing a hand to the back of his head, her fingers threading through his hair in soothing strokes. “You did good, Cato,” she murmured. “You did exactly what you needed to do.”

He nodded against her shoulder, but the tremors wracking his body didn’t stop. He had spent the entire day standing on the knife’s edge of fate, and now that it was over, the fear was catching up to him all at once.

“I was so scared,” he admitted, his voice muffled. “I—I thought maybe—”

“I know,” Ophelia whispered, her hold on him tightening. “I know.”

They stood there for what felt like forever, wrapped in each other’s arms, the weight of the day pressing heavy against them both. Finally, Ophelia pulled back just enough to look him in the eyes, brushing his messy blond hair away from his damp forehead. “You’re safe, Cato. You’re safe.”

For now.

Chapter Text

July, 70 ADD

THE LIVING ROOM WAS DIMLY LIT by the flickering glow of the television screen, the only source of light in the quiet house. Ophelia sat curled into the corner of the couch, Concrete sprawled across her lap, his graying muzzle resting against her arm. His ribs shifted slightly with every slow, steady breath. He had gained weight since they first found him, no longer just a sack of bones wrapped in brittle fur, but he still carried the weary stiffness of an old, wounded thing.

Cato sat beside her, his legs tucked up onto the couch, his head resting atop Concrete’s back. His even breathing let her know he was already asleep. She should’ve woken him up. He was twelve now— old enough to watch, old enough to see. But he looked peaceful, his face slack in a way she rarely saw.

On the screen, Annie Cresta’s ally had just lost their head. One moment, they were there— panting, wounded, running alongside her— and then the silver blade of the District 1 tribute came down. A clean, brutal arc. A flash of red. A head rolling through the dirt.

Annie’s scream ripped through the arena.

Ophelia stared blankly at the screen, fingers tightening against Concrete’s fur. He let out a quiet sigh, shifting slightly in her lap but not waking.

Footsteps approached from the kitchen. The creak of the floorboards. The rustle of fabric.

Their mother stepped into the room, a dishtowel still in her hands, and her gaze immediately landed on the television. Her mouth pressed into a thin line. She moved towards the screen.

Ophelia’s hand shot out before she could think, fingers gripping the sleeve of her mother’s sweater. “Mom, no,” she whispered, her voice barely more than breath. “It’s mandatory. We have to keep it on.”

Her mother looked down at her, expression unreadable in the dim light. There was something in her eyes, something that flickered and shifted before it settled into quiet resignation. Slowly, she turned away from the television and sat down beside Ophelia on the couch. She hesitated only for a moment before reaching out and taking Ophelia’s hand.

Ophelia let her.

She wondered, absently, if her mother felt guilty— if this was her attempt at atonement for the years she spent pulling away, for the distance that had stretched between them like a yawning chasm before Ophelia won the Games. If it was easier for her now that Ophelia was safe, now that she was untouchable. She wondered if that was why she still kept Cato at arm’s length. Because he wasn’t safe. Because his name would be in the reaping bowl for years yet.

Ophelia squeezed her mother’s hand once, gently, before turning her gaze back to the screen. Annie Cresta was still running. Still screaming. There was nothing Ophelia could do but watch.

September, 70 ADD

The wooden floor was cool beneath Ophelia’s bare feet as she padded down the hall, the morning light filtering in through the curtains. Concrete’s nails clicked softly as he trailed behind her, his steps slow, careful, worn with age. She glanced down, watching as his ears flicked toward the sound of birdsong outside the window, before she stopped in front of Cato’s bedroom door. She didn’t bother knocking.

Instead, she pushed it open, the hinges creaking slightly, revealing her younger brother sprawled out on his bed, one foot kicked out from under the covers, the other still tangled in the mess of blankets he hadn’t bothered to fix before going to sleep. Concrete stopped beside her, sniffing at the air before yawning, his jaw stretching wide.

Cato cracked one eye open.

Ophelia crossed her arms over her chest. “I’m taking Concrete for a walk. You wanna come?”

For a moment, Cato only blinked at her, still caught somewhere between sleep and wakefulness, before he groaned and flopped onto his back, tossing an arm over his eyes. “Nah,” he mumbled. “I’m going to see Clove. Gonna train in the ring.”

Of course he was.

Ophelia sighed, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. “Alright. Have fun.”

Cato barely responded, only waving her off as he rolled onto his side, his face buried in his pillow. Ophelia didn’t push it. Instead, she turned on her heel, making her way back down the hallway, her footfalls light, the old dog following closely at her side.

She carried Concrete down the stairs, arms wrapped around his frail body, feeling the way his ribs pressed faintly against his thinning coat. It was different from when she’d first started sneaking him scraps, different from when he’d been wary of her touch, all bones and distrust. Now, he leaned into her, his grizzled muzzle resting against her shoulder as she carefully descended the stairs.

Her parents were in the kitchen, her mother rinsing out a cup at the sink, her father sitting at the table, flipping through a newspaper. The smell of coffee lingered in the air, mixing with the faintest trace of last night’s dinner.

As Ophelia passed, she leaned down, pressing a kiss to her mother’s cheek. “Love you,” she muttered casually before moving to her father, who barely looked up as she pecked his temple.

“Take it easy on the slab,” her father muttered, eyes still on the paper.

Ophelia paused mid-step, turning to glare at him. Her father snorted. She rolled her eyes and walked out the door, the morning air crisp against her skin, Concrete nestled securely in her arms.

November, 70 ADD

Ophelia stood near the edge of the grand hall with Brutus and Enobaria. Her evening gown, a soft, shimmering gold that cinched at the waist, felt almost suffocating in the thick heat of the Capitol’s attention while her drink was cool against her fingers, the glass slick from condensation. She drained the last of its contents before sighing softly.

“I’m getting another,” she murmured to her companions, stepping away before either could comment.

Navigating through the sea of Capitol elites and their jeweled masks of fascination, Ophelia moved toward the refreshment table, reaching for a fresh flute of something chilled and fizzy when she caught sight of Finnick standing at the opposite end of the table. He moved with an effortless grace, the kind that drew attention even in a room filled with peacocks and pretense. His bronze curls, slightly tousled, framed sharp sea-green eyes that flicked up in acknowledgment as Ophelia hesitated.

“How’s Annie doing?” Ophelia asked, her voice light yet measured. She wasn’t close to Finnick, but she had trained alongside him for years before her own victory. Their paths had always been parallel, intersecting only at the occasional event like this one.

Finnick’s fingers paused over the stem of a glass before he glanced at her, something unreadable flashing across his features. He didn’t answer her question. Instead, he countered with his own. “Why weren’t you mentoring?” His tone was neither cold nor warm, just curious, perhaps slightly detached, as though the answer didn’t much matter.

Ophelia met his gaze, then turned slightly, watching the room rather than looking at him. “Enobaria and I alternate years,” she answered simply.

Finnick made a quiet sound, something between understanding and dismissal, before selecting two glasses of champagne. He pivoted, preparing to leave, but Ophelia’s voice stopped him.

“I hope she’s okay.”

Finnick stilled, his fingers tightening around the glasses. He didn’t turn back to her, didn’t acknowledge the sentiment with words, but Ophelia caught the brief flicker of something in his posture— an almost imperceptible shift before he continued walking away.

She watched him go, her expression impassive, until she saw where—or rather, to whom—he was bringing the drink. An older woman, opulently dressed, her artificial beauty carefully curated, her lips curling into a knowing smile as Finnick handed her the glass. The way she leaned in, fingertips brushing his wrist in an all-too-familiar way, sent an odd prickling sensation down Ophelia’s spine.

She lingered for a moment longer, then turned away, her own drink suddenly tasting far too bitter.

The next morning, back in 2, Ophelia sat cross-legged on her plush chaise lounge, lazily stroking Concrete’s matted fur as the old mutt lay curled against her. The television cast flickering colors across the room, Caesar Flickerman’s unmistakable laughter filling the space.

The television flickered in front of her, broadcasting Caesar Flickerman’s talk show, his ever-present smile gleaming under the studio lights. Beside him, Claudius Templesmith chuckled in his deep, theatrical voice, the two bantering back and forth like old friends.

“Ah, Finnick Odair,” Caesar said, sighing dramatically as an array of images appeared on the screen— Finnick with two older men, separate shots of him with three different women. “What will we do with you?”

Claudius gave a low laugh, shaking his head. “He certainly knows how to keep himself busy, doesn’t he?”

Ophelia absentmindedly scratched behind Concrete’s ear, her gaze locked on the screen. She had heard the whispers before, the rumors about Finnick’s flings, his effortless ability to charm. The Capitol loved a good romance, especially one draped in mystery and scandal.

But last night had felt different. The way Finnick had handed that drink to the woman, the way he had carried himself—  it didn’t seem like the gestures of a man indulging in casual affairs. It had felt transactional, like something predetermined, something unavoidable.

The screen shifted, cutting to a recap of Finnick’s recent interview with Caesar Flickerman.

But it wasn’t Finnick’s face that appeared.

It was Annie Cresta.

Ophelia straightened slightly, her fingers stilling against Concrete’s fur as the broadcast replayed the moment. Annie sat stiffly in her chair, her hands twisted together in her lap. Her eyes were wide, darting slightly as she processed the overwhelming lights and cameras. Caesar, ever the showman, leaned in with a bright smile, his voice lighthearted but leading.

“You must tell us, Annie, what was the first thing you thought after you won?”

Annie blinked, her lips parting, but for a long moment, she didn’t speak. Ophelia watched the flicker of something other pass through her expression before, finally, she whispered, “Finnick.”

The audience erupted into delighted laughter and applause, Caesar flashing his signature grin as he clapped his hands together. “Of course! Our darling Finnick Odair, always unforgettable.”

Ophelia kept staring at the screen, but her mind was elsewhere.

December, 70 ADD

Ophelia had meant to retire early. Her interview was scheduled for the following morning, part of an ongoing campaign featuring victors from District 2— an advertisement showcasing the latest advancements in Capitol weaponry, marketed as "elite athleticism" for the citizens who fancied themselves warriors in their extravagant training studios. She had spent hours being fitted into sleek armor, her hair sculpted into something softer than the usual severe styles the Capitol adored for her district. They wanted her to be both dangerous and delicate, a Victor who embodied both beauty and power.

She hadn't protested, though the long hours of posturing left her drained. One drink, she told herself. One drink to soothe the exhaustion that had settled deep in her limbs before she returned to her suite.

The mirrored walls of the Capitol hotel stretched high, reflecting the glimmering chandeliers overhead, their golden light pooling onto the polished marble floors. The entire building was a grand display of wealth and indulgence, excessive in every way, meant to remind the Victors that their survival came at a price. The lounge was alive with murmured conversations and light laughter, Capitol elites draped in shimmering silks and lace, their voices thick with expensive wine and the ever-present air of self-importance. 

Ophelia moved quietly through the space, unnoticed by most. She preferred it that way.

It wasn’t until she neared the sleek marble bar at the far end of the lounge that she noticed him. Finnick. He was leaning against one of the grand columns, posture deceptively relaxed, the dim lighting casting soft shadows across the planes of his face. His sea-green eyes glowed under the golden light, his tousled bronze hair catching the flickering glint of the chandeliers overhead. 

He looked exactly the way the Capitol liked him to look— like a god carved from the salt and sand of District 4, a thing meant to be admired, touched, possessed. But he wasn’t alone.

Ophelia slowed her steps, her gaze flickering to the woman standing close to him. She was older— perhaps in her late fifties— her rich burgundy gown hugging her body, jewels gleaming at her throat and fingers. Her face, taut with the Capitol’s obsession with youth, was almost mask-like. Her nails, long and painted gold, trailed up Finnick’s arm, lingering at his shoulder. She laughed, a breathy, syrupy sound.

Finnick didn’t laugh with her. His lips twitched in something that resembled a smile, but his eyes remained flat, distant.

Ophelia frowned.

She shouldn’t have been watching, shouldn’t have lingered, but something about the moment felt wrong. The woman’s fingers played with the fabric of his shirt, slipping just beneath the collar, a gesture too intimate, too proprietary. Finnick remained perfectly still, his posture unchanged. But then she noticed— his right hand, the one hidden from the woman’s view, had curled into a fist behind his back.

He wasn’t enjoying this.

She took a step forward before she even realized she was moving.

“Is there a problem here?”

Her voice cut through the hum of the lobby, sharp and clear.

The woman turned first, blinking in surprise as her gaze flickered over Ophelia, assessing, calculating. Then Finnick turned, his expression momentarily unreadable before the easy, practiced charm slid into place like a mask.

The words hung between them, slicing clean through the hazy warmth of the room. Several heads turned toward her, but Ophelia’s focus remained fixed on Finnick and the woman beside him. The woman blinked, clearly surprised by the interruption.

Finnick, however, did not look surprised. If anything, his expression froze— just for a split second. His mask had faltered. But it returned just as quickly, a slow, easy smile curling at his lips as he finally turned his head toward her. “Ophelia,” he said, his voice all smooth, honeyed charm. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

Something cold laced beneath those words.

The woman, seemingly unconcerned, let out a light, melodic laugh. “My, my, Finnick,” she purred, trailing a finger down the silk of his unbuttoned shirt. “You didn’t tell me you had company.”

Ophelia’s stomach turned again.

He doesn’t want this. He doesn’t want her touching him.

She straightened. “He doesn’t look comfortable.” She kept her voice steady. “You should back off.”

The woman’s laughter died, her expression shifting to something colder. Assessing. Like Ophelia was an unexpected complication she hadn’t accounted for.

Finnick moved before the woman could respond. He stepped between them, cutting off Ophelia’s line of sight. “Walk away,” he said quietly, so low only she could hear.

She hesitated. “Finnick, what is this?”

His jaw tightened. “Ophelia,” Finnick spoke smoothly, his voice lowering just enough that only she could hear. “Walk away.”

There was no trace of flirtation in his tone, no lingering tease, no warmth. Just a quiet warning. Ophelia blinked, thrown off by the sudden shift. She glanced at him, searching his face, but his expression remained unreadable. Controlled.

Why was he letting this happen? Why wasn’t he walking away? Why wasn’t he telling this woman off himself?

The woman chuckled again, but this time it was tinged with mild impatience. “You really should teach your friends better manners, Finnick.”

Finnick’s jaw tightened, but his smile didn’t waver. “I apologize,” he said, the words smooth, effortless. “She’s still learning the Capitol’s… customs.”

Customs.

The word rang strangely in Ophelia’s ears.

The woman gave a dismissive wave. “I suppose I can forgive it.” Her hand drifted along Finnick’s arm again, her nails grazing against his wrist, before she finally pulled away. “I’ll see you soon.”

Ophelia opened her mouth, but Finnick’s hand was suddenly on her arm, steering her away before she could say another word.

“Are you insane?” His voice was sharp, quiet, once they were out of earshot.

Ophelia yanked her arm back, heart pounding. “You’re seriously mad at me?”

Finnick let out a sharp exhale, running a hand through his hair. “You don’t know what you just did.”

Ophelia folded her arms. “I was helping you.”

Finnick laughed, a bitter, humorless sound. “You weren’t helping me, Ophelia. You were making things worse.”

Ophelia’s heart pounded. The pieces were still scattered, not quite fitting together. She thought back to the Capitol talk shows, the gossip surrounding Finnick, the way Caesar Flickerman always made sly, knowing comments about his many connections. The older women, the older men. The way Finnick played along, always with that same carefully curated smile.

Her throat went dry. She looked at him, really looked at him. The exhaustion that lingered behind his eyes. The way his body remained perfectly still, even now. Realization settled like a stone in her stomach. 

“Oh.”

Finnick watched her, waiting.

Ophelia swallowed. “I—I didn’t know.” The words were weak, pathetic, because what else was there to say?

“Yeah,” Finnick said, his voice devoid of anything. “No one does.” And then he turned and walked away.

He didn’t look back. Didn’t give her a chance to say anything else. Ophelia stood alone in the dim hallway, her breath unsteady, her mind racing.

She wished she hadn’t said anything at all.

January, 71 ADD

The pounding of Ophelia’s feet against the dirt road was a steady, rhythmic sound— one that drowned out the noise in her head, the thoughts that had been pressing in ever since she’d come back from the Capitol. Ever since she learned about Finnick.

Her lungs burned, but she welcomed it.

The music blasting through her portable player was sharp, vicious, the heavy guitar riffs rattling through her skull. She focused on that, let it fuel her, let it drive her forward as she rounded the curve in the path leading through the Victor’s Village. The wind whipped against her damp skin, strands of caramel-blonde hair sticking to her temples despite being pulled into a loose ponytail.

Her father sat on the porch, one boot propped up against the railing, a cigarette dangling lazily between his fingers. He watched her run, his gaze steady, tracking every stride, every turn.

The screen door creaked open, and her mother stepped out, balancing a plate of golden-brown scones in one hand, a cloth draped over them to keep the warmth in. She glanced toward her husband, then out toward Ophelia, still running.

“She’s still at it?”

Her father nodded, taking a slow drag from his cigarette before exhaling. “Yeah. I’m surprised she hasn’t tripped yet.”

Her mother hummed, setting the plate down on the small table beside his chair, before crossing her arms and watching their daughter move.

Behind them, the door slammed again, and Cato stepped out, shoving his foot into the back of his worn tennis shoe. He muttered under his breath as he knelt to tie it, his words just loud enough to carry over the porch. “I’m gonna stop her before her legs fall off.”

Their parents said nothing, only exchanged a glance as Cato took off down the porch steps, already moving. He jogged for the first few feet, stretching out his legs, before pushing into a sprint, his arms pumping at his sides.

Ophelia didn’t notice him at first— too lost in her music, in the drumming in her chest— but when he finally reached her, falling into pace at her side, he grinned, barely out of breath.

“So,” he panted, tilting his head toward her. “What are you running from?”

She didn’t respond. Didn’t even look at him.

Cato huffed, rolling his eyes before reaching out and tugging her sleeve, only for Ophelia to jerk her arm away, barely acknowledging him as she kept her pace.

Oh.

She had her stupid music on.

Cato sighed but didn’t leave. Instead, he kept running alongside her, letting the silence stretch between them, though he knew she wouldn’t keep it up forever.

Fifteen minutes later, her strides slowed, her shoulders heaving as she let herself stop, bending forward with her hands on her knees before finally lowering herself to the ground, her back against the dirt road.

Cato followed suit, dropping onto the ground beside her, stretching his arms out as he caught his breath. The sky above them was wide, endless, the clouds drifting lazily through the blue.

For a while, neither of them spoke. Then, Cato turned his head slightly, looking at her out of the corner of his eye. “So,” he said again, quieter this time. “What’s your deal?”

Ophelia inhaled deeply, her chest rising, before exhaling slowly. She didn’t look at him. Just stared at the clouds, the wisps of white curling like waves.

“I dunno.”

Apil, 71 ADD

Cato was growing up. It was inevitable, Ophelia supposed, but that didn’t make it hurt any less. Thirteen now, he was taller than before, his shoulders beginning to broaden, his once-boyish face sharpening at the edges. And with that change came another, one she had expected but had dreaded all the same: he was growing away from her. It wasn’t just the age difference, the natural course of siblings drifting as childhood faded; it was something more.

He had found someone else.

Clove Kentwell.

A girl just a few years younger than him, fierce in a way that Ophelia had never been, no matter how much she had tried to be. Clove had been his sparring partner at the training school for as long as Ophelia could remember, the two of them almost always paired together, knives and swords flashing under the harsh lights of the courtyard. The academy was less of an educational institution and more of a factory— one that churned out tributes, feeding them to the arena like livestock for slaughter. 

Clove was thriving in it. Cato was too.

It wasn’t the fact that they spent hours together that unsettled Ophelia. It wasn’t even the fact that Clove had begun to linger at their home in the Victor’s Village, as though she belonged there just as much as Cato did. No, what truly unsettled her, what turned her stomach to lead, was the way they laughed while they trained. The way they grinned through the clash of metal, their bodies bruised and bloodied, yet their eyes alight with something terrifyingly close to joy.

Ophelia stood at the kitchen sink, her hands submerged in warm water as she scrubbed at a serving bowl with a sponge worn nearly to shreds. She had tossed the older one aside earlier that day, breaking in the rough texture of the new one until it softened to her liking. Outside, through the window above the sink, she could see them. Cato and Clove, in the backyard, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows as they danced around each other with stolen blades. She had seen this before, the deadly choreography they had perfected— Cato’s brute force against Clove’s precision. It was disturbing how natural it looked. How easily they moved, as if they had been born for this. Perhaps they had been.

She nearly missed the soft footsteps behind her, the telltale presence of her mother.

“Oh, honey,” Mrs. Hadley whispered, her voice gentler than it used to be, as if she had only recently learned how to wield softness. “Let me help. You don’t have to do it all alone.”

Ophelia tensed, her grip tightening around the bowl until her knuckles turned paper white. 

“Don’t bother,” she murmured, scrubbing the porcelain with renewed aggression. The bowl was already spotless, the water running clear, but she kept scrubbing anyway. A task to keep her hands busy, her mind distracted.

Mrs. Hadley sighed, blinking away the emotion Ophelia knew she wouldn’t voice, before turning to the window. Outside, Cato had just knocked the sword from Clove’s grip, sending it skidding across the grass. Clove merely laughed, darting forward and shoving him hard in the chest. He stumbled back before chasing after her, the two of them nothing but flashes of movement and reckless joy.

“They seem to be good friends,” her mother observed, her tone unreadable.

Ophelia’s lips pressed into a thin line. Her hands ached from the water, the skin of her fingertips raw and pink from the friction.

“Seems like it,” she said flatly.

Her mother hesitated for a moment before taking a step closer, resting a tentative hand on Ophelia’s shoulder. She had changed, too, over the years. Ophelia could admit that much. Mrs. Hadley had begun to show affection more freely, her once-stoic demeanor softening like clay left too long in the sun. But Ophelia wasn’t sure if she could accept it, if she could let go of the years of distance, of cold indifference that had defined their relationship for so long.

Outside, Cato and Clove had abandoned their swords entirely, their sparring devolving into something more playful. Clove shrieked as Cato grabbed her wrist, twisting her arm behind her back before releasing her just as quickly. She retaliated with a sharp jab to his ribs, her laughter ringing through the air like a bell.

Ophelia swallowed thickly.

She remembered when that used to be them— when Cato was just a little boy chasing his sister through the same backyard, before training swords and knives had replaced wooden sticks and make-believe battles. When had it all changed? When had she lost that lightness, that ability to let go and just be?

Had it been in the arena, when Titus’s hands had wrapped around her throat, squeezing the air from her lungs until her vision blurred at the edges? Had it been before then, long before she had ever set foot on that stage? Had she ever truly felt safe, even in the years before the Games took her?

Outside, Cato and Clove continued their game, blissfully unaware of the storm brewing behind the glass.

Ophelia exhaled slowly, forcing her fingers to release their death grip on the sponge.

She had lost him. Maybe not completely, not yet. But she could feel it slipping, that bond they had once shared, fraying at the edges like an old rope worn thin.

And Cato, laughing with Clove in the golden light of the setting sun, didn’t even notice.

July, 71 ADD

Ophelia sat curled up on the plush velvet couch in the lounge car of the Capitol train, a half-empty bottle of wine dangling loosely from her fingers. She took another sip, wincing slightly as the wine burned its way down. Too bitter. She hadn’t grabbed the sweet kind this time.

The tributes were asleep, locked away in their compartments, dreams of home dissolving into nightmares of the arena. She envied them, in a way. They still had hope.

Brutus’ door creaked open down the corridor, and heavy footsteps padded into the dimly lit car. Ophelia didn’t bother looking up— she knew that gait, the solid weight of it. Brutus never walked anywhere like a normal person; he stomped, owned every step, like the train belonged to him. Maybe in a way, it did. They were all just along for the ride.

Brutus made his way to the bar cart without a word, grabbing a bottle of whiskey with one large hand. The glass clinked as he poured himself a generous amount into a crystal tumbler before deciding against it entirely and just drinking straight from the bottle.

Ophelia watched from the corner of her eye as he lowered himself onto the couch beside her, the cushions sinking slightly beneath his weight.

“You still having those nightmares?” His voice was rough, deep, low enough that it didn’t quite break the silence of the train car, but still carried its usual weight.

Ophelia exhaled through her nose, shifting slightly, the velvet of the couch cool against her bare legs. “Does it count if my life is one big one?”

Brutus huffed a laugh, though there was no humor in it. “Guess not.” He took another long drink, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “At least nightmares end.”

Ophelia tilted the wine bottle against her lips, swallowing deep, feeling it settle warm and heavy in her stomach.

For a moment, neither of them spoke, just sat there in their own silence, both too accustomed to the weight of it to feel uncomfortable.

Then, Ophelia turned slightly, her voice quieter this time. “Do you know about Finnick?”

She didn’t have to clarify.

Brutus went still for half a second, just enough for her to catch it before he exhaled through his nose and leaned back against the couch.

“All the victors know.” His tone was unreadable, but there was something there, buried deep beneath the rough exterior. Something bitter. “Ain’t exactly a secret.”

Ophelia turned her head to look at him, her brows drawn together.

And then, as if sensing the question already forming in her mind, he added, “He’s not the only one.”

The wine in her stomach curdled, a slow horror seeping into her limbs as she stared at him, trying to decipher the expression on his face. “Was anyone going to tell me?”

Brutus sighed, rubbing a hand over his jaw, before meeting her eyes. “No one gets a choice, kid. You learn soon enough.”

Ophelia shook her head, curling her fingers tighter around the neck of the bottle.

It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair.

She lifted the wine to her lips again, this time not bothering with measured sips. She drank deep, large gulps burning her throat as she swallowed, as if the alcohol could drown out the thoughts clawing their way through her skull. “I don’t get it,” she muttered, voice thick from the drink. “Finnick could fight back. He could—”

Brutus sighed slowly, tipping his head back to rest against the couch. “No. He can’t.”

Ophelia turned her head sharply.

Brutus glanced at her, shaking his head slightly before taking another pull from his whiskey. “Victors don’t have a choice,” he muttered. “Snow makes sure of that.”

Ophelia’s stomach twisted. She felt the wine hitting her now, making her limbs heavier, making her thoughts fog. She closed her eyes for a brief moment, inhaling deeply before mumbling, half to herself, half to the ceiling—

“I hate it here.”

Brutus chuckled dryly, the sound rough and humorless. “Get in line, kid.” He took another long drink, tilting his head back against the couch. “Welcome to the rest of your life.”

The air was thick with the scent of roses and sweat, the overpowering perfume of the Capitol mingling with the heat of the midday sun. Ophelia shifted in her seat, lifting a hand to shield her eyes as she watched the chariots roll forward in perfect formation. The crowd roared, an ocean of garish colors and fluttering hands, each cheer louder than the last.

She barely flinched at the sound. She was used to it by now.

Beside her, Brutus stood with his arms crossed over his broad chest, watching their District 2 tributes with a narrowed gaze. His face was set in that perpetual expression of deep-set intensity, the one that made him look like he was constantly contemplating whether or not to punch someone.

For a moment, neither of them spoke, their eyes locked on the spectacle below. Then, Ophelia exhaled sharply, shifting her weight. “I might go blind if the sun keeps shining down like this.” She squinted against the bright light, nose scrunching slightly as she adjusted her position.

Brutus glanced down at her, his lips twitching slightly before he stepped forward, blocking the sun’s glare with his frame. “Better?” His voice was gruff, as always.

Ophelia glanced up at him, about to thank him— only to immediately burst into laughter, lifting her hand again as if to shield herself all over again. “The sun is shining off your head.”

Brutus gave her a flat look, reaching up instinctively to rub a hand over his smooth scalp.

Ophelia continued laughing, nudging his arm playfully. “Ask Pulchra to get you a wig. That’s what the stylists are for, not just the tributes.”

Brutus scoffed, shaking his head. “Yeah? Maybe I’ll ask her for one in hot pink, match your nails while I’m at it.”

Ophelia glanced down at her nails— glossy, rose-colored, freshly painted in the Capitol. She smirked. “I think you’d look good.”

The Training Center smelled like metal and sweat— like nerves fraying at the edges. It was quiet, as it usually was during the first day of training. The second day was somewhat louder. The third was moreso, the sound of weapons striking dummies, the hum of whispered strategies, the sharp clang of swords against each other filling the air as the tributes grew more confident. Confident was an umbrella term. Ophelia knew better than to expect that from children waiting to be slaughtered.

Ophelia stood at the edge of the observation deck, arms loosely folded, watching as her female tribute— a muscular and quick witted seventeen-year-old— tested her balance on the agility course. She was good. Skilled. That was to be expected from a Career tribute. She would do well. Get sponsors. Hopefully make it out alive. But hope could only get one so far.

Beside her, Gloss stood with his hands tucked behind his back, his expression impassive as he observed his own tribute, a broad-shouldered boy from 1. The kid was already showing off, swinging a sword like he was born with it in his hands. Maybe he had been.

Ophelia’s gaze flickered across the room— and she saw him. Finnick stood near the spears, his bronze hair gleaming under the artificial light, his expression smooth and unreadable. He was speaking to his tribute, a younger boy who couldn’t have been more than fourteen, guiding his hands as he positioned the spear. Finnick smiled, nodding in approval as the boy threw it. It wasn’t a real smile, though. Not the kind that reached his eyes.

Shifting slightly on her feet, Ophelia murmured, “Do you know Finnick well?”

Gloss hummed, tilting his head slightly as he followed her gaze. “Not personally,” he admitted. “I know more about him in the tabloids than anything else.”

Ophelia pressed her lips together, her hands tightening around her arms.

Gloss exhaled softly before adding, “But I know there’s more truth to what’s said about him behind the scenes.”

There was something about the way he said it— something weighted, something deliberate.

Ophelia glanced up at him. For a long moment, she didn’t say anything. Then, in a voice barely above a breath, she muttered, “I saw him.”

Gloss didn’t react immediately. His gaze remained forward, his posture still composed, but his fingers curled slightly behind his back.

When he did speak, his voice was lower. Calculated. “Did you see Cashmere too?”

Ophelia turned to stare at him, her blood running cold. She didn’t say anything for a long, stretched moment— her silence, her wide-eyed horror, was answer enough. Gloss finally glanced down at her, his lips pressing together slightly. 

Ophelia swallowed. “No,” she whispered. “I didn’t see her.”

Gloss exhaled slowly, nodding once, before returning his attention to the training floor.

Ophelia, however, couldn’t look away from him. She had suspected— of course, she had suspected— but hearing it, knowing it was different. It made her stomach churn.

She looked back at Finnick, at the way he placed a hand on his tribute’s shoulder, at the way he smiled, easy, effortless. She wondered if she had ever actually seen him smile at all.

September, 71 ADD

Ophelia wasn’t sure when she had begun to bite her lip.

Perhaps it had started when she was a child, a nervous habit born from soothing the dry skin. Now, it was something else entirely— something pacifying, something grounding. A way to steady herself when the air around her felt too heavy.

She felt the familiar press of her teeth against the soft flesh now, her nerves wound tight as she stood backstage, surrounded by the hum of the Capitol’s production crew. The lights above buzzed softly, casting a golden glow over everything, but she barely noticed. Her fingers curled at her sides, nails ghosting over the fabric of her silver dress.

“You’ll stain your teeth.” Enobaria’s voice was flat, but the warning was clear.

Ophelia startled slightly before forcing her jaw to unclench, lips parting as she let out a slow breath. Enobaria, standing beside her in a metallic gold dress that clung to her figure like liquid metal, gave her a look before glancing toward the stage. She had already been through this before— years of interviews, of cameras, of playing her part. It was second nature to her now. Ophelia envied that.

The murmur of the crowd grew louder as Caesar's voice carried through the speakers, his laughter booming through the large speakers overhead as he bid Cashmere and Gloss farewell. The golden-haired siblings walked offstage, Gloss guiding his sister with a hand on her back, their smiles still fixed in place as they disappeared behind the curtain.

A second later, one of the producers called for Enobaria. She exhaled sharply through her nose before stepping forward, the train of her dress gliding effortlessly behind her. Ophelia watched her go, watched as she straightened her shoulders and slipped into the role she had perfected years ago.

And then, she was alone. She shifted on her feet, glancing around the backstage area, searching for something—someone—to distract her from the creeping anxiety in her chest. The anticipation was suffocating. Then she saw the one person that she had done her best to avoid until now.

Standing across the room, Finnick was locked in conversation with someone she didn’t recognize, his expression unreadable.

Ophelia froze. The memory struck her like a blade to the ribs— sharp, sudden, inescapable. The hotel lobby. The woman’s manicured hand tracing over Finnick’s chest. Her own voice, quiet but firm, intervening. Finnick’s eyes, dark with something she hadn’t understood then but did now. Her stomach twisted violently. She looked away. Her hands trembled slightly as she exhaled through her nose, forcing herself to focus on the cold feel of the silver fabric beneath her fingertips. The cameras, the lights, the Capitol— it was all suffocating. But nothing suffocated quite like knowing the truth.

Finnick caught the stare before she even had the chance to look away.

A flicker of silver from across the room— Ophelia, standing alone, her gaze pinned to him before she abruptly turned her head, as if pretending she hadn’t been looking in the first place. But Finnick had seen. And the thing about being watched was that you could always tell when it was happening.

His jaw clenched slightly as he looked away, lips pressing together as something uncomfortable curled in his chest.

He hadn’t spoken to her since the hotel. Had barely even acknowledged her existence, the same way she now did with him. And maybe that was the smarter thing— to keep it that way. To let her avert her eyes and walk the other way and pretend that whatever had happened that night hadn’t mattered. That her catching him there, her seeing him like that, hadn’t made his stomach turn in a way that had nothing to do with the Capitol woman’s perfume or the suffocating weight of expectation.

It would be easier to let her pretend. But when had he ever done the easy thing?

Before he could talk himself out of it, he moved. Ophelia didn’t see him at first. She was still chewing her lip, shifting in place like she wanted to escape, scanning the backstage area for a distraction. But then she saw him, and the moment their eyes met, she froze.

For a split second, Finnick thought she might actually stay, might actually let this conversation happen. But then she moved, attempting to step away just as he reached her.

His hand shot out, fingers brushing against her wrist just briefly— just enough to stop her. “Leaving already?” His voice was lighter than he felt.

Ophelia went still. She turned back slowly, expression caught between wariness and something else he couldn’t quite place. When she finally spoke, her voice was quiet, almost hesitant. “Sorry. I didn’t know—”

Finnick cut her off before she could finish. “That you’d see me without your usual entourage?” His lips curled slightly, but there was no real amusement behind it. “I hardly ever see you without Enobaria or your other Career pack.”

Something flickered in her expression, something almost defensive, but before she could reply, he continued, voice dipping slightly. “Though I suppose it has been a while since I saw you alone.” He let the words hang in the air, letting her fill in the unspoken part herself— the hotel.

Ophelia stared at him, silent, before she recovered with a small inhale. "Well," she said finally, voice even, "I guess it’s for the best that I have my... pack with me." Her lips twitched. She resisted the urge to bite them. "To keep me out of getting into other people’s business."

Finnick hummed, tilting his head slightly. "That’s a nice way of saying you regret it," he mused, eyes flickering with something unreadable.

The sounds of the Capitol roared just beyond the curtain— the crowd cheering, the lights flashing, the interviews continuing on without them. But here, backstage, it was just the two of them, standing inches apart in a quiet war of words.

Ophelia’s gaze stayed on him, unreadable, as if waiting for him to say something else. He thought about it. Thought about telling her she had made things worse that night because she had— but also hadn’t. Thought about—

The sound of heels clicking against the floor cut through the moment. Finnick shifted his gaze past Ophelia, catching the familiar sight of Enobaria approaching, her gold dress gleaming beneath the lights. She was heading straight for them.

With that, Finnick leaned in, just slightly, just enough for Ophelia to hear him over the noise of the backstage crew. “That’s your cue,” he murmured.

Ophelia’s breath hitched just faintly before she stepped back.

And then, just like she had at the hotel, she walked away.

November, 71 ADD

The Victory Tour gala was as glamorous as it always was— a celebration of one victory amongst twenty-three other lives lost. It was meant to glaze over the slaughter that it had risen from. But Ophelia knew. The Victors all knew the truth behind the decadence.

Ophelia stood near one of the tables, her fingers skimming idly over the stem of her untouched champagne flute as she listened to Cashmere and Enobaria talk.

Johanna Mason.

That was the topic of the night for all the attendees— the Victor of the 71st Hunger Games.

“I still don’t know how she pulled it off,” Cashmere mused, swirling the wine in her glass, her gold-painted lips curving slightly. “No allies. No sponsors. Just an ax and a bad attitude.”

“She played weak,” Enobaria said, her voice as sharp as the gold points of her teeth. “Made them think she wasn’t a threat. Not bad, really. If she wasn’t such a pain in the ass, I’d almost be impressed.”

Cashmere let out a soft, amused hum before taking a sip of her wine.

Ophelia wasn’t listening to their words as much as she was watching Cashmere. Because Cashmere was unfairly beautiful.

It was an obvious fact, one the Capitol had glorified and devoured for years, but up close, it was different. Her beauty wasn’t just the airbrushed perfection the audience saw on screens— it was something almost unnatural. The cascade of golden curls, the shimmer dusted across her collarbones, the way her lashes framed her sharp blue eyes. She was striking. The kind of beauty that made one pause, that made people wonder if the world had shaped her this way on purpose.

Ophelia must have been looking too long because Cashmere’s gaze slid to hers, amused and vaguely curious.

“What do you need?” Cashmere asked, tilting her head slightly, her voice smooth as silk.

Ophelia blinked, heat rushing to her face as she realized she had been caught. “Oh. Sorry,” she stammered, shifting on her feet. “I just… you’re just really pretty.” She hesitated before quickly adding, “You have really pretty lashes. I wish mine were as long as yours.”

Cashmere blinked once before a slow smile curved across her lips. “Capitol beauty secrets,” she said, feigning a conspiratorial tone. “Not as hard to achieve as you’d think.”

Enobaria snorted under her breath before rolling her eyes. “I need another drink,” she muttered, already turning toward the bar. “Try not to bore her to death, Cash.”

Cashmere barely acknowledged her departure, her attention still on Ophelia.

That left Ophelia standing beside Cashmere, suddenly aware of how awkwardly she was holding herself.

To her credit, Cashmere didn’t make it worse. She tilted her head slightly, watching Ophelia with something more measured than amusement now. “Gloss told me you know,” she said, voice lower than before.

Ophelia’s stomach clenched. She didn’t have to ask what she meant. She swallowed, staring up at Cashmere in something close to shock.

Cashmere exhaled through her nose, setting her glass down on the table. “You’re safe. For now.” There was something careful in the way she said it, a warning wrapped in a reassurance. “Don’t draw attention to yourself.”

Ophelia felt something ache in her chest, something cold and heavy. “I thought we were supposed to be free from the Capitol,” she murmured, voice barely above a whisper.

Cashmere didn’t react at first. Slowly, she exhaled, her gaze flickering across the room— at the people watching, at the ones pretending not to.

“I think we all thought that, too,” she murmured.

Chapter Text

January, 72 ADD

THE FIRST KNIFE STRUCK DEAD CENTER. The second, just beside it. The third landed slightly off-center, but close enough. The fourth—

Miss.

Ophelia’s lips pressed together, frustration curling in her stomach as she exhaled sharply.

The blade had barely skimmed the target, embedding itself into the rough bark of the tree just inches away. Not far, but far enough. Far enough to be wrong.

She stepped forward, the crunch of leaves beneath her boots loud in the quiet of the woods. The air was crisp, the scent of pine sharp in the cool morning breeze, and yet none of it did anything to soften her irritation.

Her fingers curled around the handles of the knives, yanking each one from the tree with a quick pull. She barely had the last one in her grip when she heard the movement behind her. A shift in the leaves, the faintest snap of a twig.

Ophelia stilled, her grip tightening around the blades. She turned her head slightly, just enough to glance over her shoulder. Enobaria stood a few paces away, the gleam of the gold caps of her teeth catching the weak sunlight filtering through the canopy of trees. Her sword hung loosely at her side, her expression unreadable.

Ophelia relaxed, just slightly.

“I like to come out here too,” Enobaria said, voice even.

Ophelia hesitated before turning fully, holding up two of her knives. She extended them toward Enobaria in silent offer.

Enobaria arched a brow, glancing at the blades before tilting her head toward the weapon in her hand. “I’m good.”

Ophelia nodded, lowering the knives before giving a small shrug. “Cato prefers swords,” she murmured, almost absentmindedly as she spun one of the blades between her fingers. “I think they’re too bulky to carry around.”

Enobaria hummed. “That’s because you were trained for speed,” she said simply, shifting the weight of her sword as she examined Ophelia.

And then, without warning, she tossed it. Ophelia barely caught it in time, the weight of it unfamiliar in her grasp.

“Show me what you remember from training,” Enobaria said.

Ophelia gave her a look. But after a beat, she sighed, setting her knives down on the forest floor before adjusting her grip on the sword. It was heavier than she was used to, but she had been trained for this. Once, a lifetime ago.

Enobaria took a step back, bracing herself, then lifted her chin. “Come on.”

Ophelia didn’t hesitate. She lunged.

The clash of metal rang through the trees as their weapons met. Enobaria barely shifted, her stance solid as she parried each strike with a near-effortless precision. Ophelia moved quickly, using her speed to make up for the weight of the weapon, trying to remember how to adjust, how to shift her footwork accordingly. But Enobaria was stronger.

It didn’t take long before Ophelia found herself on the ground, her back hitting the dirt as Enobaria pinned her down. Ophelia huffed, frustration curling in her chest as she slammed her palm against the earth in surrender.

Enobaria smirked before rolling off of her, stepping back as Ophelia shoved the sword to the side and pushed herself up. “You’re sloppy,” she said. “But it’ll do.”

Ophelia scoffed, brushing dirt off her leggings before looking up at her.

Enobaria tilted her head slightly, expression unreadable. “We don’t need to worry about being polished anymore,” she said simply. “We already did our part.”

Ophelia stared at her. Then, after a moment, she exhaled, grabbing her knives from the ground before straightening fully. Enobaria watched her for a beat longer before turning, starting toward the trees. Ophelia hesitated before following.

The forest stretched endlessly before them, the trees tall and skeletal against the pale winter sky. Their boots left faint imprints in the frost-covered ground as they walked, the only sound between them the occasional crunch of twigs snapping beneath their weight.

Ophelia twirled one of her knives between her fingers absentmindedly, her grip loose, the blade catching the dull light whenever it turned. “How often do you come out here?”

Enobaria didn’t look at her. “More than I’m at home.”

Ophelia frowned slightly. She hesitated before asking, “How come?”

Gaze fixed ahead of her, Enobaria exhaled through her nose. “I don’t enjoy spending my time alone in an empty mansion.”

Frown deepening, Ophelia slowed her pace slightly, rolling the knife between her fingers, debating if she should ask the question hanging at the edge of her mind.

Enobaria answered before she could. “My parents died when I was young,” she said. Her voice was even, as if she were merely stating a fact, though there was a sharpness in the way she said it. “I was raised by my grandparents. Then they got sick.”

Ophelia didn’t respond right away. She knew that Enobaria had won her Games at seventeen. That her smile had been red with the blood of her enemies. That she had come home to nothing but a government-issued mansion in the Victor’s Village.

Prior to now, Ophelia had never asked what had happened to her family. Had never thought to ask. Now, she knew. 

She let the silence settle before attempting to shift the conversation.  “You’re always welcome to come by our house in the Village,” she said, keeping her voice light. “My mother always makes too much food. My dad never makes it to the dinner table in time since he works late at the Nut.”

Enobaria glanced at her, expression unreadable.

They reached the frozen pond, the surface smooth and glassy, reflecting the stark gray of the sky.

Ophelia stared at the ice, her breath curling in the cold air. “Do you like dogs?” she asked suddenly.

Enobaria raised a brow. “What?”

“Dogs,” Ophelia repeated, turning her head to look at her. “Do you like them?”

Enobaria blinked once before exhaling sharply. “They’re fine.”

Ophelia smiled slightly before glancing back at the ice. “Concrete and I take walks around lunch,” she said. “Cato’s started to bail on me. If you ever want to walk with me.”

Enobaria didn’t respond immediately.

Ophelia didn’t look at her, just watched the surface of the pond, waiting.

Then, after a moment, Enobaria said, “Maybe.”

Ophelia smiled.

April, 72 ADD

The bathroom mirror was still fogged from the heat of the shower, the air thick with the scent of soap and faint traces of her strawberry-scented body wash. Ophelia stepped onto the cool tile floor, steam rolling off her bare skin, a towel wrapped loosely around her body. Concrete lay sprawled on the bath mat near her feet, utterly unbothered by the droplets of water dripping onto his thick coat. His tail twitched once, lazily, before settling again.

Ophelia ignored him, pulling at the hem of her towel as she inspected her reflection in the mirror. She frowned slightly. A small red blemish had formed just above her left breast, an annoying little thing barely noticeable but irritating nonetheless.

She sighed, tilting her head as she pinched at it. She barely got a good squeeze before—

“— and this is Ophelia’s room—”

The door swung open.

“Cato!” 

Ophelia froze in horror, fingers still mid-squeeze, as her fourteen-year-old brother strolled into the room with Clove trailing casually behind him.

Cato barely spared her a glance before turning to Clove, completely unfazed by his older sister standing nearly naked in front of them. “— she’s a pain in the ass, but whatever. Mom and dad gave her the master bedroom—”

“Cato!” Ophelia’s voice shot up an octave, panic and rage flooding her veins in equal measure. “What the hell? Get out! Get out!”

Clove smirked, looking Ophelia up and down with undisguised amusement. “Your sister’s kinda a bitch.”

Cato snorted.

Ophelia lunged forward and shoved them both out of her room with as much force as she could muster, slamming the door in their faces for good measure.

She could still hear them laughing as they walked away.

By dinner, Ophelia was still seething.

She stomped down the stairs, her damp hair now tied into a loose braid over her shoulder, dressed in sweatpants and an oversized shirt that hung off one shoulder.

Cato was in the kitchen, leaning against the counter with a glass of water in hand, clearly thinking nothing of what he’d done. Clove was nowhere to be seen— thankfully— but that did nothing to quell Ophelia’s fury.

“You have no right to bring your little friend into my bedroom!” she shouted, storming into the kitchen. “My bedroom!”

Cato turned to face her, his expression immediately shifting into that infuriating look he always got when he knew he was about to make her even angrier. “I was just showing her the house,” he said, shrugging, as if that somehow justified violating her space. “It’s not that big of a deal.”

“Not that big of a—” Ophelia barked out a humorless scoff. “Cato, you walked into my room while I was practically naked!”

Their mother and father looked up from where they sat at the dining table, their father sighing in exasperation as their mother rubbed her temples.

“Ophelia, Cato,” Mr. Hadley started, already sounding exhausted, “can we not—”

Ophelia ignored him completely. “This is my house! I fought in the arena and won this house! What I say goes!” Her voice was sharp, fueled by sheer indignation. “Do not ever go into my room unless I allow it! Am I clear?!”

Cato scoffed, rolling his eyes. “You act like I go in there all the time—”

Ophelia pointed a finger at him, stepping forward, her fury reigniting at the casual tone in his voice. “Am. I. Clear?!”

Cato muttered something under his breath before turning on his heel and storming toward the front door. He grabbed his coat and yanked it on before shoving the door open.

Ophelia watched him go, chest rising and falling heavily, before slamming the kitchen cabinet shut and storming back upstairs.

The next morning, Ophelia pushed open the door to Cato’s room without knocking, Concrete balanced securely in her arms. The small dog dangled slightly over her forearm, his back legs hanging lazily as if he couldn’t care less about being carted around like a stuffed animal.

Cato was sprawled on his bed, one arm draped over his forehead, the other lazily scrolling through the channels on his room’s television screen. His room was an absolute disaster— clothes strewn over the floor, a few water glasses collecting dust on his nightstand, and a pair of sneakers that looked like they had been kicked off mid-stride.

“You gonna walk with us?” Ophelia asked, voice light, as though the screaming match from the night before had never happened.

Cato looked over from the screen, his expression unreadable for half a second before he tossed the remote aside and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. “Yeah,” he said simply, like nothing had happened.

Ophelia nodded, lowering Concrete to the floor. The dog gave a sleepy stretch before trotting out of the room ahead of them, tail wagging.

They walked downstairs together, exchanging casual goodbyes with their parents as they stepped outside into the crisp morning air. The sky was pale, the sun barely beginning to warm the Victors’ Village, casting long shadows across the cobblestone paths.

They strolled in silence through the quiet, empty streets, the well-kept houses standing in stark contrast to the rest of District 2 beyond the gates. Ophelia’s house wasn’t the only one that sat half-empty— most of the homes were like that, built for victors who either had no one to share them with or weren’t around to enjoy them.

Concrete trotted ahead of them, his thick coat practically glowing in the morning light as he sniffed at patches of grass and flicked his tail at a bird that landed too close.

Ophelia exhaled through her nose before speaking. “Sorry for yelling yesterday.”

Cato, who had been kicking a stray rock along the path, barely looked up. “I’m sorry my friend saw your boob zit.”

Ophelia stopped walking. Her mouth fell open in absolute horror. Cato took two steps forward before noticing that she had frozen in place. He turned back to face her, hands stuffed in the pockets of his hoodie, expression infuriatingly nonchalant.

It took her a second to recover, and when she did, Ophelia immediately swung a hand at his arm, smacking him hard. “Shut up!”

Cato barely flinched, grinning as he smacked her back, less forceful but just as annoying. “Did you pop it?”

Ophelia gasped, smacking him again— this time upside the head. “I hate you.”

Cato snickered, rubbing the spot she had hit, clearly unbothered.

They kept walking, following Concrete as he led them past the last of the houses and toward the wooded area behind the village. The dirt path beneath their feet was still damp from the morning dew, leaves rustling softly in the gentle breeze.

Cato was quiet for a moment before side-eyeing her.

Ophelia glared straight ahead, refusing to give him the satisfaction. But after a few seconds, she muttered under her breath. “… Yes, it popped.”

Cato burst out laughing.

July, 72 ADD

It was Enobaria’s year to train, much to Ophelia’s relief. It was required of the Victors to train the new round of tributes, but there was no need to have any more than one male and one female mentor per tribute. Anything more would be unnecessary. So, Ophelia took the time to relax while she had the chance.

The lake behind the Village had become her escape. It wasn’t much— a decent stretch of clear water tucked beyond the woods, a place quiet enough to almost make her forget about everything that lived in the rest of the district. She wasn’t a good swimmer, had never had the proper training to coast through the water with ease, but she still spent hours there. She merely floated on her back in the cold water, letting the sun beat down on her skin, letting the world feel weightless for a little while.

Today, she had Cato and Clove with her.

Cato was already waist-deep in the water, flicking droplets at Clove, who shrieked in protest but made no effort to actually move away from him. Concrete, meanwhile, stood hesitantly at the edge of the shore.

Ophelia waded toward him, watching as his ears twitched, his tail giving the smallest, uncertain wag. “You wanna swim, baby?” she asked, voice soft.

Concrete let out a small whine, his front paws shifting in the wet dirt, nails scraping lightly against the surface.

Ophelia smiled before stepping out of the water and scooping him up into her arms. He was still solid, still heavier than he looked, but he settled against her chest as she waded back toward the lower shore of the lake, the water lapping gently at her thighs.

She lowered herself until she was sitting, her one-piece black swimsuit clinging to her as she held Concrete against her, letting him feel the coolness of the water without forcing him in. His tail wagged a little, his paws moving slightly, testing the sensation.

Behind her, Clove snorted. “Maybe you should’ve brought a floatie for him,” she said, her voice light but carrying that unmistakable edge. The kind teenage girls got when they were trying to be funny but also a little mean. The kind they used when they wanted to impress someone.

Ophelia didn’t react.

She understood what Clove was doing. She was thirteen, Cato was fourteen. Of course she was going to be sharp, mouthy, trying to be cool in front of him. Ophelia had been the same way once.

Instead of engaging, she slowly stood, setting Concrete gently back onto the shore before grabbing her towel and drying off.

Cato watched her. “Where are you going?” he asked, eyes squinting slightly against the sun.

Ophelia shrugged, pulling her towel tighter around her shoulders. “I’m gonna head back to the house,” she said. “You guys have fun.”

Clove gave her a look— not quite a scowl, but not exactly neutral, either. Something in her expression flickered, like she hadn’t expected Ophelia to leave. Like maybe she had actually wanted to spend time with her. But she didn’t say anything.

Cato, on the other hand, just rolled his eyes. “Alright. See you later.”

Ophelia nodded before turning to walk back toward the Village, Concrete trailing closely at her feet. The water dripped from her legs, sinking into the warm earth as she moved. She could still hear them behind her— Cato splashing Clove, Clove shrieking in protest before lunging at him, their laughter echoing across the lake.

Ophelia didn’t turn back.

September, 72 ADD

The penthouse was packed.

Capitolites swarmed every inch of the space, draped in shimmering fabrics, dipped in glitter, eyes blown wide with substances Ophelia didn’t care enough to name. The air smelled of expensive perfumes and the sickly-sweet burn of over-poured liquor, and the lights were dim enough to make everything feel a little hazy, a little less real.

She swirled her cocktail in her hand, the ice clinking against the glass as she leaned toward Enobaria. “Do they look for any reason to throw a party?” Ophelia murmured, voice low enough to keep the conversation between them.

Enobaria didn’t miss a beat, her golden eyes gleaming as she took a slow sip of her drink. “I went to a party once where the occasion was a negative pregnancy test.”

Ophelia snorted into her cocktail before taking another sip. “You know what? Hell yeah.”

Clinking her glass against Ophelia’s, Enobaria huffed out a quiet laugh as the music shifted into something heavier, the bass thrumming through the floor.

Ophelia downed the rest of her drink— her second of the night— before tapping Enobaria’s arm, eyes lighting up as recognition struck. “Oh, my gosh, Enny, I want to dance!”

Enobaria gave her a look. “That’s the liquor talking.”

An easy grin pulled at her lips as Ophelia shook her head. “No, this is me talking,” she countered, grabbing Enobaria’s hand and tugging her forward. “Come on! Let’s dance! Let loose with me!”

Enobaria sighed but handed her drink off to Brutus, who took it without question, watching them with mild amusement as Ophelia pulled Enobaria toward the center of the dance floor.

Capitol elites and fellow victors swayed and spun beneath the neon glow of the lights, their bodies moving in time with the music. Ophelia let the beat guide her, rolling her hips effortlessly, arms lifting above her head. The warmth of the alcohol hummed pleasantly in her veins, her dress clinging to her every movement as she gave in to the rhythm.

Enobaria watched her for a moment before nodding slightly. “You’re actually decent,” she said, her voice carrying over the music.

Ophelia smirked, continuing to move. “I know.”

With a flourish, she reached over and twirled herself with one of Enobaria’s hands before dropping briefly to the floor, her knees bending smoothly before she popped back up. Enobaria rolled her eyes but laughed, shaking her head as she shimmied slightly alongside Ophelia.

“I hope this is the part where I’m supposed to be impressed,” Enobaria quipped, her tone dry but tinged with amusement.

Ophelia grinned, spinning once more, her golden hair catching in the lights. “Obviously,” she teased, her body still moving in perfect sync with the music.

From across the room, lounged against the sleek velvet of the couch with three women draped over him, Finnick watched.

He didn’t mean to. He didn’t even realize at first that his eyes had settled on her, drawn in by the effortless way she moved, the slow roll of her hips, the way her caramel-blonde hair caught the light as she spun beneath it. The hem of her dress inched up slightly along her thighs, and he caught himself staring— caught the way his jaw clenched, his fingers flexing slightly against the silk of the Capitol woman’s wrist where she rested it on his chest.

He forced himself to blink. Forced himself to shift his gaze.

Meanwhile, the hands of the women moved idly— over his biceps, his chest, the back of his neck— soft touches meant to coax a reaction out of him, to remind him of his place. He let them. It was easier that way. Smile, charm, play the game.

And yet, his attention was elsewhere.

He hated this.

He hated that his eyes kept finding her, that his stomach clenched watching the way her hair cascaded down her back as she twirled, the way her lips parted as she laughed at something Enobaria said. She wasn’t supposed to be alluring. Not to him.

She was District 2. A Capitol pet, just like the rest of them. Loyal to the people who dressed them up, paraded them around, made them killers.

Finnick took a slow breath, forced himself to look away.

“Finnick,” one of the women cooed beside him, her manicured nails trailing along his forearm, “you seem distracted.”

He turned back to her with an easy, practiced grin, shifting his attention back to the game, to the role he played. “Do I?”

The woman giggled, leaning in closer, her perfume cloying and thick. “I don’t like being ignored,” she pouted, voice light and teasing.

Finnick only smiled, taking a slow sip from his glass.

He ignored the way his pulse still thrummed too fast.

November, 72 ADD

Laughter rang from the grand halls of the Presidential estate, spilling out into the courtyard, where guests drifted between gilded statues and perfectly manicured hedges. Ophelia walked among them, her long emerald dress skimming the marble pathways, the slit in the skirt brushing high against her thigh with each step.

She was looking for someone. Enobaria, maybe. Or Cashmere. She had no particular reason— just the natural pull of familiarity in a place that made her skin feel too tight, her smile stretched too carefully. She scanned the crowd, eyes catching flashes of faces she recognized, but not the ones she was looking for.

And then she walked straight into someone.

Her breath hitched as she stumbled, but before she could fully lose her balance, hands caught her, gripping her shoulders— steady, firm, warm.

“Sorry,” she rushed, already flustered, already embarrassed. “Sorry, I was standing around—”

A smooth voice cut her off: “That’s twice now I’ve caught you without your pack.”

Ophelia froze. She knew that voice. Her eyes flicked up immediately, locking onto Finnick’s face.

And, of course, he was looking at her with that easy amusement, those sea-green eyes glinting like he found something particularly interesting about her reaction. He was dressed impeccably, as always— his Capitol styling turning him into something golden and untouchable, the image of a victor who belonged in their world of excess.

Ophelia, still flustered, opened her mouth before closing it again. Then, finally, she managed a weak, “… Sorry.”

Finnick just watched her.

For a moment, neither of them moved. The hum of conversation and the distant pop of fireworks layered over the silence between them, the golden light from the chandeliers inside casting shadows across Finnick’s sharp features. He studied her, his expression unreadable, before, subtly, his gaze shifted— just over his shoulder, scanning the party behind him.

Looking. Checking. For someone.

Ophelia noticed. Her fingers twitched slightly against the fabric of her dress before she glanced away, smoothing her features. “… I won’t keep you,” she said quietly. “If you have company.”

Finnick let go of her shoulders.

His touch disappeared as quickly as it had steadied her, his hands falling back to his sides with a quiet sort of ease. And yet, despite that small shift of distance, neither of them moved. They only stared at one another, the weight of something unspoken stretching between them beneath the soft glow of Capitol lights.

Ophelia tilted her chin slightly, searching his expression, before she finally spoke, “You don’t like me, do you?”

Finnick’s face remained unreadable.

There was no immediate reaction, no quick dismissal or playful quip like she had come to expect from him. Just silence. A flicker of something in his sea-green eyes.

That was enough of an answer for her.

Ophelia’s brows drew together, a flicker of something conflicted flashing across her face. The feeling curled in her stomach, unfamiliar and irritating, before it finally snapped. “What have I ever done to you?” she asked sharply, her voice hushed but biting. “Is this all because of the hotel lobby? I was just trying to help.”

Finnick said nothing. He only looked at her. And then, finally, he sighed through his nose and spoke, his voice quiet but firm. “You’re keeping me.”

Ophelia’s expression twisted, her grip tightening slightly on the silk of her skirt. She glared at him. “You’re free to leave.”

Finnick scoffed, an edge of dry amusement curling the sound, before he turned on his heel. “Thank you,” he said, voice laced with sarcasm, “for the permission.”

And then he walked away.

Ophelia found Cashmere and Gloss near the edge of the courtyard, their golden hair catching in the soft glow of the lanterns strung above them. They stood close together, poised like they belonged on a stage rather than a party, their presence naturally commanding attention even as they lounged in effortless conversation.

The moment Cashmere spotted her, she broke into a smile. “There you are,” she said, reaching out as Ophelia approached. She pulled her into a warm hug, the scent of expensive Capitol perfume lingering on her skin. “Where have you been?”

Ophelia hesitated for half a second before brushing it off. “Around.”

Gloss snorted, pulling Ophelia into a side hug before she could fully step away from Cashmere. His arm wrapped securely around her shoulders, and he reached up with his free hand to ruffle a few strands of her carefully styled hair.

Ophelia scowled, immediately lifting a hand to smooth it down, while Gloss chuckled.

Cashmere tilted her head toward Ophelia, eyes gleaming in amusement. “You’re coming to the afterparty, right?”

Ophelia hesitated.

She knew what that meant— late nights in lavish Capitol hotels, flowing champagne, victors laughing too loudly to mask the bitterness that settled in once the cameras stopped rolling. The post-tour celebrations were meant to be a final reward, a last indulgence before they all returned home to whatever ghosts awaited them.

Gloss didn’t give her much time to decide. “She’s coming,” he said, nudging Ophelia with his elbow.

Ophelia looked up at him, her hesitation flickering briefly, before she shrugged. “Sure! Why not?”

The afterparty was just as extravagant as she expected.

The penthouse suite was vast, sprawling, and glittering with wealth— and Capitol guests mingling with Victors like they weren’t just parading around the latest batch of traumatized teenagers.

Ophelia stuck close to Cashmere, her presence a familiar comfort as they weaved through the party. Gloss had drifted off somewhere, caught up in conversation, and Ophelia found herself idly watching the way the others moved around the room.

She leaned in toward Cashmere. “I think I’m the youngest one here,” she murmured.

Which, shockingly enough, she was. Perhaps the youngest Victors had already returned home. It was likely past their curfew. Unless, of course, winning the Games bypassed any rules their parents had set for them.

Cashmere laughed, a quiet, knowing sound, before tilting her head slightly. “Finnick’s around somewhere.”

Ophelia shook her head immediately. “That doesn’t make me feel better at all.”

Cashmere laughed harder, and Ophelia found herself laughing along with her, the tension from earlier easing just slightly.

But it didn’t last long. Cashmere was soon pulled away by another guest, her attention momentarily stolen, and Ophelia decided to slip out before anyone else could notice.

She stepped out of the penthouse and toward the elevators, pushing past a small crowd lingering in the hallway. Her head ached slightly, the combination of too much noise and too little patience making her shoulders tense as she pressed the call button.

The doors slid open.

Ophelia stepped inside without thinking, already reaching for the panel, before she stilled. Finnick was there. He stood near the back corner of the elevator, his hands in the pockets of his tailored suit, his gaze deliberately fixed on the floor. She didn’t have to ask why he was here. She knew. Either he was leaving from an arrangement, or he was on his way to one. Her throat tightened, the bitter sting of something she didn’t want to name curling in her stomach.

Still, she said nothing.

The doors shut behind her, the elevator beginning its smooth descent. She moved to stand on the opposite side of the elevator— until something tugged sharply against her hip.

Ophelia’s breath caught. She looked down.

The skirt of her dress— the deep emerald silk that draped elegantly over her legs, the high slit meant to tease but not expose— was caught in the elevator doors. And as the lift continued downward, the fabric was pulling, the slit inching higher, the material twisting dangerously.

Her heart lurched.

No, no, no—

Her hands clawed at the skirt, trying to free it, but the silk was trapped, the motion of the elevator only worsening the damage. 

"Finnick," Ophelia breathed, voice sharp with alarm. 

He didn’t look at her.

"Finnick."

Nothing.

"Finnick—"

The sheer panic in her voice must have registered, because he turned. And then he saw.

Finnick had been doing a good job of ignoring her— hadn’t so much as glanced her way since she stepped in. But the urgency in her voice broke through whatever self-control he’d been holding onto, and when he finally turned, his eyes flickered over her in brief confusion before dropping to the problem.

His expression shifted instantly. Ophelia barely had time to register the flicker of realization in his sea-green eyes before he moved.

Without hesitation, he reached out and wrenched the trapped fabric from the doors, tearing it free in one swift motion. The silk ripped higher up her thigh, the slit no longer a slit but nearly a full opening, the edges uneven where he had ripped it.

Ophelia made a strangled sound, gripping the front of her dress as heat flooded her cheeks.

Before she could fully react, Finnick pulled her away from the doors entirely, his other hand slamming against the emergency stop button.

The elevator jerked to a halt.

Ophelia barely registered the sudden stillness before she realized how close he was.

One of Finnick’s hands was braced against the wall beside her head, his body unintentionally half pinning her to the cool metal, his breath steady despite the rush of movement. His other hand hovered near her hip, just shy of touching where her dress had been ruined by his intervention.

His gaze flickered down, just for a second, before snapping back to her face.

Ophelia swallowed hard, fingers tightening around the bunched silk in her grasp. And Finnick— Finnick exhaled sharply through his nose, glancing up at the frozen floor numbers like he was cursing the universe.

Still, her pulse hammered beneath her skin, her back pressed against the cool metal as she stared up at Finnick. He was close— too close— his hand braced against the wall beside her head, his body angled toward hers, his gaze flickering over her face as if assessing whether or not she was going to panic again.

Which, in all fairness, she was.

Because now that the immediate crisis of her dress being caught had passed, she had time to realize the aftermath.

Slowly, she looked down, breath catching when she saw just how high the slit had torn. The delicate silk had split nearly to her waist, the fabric pooling open in a way that left her left hip, thigh, and most of her leg fully exposed.

And that was when it hit her. A cold shock of realization ran through her veins, and her stomach dropped. She hadn’t worn anything underneath the dress. No shapewear, no pantyhose, not even a thong to give her a sliver of modesty. Her stylist had recommended against it to prevent any lines due to the satin fabric of the dress.

Damn it. Damn the rules of fashion. Damn Pulchra and her risqué suggestions—

"Shit," she breathed, her voice quick and panicked. "Shit, Finnick—"

Finnick's brows drew together as she lurched forward, scrambling to tug the ruined fabric into place.

"I'm not wearing any underwear," she whispered, mortified.

Finnick’s gaze flickered downward, and Ophelia swore she saw something flash across his face before he abruptly looked away, jaw tightening. He was quick— always quick— and without hesitation, he shrugged off his jacket. His movements were precise, practiced, as if he’d done this a thousand times before. He crouched slightly, his fingers brushing against her thigh as he wrapped the garment around her waist.

The touch was barely there, a fleeting graze of skin against skin, but it sent a bolt of something sharp and confusing through her stomach.

“There.” His voice was low, measured. “You’re okay.”

Ophelia felt her entire face burn.

Her fingers dug into the fabric of his jacket, the scent of him— salt, sea, something warm and unplaceable— enveloping her. She squeezed her eyes shut, fighting against the sting behind them. This was humiliating. Absolutely, completely humiliating.

“I didn’t see anything,” Finnick added, his tone softer now, but still carrying that familiar casual ease he wielded like armor. “Not that I was looking.”

She scoffed, but it came out shaky. “You expect me to believe that?”

A beat. “No.”

Her fingers curled into the front of his shirt before she even realized she was holding onto him, gripping him— not for comfort, but for stability. Her legs felt unsteady, like the ground beneath her had shifted. Finnick seemed to notice, his hands brushing against her waist, light but grounding. He moved her, turning her slightly as if to assess the full extent of the situation, and she refused to meet his eyes.

She could feel herself on the verge of breaking. Not from fear, not from danger— but from sheer, unrelenting embarrassment. Her throat tightened, her eyes stinging, and she furiously blinked away the moisture gathering there. She would not cry over this. She wouldn’t.

But Finnick saw. Of course he did. He saw everything.

His expression shifted, something unreadable passing over his face. He didn’t tease, didn’t smirk. Instead, he simply said, “You’re okay.”

Ophelia exhaled shakily, her voice barely above a whisper. “I’m sorry. This is so stupid. I don’t want you to—” She hesitated, the words tangling on her tongue. She wasn’t even sure why she felt bad. Was it because she had been exposed? Or was it because he had seen her like that? Or worse— was it because he might be uncomfortable with seeing her like that?

Finnick’s lips parted slightly, as if he was about to say something. His gaze flickered over her face, lingering, searching—

Then, suddenly, the elevator dinged. The doors slid open.

His head snapped toward it, his entire body going rigid. Without a second thought, he grabbed her by the waist and turned her, maneuvering her so she was facing forward, shielding her from whoever was about to step into the room. The grip on her waist was firm but careful, steadying her as he reached behind to tighten the knot of his jacket around her hips.

Ophelia stayed perfectly still, her pulse hammering against her ribs.

Finnick exhaled slowly, then, keeping close behind her, guided her out of the hotel without another word. He led her down the hotel steps, toward the front where the Victor limousine idled, waiting to take her back to the train station— to go home. To District 2.

What a relief after the night she had.

She stopped just before it, her fingers hovering over the jacket’s knot. She hesitated, then began to untie it, fingers trembling slightly. “Here,” she murmured, intending to hand it back.

Finnick’s hand shot out, stopping her. “Keep it,” he said, voice quiet but firm. “You need it more than I do.”

She faltered. The knot remained tied.

Ophelia swallowed, staring at him for a moment before her fingers brushed against the fabric again. A quiet beat passed between them before she spoke. “…Thank you,” she murmured. Her voice was softer than she intended, hesitant in a way that made something in her chest tighten.

She hesitated, then exhaled. “I’m sorry.”

Finnick’s lips parted just slightly, his gaze flickering across her face as if he was considering how to respond.

And then, for the first time that night, his mask slipped. Just barely.

His features shifted— too subtle for most to notice, but Ophelia did. The brief flash of something conflicted in his eyes, the way his mouth pressed into a tight line like he was biting back words he had no intention of saying.

Still, he spoke. His voice was softer this time, quieter, but still steady in that effortless, practiced way of his. “You don’t have to be sorry.”

Ophelia looked at him, fingers gripping the lapel of his jacket where it was tied at her waist.

A beat of silence.

Then, she turned toward the limousine, glancing at the open door before looking back at Finnick. “… Are you coming?”

Finnick didn’t move.

For a moment, he didn’t even react, only watching her with that same carefully composed expression— until his gaze shifted, flicking back toward the hotel entrance.

The answer settled between them before he even spoke. “I need to go back inside,” he said, his voice smooth but hollow. He didn’t elaborate. He didn’t need to. The implication was clear.

Something sharp twisted in Ophelia’s chest. Her fingers curled slightly around the fabric of his jacket, and for just a second, she thought about pushing, about asking if he really had to go back. If he wanted to. But she already knew the answer. 

“…Right,” she murmured instead, her voice barely above a whisper.

Finnick said nothing. They only stood there, staring at one another in the dim glow of the Capitol lights.

Ophelia wet her lips, exhaling as she started to speak, trying to find some way to end this, to make it easier. “Have a good ni—” She faltered. Caught herself. Her throat tightened. “I… sorry.”

Finnick’s expression barely shifted, but something in his gaze flickered. And then— “You don’t need to be careful around me,” he murmured, quiet but firm.

Ophelia inhaled sharply, the weight of his words pressing against her ribs. She hesitated, her fingers tightening around his jacket, a thousand words catching in her throat at once. But in the end, she only said two, “I’m sorry.”

Finnick didn’t respond right away. For a moment, she thought he wouldn’t at all. But then, after what felt like a lifetime, he exhaled and spoke. “Have a good night, Ophelia.” 

And with that, he turned, walking back toward the hotel without another word.

Ophelia watched him go, her fingers curling into the fabric of his jacket around her waist. The limousine door opened beside her, but she barely registered it.

She didn’t move until Finnick disappeared through the hotel doors.

The room was dimly lit, the air heavy with the artificial scent of perfume and roses, the sheets beneath Finnick’s back smooth and cool against his skin. The woman above him moved with practiced ease, her hands dragging along his chest, painted nails gliding over the ridges of his stomach like she had some claim over him.

Finnick kept his eyes closed, his fingers gripping the hips of the woman on top of him.

It made it easier. It made it bearable. At least, it usually did. But tonight— tonight was different.

The moment he let himself slip away from the present, the moment he tried to disappear into the well-practiced rhythm of it all, something else took hold of his mind.

Someone else.

Ophelia.

It hit him without warning. The heat of her body pressed close to his, her wide, desperate eyes staring up at him in the elevator, lips parted as she rasped his name.

"Finnick. Finnick, Finnick—"

His throat tightened. His hand had been braced against the wall beside her head, his chest close enough to brush against hers if either of them moved even an inch closer. He could still feel the press of her fingers against his forearm, her grip tight, urgent, as if he were the only thing grounding her in that moment.

The slit of her dress, torn high up her thigh, exposing the smooth skin of her leg, her hip.

She hadn’t been wearing anything beneath it.

Finnick’s breathing hitched.

The woman above him mistook it for something else, humming in approval as she leaned down, dragging her lips over the column of his throat. But he barely felt it. His mind was elsewhere, trapped in that goddamn elevator. Only this time, when he looked down at Ophelia, he didn’t just stare.

He touched. His fingers skimming up the exposed skin of her thigh, tracing the curve of her hip before gripping her waist, pulling her flush against him. She would gasp, startled, and he’d murmur something low, something teasing, his lips grazing the shell of her ear as he asked if she was really that flustered from just this.

And Ophelia— Ophelia would glare at him, that fire in her eyes flaring to life, and before he could smirk at her, she’d do something reckless. Something bold. She’d grab him by the collar and pull him down to her. Kiss his lips before making her way to his jaw, then his neck, then slip her hands under his—

Finnick exhaled sharply, his jaw clenching.

What the hell was wrong with him?

This was Ophelia. Ophelia, who was too goddamn soft for a Career, too bright-eyed for a Victor, too frustratingly, infuriatingly good to be wrapped up in thoughts like these— thoughts that had no place in his head, not here, not now, not ever.

And yet—

The weight above him shifted, hands pressing against his shoulders. But in his mind, it wasn’t his client. It was her. It was Ophelia straddling him instead, working herself on top of him, her fingers gripping his skin, her breath warm against his jaw, sighing out his name, lips brushing his in a way that would drive him insane—

Finnick cursed under his breath. This wasn’t supposed to happen. He wasn’t supposed to want her.

And yet, here he was. Wanting. Yearning. Hating himself for it.

The sun was high in the sky by the time Ophelia stirred. She wasn’t sure what time she had gotten home— only that the train ride back to District 2 had felt like it stretched on for a lifetime, the weight of last night pressing down on her chest like a boulder.

The moment she had stepped foot in her house, she had gone straight to her bedroom, shedding Finnick’s jacket in favor of one of her oversized sweaters before collapsing into bed.

And now—

She was cocooned beneath a mountain of blankets and pillows, the morning light trying and failing to creep through the thick fabric barricade she had built around herself.

Maybe she’d stay here forever. Maybe she could actually die from sheer mortification.

The thought was tempting— right up until her bedroom door suddenly flew open with a loud bang.

“Cato—” Ophelia groaned, voice muffled under her pillow.

Footsteps thudded into the room, heavy and unbothered, before a weight dropped onto the edge of her bed.

“I told you not to come into my room anymore,” she mumbled, still refusing to emerge from her self-imposed exile.

Cato snorted. “Cry about it.”

Ophelia could hear the smirk in his voice.

Even without looking, she could picture it— the way her brother was probably sprawled out on her comforter without a care in the world, his arms propped behind his head, acting as if he owned the place.

“So,” Cato drawled. “What’s with the doom cave?”

Ophelia was silent.

For a second, she debated not answering, pretending she had died in her sleep and maybe— just maybe— he would go away. But then she exhaled, slowly pulling a pillow off her face before peeking out at him from beneath the covers. “You’re not allowed to laugh.”

Cato’s eyebrows shot up. His blue eyes, sharp and mischievous, gleamed as if she had just handed him a gift. “Yeah, I can’t promise you that,” he said flatly.

Ophelia sighed, retreating beneath her blankets again, already regretting this decision.

A moment of silence passed. “My dress got caught in an elevator last night,” she muttered. A pause. “And I didn’t have any panties on.”

Silence.

“Were there witnesses?” Cato asked, entirely too amused.

With a groan, Ophelia dragged her pillow over her face again and screamed into it, her entire body curling inward from sheer, suffocating humiliation.

Cato let out a loud bark of laughter. “Who was it?” he asked, still chuckling. “Gloss?”

Ophelia let out another pitiful groan, smothering herself in shame. She hesitated. For just a second.

And in that second, Cato caught it. His amusement sharpened. “… Wait,” he said slowly, sitting up. “It wasn’t Gloss?”

Ophelia swallowed, then exhaled, pressing the pillow harder against her face before finally lifting it— just slightly— so her voice could be heard. “… Finnick Odair.”

A beat of silence.

Then Cato absolutely lost it. His laughter exploded through the room, unrestrained and wicked, as he threw himself back onto the bed like this was the funniest thing he had ever heard in his life.

“Oh my God,” he wheezed, gasping between cackles. “Are you sure it was an accident? You didn’t— what, conveniently lose your panties in front of him?”

Ophelia shot up immediately, shoving him hard. “Get out!”

Cato only howled with laughter as he stumbled off the bed, still grinning wildly.

Ophelia didn’t hesitate before grabbing her pillow and whacking him over the head with it.

“Okay, okay!” he laughed, dodging the second hit as he stumbled toward the door. “Damn, Oph, if you wanted Finnick to see you naked, there are easier ways—”

She launched the pillow at him. It missed. Barely.

Cato ran, cackling all the way down the hall.

Ophelia groaned, collapsing backward into her mountain of blankets, shoving another pillow over her face. She was never leaving her room again.

Ophelia stood in front of the open refrigerator, scanning the shelves for the one thing she had been craving since she had finally dragged herself out of bed. Her stomach grumbled in protest as she pushed aside a carton of milk, then a dish of leftover vegetables, before her gaze landed on an empty space where the foil-covered plate of last night’s dinner was supposed to be.

Her brows furrowed. She stepped back, scanning the counters.

Nothing.

“… Cato?” she called out, already suspicious.

Almost on cue, her younger brother strode into the kitchen, running a hand through his messy blonde hair as if he had just woken up from a nap— an unfairly comfortable one, considering she had spent her morning mourning the loss of her dignity.

“Did dad take the last of the meatloaf?” she asked, closing the fridge door.

Cato shrugged, barely looking at her as he grabbed an apple from the counter. “Nah,” he said, voice casual. “I ate it for breakfast.”

Ophelia gaped at him. “You what?”

Cato bit into the apple, completely unbothered.

Ophelia groaned, throwing her hands up in exasperation. “Dude, seriously? For breakfast? Can you not just eat toast or oatmeal like a normal person?”

Cato’s mouth quirked into a lazy smirk as he leaned against the counter, chewing slowly just to piss her off. “What?” he said, voice filled with mock innocence. “Don’t get your panties in a twist.” Then, after a brief pause, he added, “If you’re even wearing any.”

Ophelia gawked at him. Her jaw dropped. “Cato!”

Cato grinned— wide and victorious— before bolting out of the kitchen.

“Oh,” Ophelia scowled, “you little shit—”

Without thinking, Ophelia grabbed the closest thing within reach— a spatula— before taking off after him, her slippers sliding against the wooden floor as she sprinted down the hall. Cato laughed as he dodged into the living room, vaulting over the back of the couch like the damn Career he was while Ophelia lunged at him, swinging the spatula wildly.

“You absolute menace—” Ophelia shouted out, just before she whacked him in the back.

Cato yelped as the spatula made contact with his shoulder. “Oh, that’s it—”

Before Ophelia could react, he spun around and snatched her by the waist, lifting her off the ground like she weighed nothing before slinging her over his shoulder.

“Put me down!” she screeched, flailing as she attempted to smack him with the spatula again.

Cato snorted. “You really don’t think this through, do you?”

Then, with a grunt, he threw her off his shoulder and onto the floor, pinning her down with an effortless weight as he swiped the spatula from her grasp. “Ha,” he said triumphantly, twirling it between his fingers like a damn knife.

Ophelia glared up at him. Before she could fight back, Cato whacked her over the head with the spatula.

“Ow!” She slapped at him with both hands, but Cato grinned and whacked her again— this time on the forehead.

“Say you surrender,” Cato taunted.

Ophelia snarled. “Over my dead body.”

Cato let out a mocking hum before smacking her with the spatula again— light, but just enough to infuriate her. “You gonna tap out?” he asked, eyes glittering.

Ophelia hissed through her teeth. Then, with an absolutely childish move, she bit his arm.

“Ow—” Cato winced. “Ophelia!”

And with that, she shoved him off her, scrambling up to her feet, spatula in hand as she ran.

February, 73 ADD

Ophelia woke to something wet and rough dragging across her face.

She groaned, barely stirring, before it happened again— a long, slow swipe up the side of her cheek, ending disgustingly at the corner of her mouth. "Ugh—"

Her eyes snapped open just in time for a third lick— this time directly over her lips. She jerked upright so fast that her head nearly spun, a gag clawing up her throat as she wiped her face violently with the sleeve of her shirt. "Concrete," she wheezed, looking down at the culprit in horror.

The elderly dog simply panted up at her, tail thudding happily against her comforter.

Ophelia wiped at her lips again before scooping him up, grumbling under her breath as she buried her face into his fur. “Sweet boy,” she muttered.

Concrete let out a low, pleased whine, nuzzling into her as she sat with him in her lap for a moment, still half-asleep.

Her twenty-first birthday. She still felt twenty, which meant either nothing had changed yet, or that she was already past the age of feeling different on birthdays.

With a deep sigh, she set Concrete down and stretched before getting out of bed, trudging barefoot out of her room and down the stairs to the kitchen. As soon as she walked in, the smell of warm blueberries and whatever the hell else was in that bowl hit her nose like a brick wall. Ophelia gagged on instinct. She had never cared for the smell of either; blueberries had always been too tart, oatmeal had always had an oddly unpleasant aroma that made her sick instantly.

Cato, already seated at the kitchen table, spoon halfway to his mouth, looked up at her. “Morning, birthday girl,” he greeted, voice muffled as he chewed.

Ophelia grimaced, nostrils flaring. “Dude, that oatmeal smells like ass.”

Cato swallowed before scooping up another bite, looking at her impassively. “And how would you know what ass smells like?”

Ophelia glared at him.

Before she could answer, their mother strolled into the kitchen, already looking exasperated. “Cato, stop pestering your sister,” she said, giving him a look before walking up to Ophelia and pressing a kiss to her cheek. “Happy birthday, sweetheart.”

Ophelia smiled, some of her morning grumpiness melting away. “Thanks, mama.”

Cato, still shoveling blueberry sludge into his mouth, looked up again. “Oh, yeah,” he said, as if just remembering. “I got you a present.”

Ophelia blinked, caught off guard. She followed the point of his spoon to the small box on the table, wrapped in crinkled paper, looking very much like it had been done last-minute. Her heart softened as she closed the fridge after grabbing a carton of milk. “Aww,” she cooed, setting it down before moving toward the table. “You’re so sweet! You didn’t have to, bubba.”

Cato barely reacted, still eating.

Ophelia peeled the paper off carefully before lifting the lid of the box. Her smile fell.

Right there, sitting neatly in the center, was a single pair of white granny panties, far too large and far too lacy for her taste.

There was a beat of silence. Cato watched.

Ophelia stared. Her eye twitched. “You. Asshole.”

Before he could react, she snatched the offending garment from the box and launched it at him with full force. It landed directly in his oatmeal. Cato wheezed out a dying laugh, doubling over as he clutched his stomach.

Their mother’s head whipped around, eyes going wide with horror. “You two!” she scolded. “No dirty laundry at the table!”

Cato gasped for breath, face red, still dying as he wiped his eyes. “They’re not dirty—” he choked out between laughs. “Because Ophelia doesn’t wear underwear.”

Ophelia screamed into her hands.

Chapter Text

March, 73 ADD

THE STEADY RHYTHM OF WATER filled the quiet bathroom, steam curling in soft tendrils against the cool tile. Ophelia tipped her head back beneath the spray, eyes fluttering shut as she rinsed the last of the shampoo from her hair, the scent of strawberries and vanilla thick in the humid air.

Her fingers smoothed over the strands, wringing out the excess water before she reached for the loofah hanging from the silver hook. She squeezed a generous amount of body wash onto the soft mesh, the pink liquid foaming beneath her touch as she lathered it between her palms.

Slowly, she dragged it over her skin.

The warm water slid down her back, following the gentle pressure of her hand as she scrubbed over her collarbones, down her arms, across the curve of her waist. The scent of strawberries grew stronger, filling her lungs with each inhale as she worked the lather into her skin.

She moved lower, dragging the loofah over her thighs, down her calves, her movements slowing as her mind drifted.

It was unintentional— she wasn’t trying to think about it. But the memory slipped through the cracks anyway.

The sharp tug of fabric against her hip. The sound of a seam ripping. Finnick’s palm, pressed flat against the elevator wall beside her head. 

Ophelia sucked in a breath, her hand stilling against her leg as heat curled low in her stomach, unwanted and insistent. She could still feel the tension that had hung between them in that moment— the way his breath had been just barely audible over the soft hum of the elevator, the way his body had been close, too close, as he had pressed her back against the wall to shield her from the doors.

The way his fingers had gripped the fabric of her dress, tearing it free from the metal with a sharp pull.

She exhaled sharply, blinking against the mist clinging to her lashes as she forced the thought away.

This was ridiculous. She wasn’t— she didn’t think about Finnick like that. Not really. She couldn’t. Not when—

She shook her head slightly, dragging the loofah back over her skin, firmer this time, like she could scrub the thought from her mind as easily as she scrubbed away the day’s sweat and dirt.

She let her thoughts drift elsewhere, grasping for something— anything— to redirect her focus.

Marcus.

She latched onto the memory quickly, her mind pulling her back to the lazy warmth of summer afternoons when she was eighteen, the quiet boy from school. Despite the sloppiness of their first encounter, it had been sweet. Soft. Innocent. Until it had become more, like most young trysts often did.

His lips had been warm against hers, hesitant but eager, his hands unsure as they had brushed against her waist. She had liked him— had liked the way he looked at her, the way he had listened when she spoke, the way he had been nervous the first time he’d held her hand.

It had been good. But it hadn’t been… this.

Ophelia frowned, biting the inside of her cheek as she set down the loofah and reached for the razor perched on the ledge.

She focused on the scrape of the blade as she dragged it up her leg, watching the thin layer of lather disappear beneath the metal.

Then, another memory surfaced— fleeting but vivid.

The Peacekeeper. A summer ago. His hands, rough and calloused, gripping her hips as he had pinned her from behind against the cool brick in an alley of the main town. The way his lips had been insistent, hungry, coaxing soft gasps from her throat as his fingers had dipped underneath the waistband of her leggings.

It had been different from Marcus. Messier. But even that wasn’t—

Ophelia inhaled sharply, shaking her head as she rinsed the razor beneath the water.

Enough.

She wasn’t going to think about Finnick. She wasn’t going to think about his hands against her waist, wasn’t going to think about the way he had pinned her to the elevator wall, wasn’t going to think about what might’ve happened if he had—

No.

She shut her eyes, tilting her head back beneath the showerhead once more, letting the warm spray wash over her face.

This was ridiculous. It didn’t matter. It was nothing. Just a moment.

Nothing more.

Finnick sifted through the pile of freshly washed clothes on his bed, fingers curling into the fabric as he searched for something specific. He let out a slow breath through his nose, tossing a shirt to the side as he dug deeper.

Nothing.

He frowned, running a hand through his hair as he stood up straight, scanning the open closet across the room. The matching gold slacks were hanging neatly on the rack, but the jacket— the one that completed the set— was missing.

It wasn’t like him to lose things.

Finnick blinked. Then, slowly, realization sank in.

Ophelia. The elevator. He had given it to her.

For a moment, Finnick stilled, exhaling sharply as the memory surfaced. The way she had panicked, breathless, voice urgent as she had called his name. The way her fingers had clutched at his arm. The way his jacket had barely covered the smooth curve of her hips when he had tied it around her waist.

His throat went dry.

It would be so easy to picture more— to imagine his hands skimming beneath the fabric instead of tying it. To imagine pressing her against the elevator wall, feeling the heat of her skin against his palms, the way her breath might catch if he ran his mouth along the column of her throat—

Finnick shut his eyes for a second, shaking the thought from his mind before it could settle.

No. 

He wasn’t doing this. 

Not over her.

He let out a quiet curse, closing the closet door a little too hard before turning on his heel and heading downstairs. The house smelled like peppermint and honey, the scent drifting in from the kitchen where Annie was making tea. Mags was settled in the living room, her small hands working over a ball of yarn as she knitted.

Finnick softened at the sight of her, stepping up behind her chair to press a kiss to the top of her head. Mags smiled in response, reaching up to pat his cheek before returning to her knitting. 

He offered her a faint smile before making his way into the kitchen, leaning against the counter as he watched Annie stir a spoonful of honey into her tea before setting the jar down. 

“Hey,” Annie greeted, her voice lilting and quiet. “You okay?” 

Finnick hesitated for half a second before shaking his head lightly. "Yeah, just misplaced something," he said, his tone breezy. He reached for an apple from the fruit bowl, rolling it in his palm as he watched her.

Annie didn’t look convinced, but she didn’t push, merely arching a brow before returning her attention to her tea.

Finnick took a bite of the apple, glancing toward the television in the living room where the faint sound of Caesar Flickerman’s voice filtered through the space.

On the screen, Ophelia was seated on the interview couch, her legs crossed, her caramel-blonde curls swept over one shoulder in soft waves. The silver of her gown shimmered beneath the stage lights, her expression composed, poised— perfectly crafted for the Capitol audience.

She was smiling— polished, poised, radiant in the way only a Victor trained from childhood could be. She looked effortless. Untouched by it all. Not like him. Not like the others.

His jaw clenched slightly. "I'm heading to the docks," he said abruptly, pushing off the counter as he grabbed his net from the hook by the door.

Annie barely reacted, taking a slow sip of her tea. "Bring something back," she murmured.

Finnick lifted a hand in a halfhearted wave as he stepped outside, inhaling the sharp scent of salt and brine as he walked toward the beach. Maybe the water would clear his head.

Maybe it wouldn’t.

April, 73 ADD

The early morning light spilled across the wooden floor of Ophelia’s bedroom as she stretched from one pose to the next. She had started in a basic bridge pose, easing into the familiar strain in her muscles before shifting her legs over her head, toes hovering just above the floor. She exhaled slowly, her fingers pressing into the ground for stability, the stretch loosening the lingering tension in her back.

Running was part of her routine— had been for years even before the Games— but she always stretched first. District 2’s terrain would punish her if not.

Just as she was about to transition into a downward dog pose, the door to her room creaked open.

Mrs. Hadley stepped inside, a basket of freshly laundered clothes balanced against her hip. She barely batted an eye at Ophelia’s current position— folded nearly in half, upside down on the floor— before setting the hamper beside the door.

“There was a jacket in the wash that I don’t think belongs to Cato or your father,” her mother mused, voice even. “Unless you’ve taken to wearing men’s suits lately, I assume it’s from a friend of yours.”

Ophelia groaned dramatically, rolling out of the pose before sitting up and looking at her mother with a teasing, incredulous expression. “You know I don’t have friends, mama.”

Mrs. Hadley gave her a pointed look. “I thought you were done with the Peacekeeper.”

Ophelia gawked, her mouth falling open as she scrambled to push herself up fully. “Oh, my gosh, that was last summer!“ She hesitated before adding, “… Okay, and like, maybe I saw him on my birthday too. But I don’t take his clothes!”

Her mother arched a perfectly sculpted brow.

Ophelia huffed, crossing her arms. “It’s not his, I swear.”

Mrs. Hadley merely gestured toward the basket. “Figure out who’s missing it.”

With that, she turned and left, her polished heels clicking softly against the floorboards as she disappeared down the hall.

Ophelia sighed, pushing herself to her feet and brushing her hair back from her face before stepping over to the hamper. She grabbed the first few folded items— a pair of running shorts, one of her dad’s work shirts, one of Cato’s training jerseys— before her fingers brushed against something smooth, unfamiliar.

Slowly, she pulled the item from the basket, letting it unfold in her hands. A gold suit jacket. The fabric was different. Expensive. Definitely not district material.

She froze.

Finnick.

She stood there, staring at the garment, her fingers absently running over the rich material as the memory surfaced— the elevator, the panic, the warmth of his hands as he had tied the jacket around her waist, shielding her.

Ophelia swallowed, an odd flicker of something passing through her chest before she shook it off.

It was just a jacket. That’s all. He probably hadn’t even thought about it since.

Chewing the inside of her cheek, she folded the jacket neatly, smoothing her hands over the lapels before stepping toward her closet.

She’d give it back. Not now, but during the Games. She’d see him then. It was her year to mentor. And then this— whatever this was— would be over.

May, 73 ADD

The knife whistled through the air before thudding into the tree. Ophelia’s eyes narrowed as she assessed the placement— three dead center, two slightly off.

Two misses.

She let out a slow, measured breath, trying to shake the irritation creeping into her chest. She wasn’t supposed to be losing accuracy.

Jaw tensing, she walked over to the tree and yanked her knives out of the trunk one by one, gripping them tighter than necessary as she stalked back to her original spot.

Behind her, Concrete lay sprawled under the shade of a massive oak tree, completely unbothered, his tail twitching faintly as he dozed.

Ophelia rolled out her shoulders before throwing again.

The first one hit.

The second— miss.

The third— wide miss.

The fourth— hit.

The fifth— miss.

She stared at the targets, her lips parting slightly.

Three out of five.

Her grip tightened around the hilt of the knife in her hand.

What the hell was wrong with her today?

With a sharp inhale through her nose, she forced herself to exhale the frustration and strode forward again, pulling each blade out with quick, almost aggressive movements. She was overthinking— letting the past month of distractions worm into her head.

Shaking it off, she turned toward the Village, whistling for Concrete. He lifted his head, blinking at her lazily before climbing to his paws and trotting after her, his massive golden tail swaying as he followed.

The midday sun was warm on her skin as she approached her house, catching sight of Cato and Clove walking toward the front door.

Without thinking, Ophelia lifted a hand and waved. “Hey!”

Cato barely glanced at her, waving a lazy hand over his shoulder before stepping inside. Clove, a few paces behind him, glanced over and gave a short wave before following him in. 

Ophelia watched them disappear inside before continuing into the house herself, her steps slowing as she climbed the stairs to her room. Concrete padded in after her, flopping onto the rug with a huff as she grabbed a baggy shirt from her dresser, tugging it on before switching out her leggings for sweatpants.

Just as she was tying the drawstring, there was a knock at the door. She turned, brow furrowing.

Opening it, she blinked in surprise when she saw Clove standing in the hallway. Clove’s expression was unreadable as she crossed her arms, gaze flicking over Ophelia once before she tilted her head slightly. 

“… Wrong room.” Ophelia leaned against the doorframe, arching a brow. “What, you looking for Cato?”

Clove ignored that, shifting her weight slightly before speaking, “I need help.”

Ophelia stilled, caught off guard by the bluntness. She stared at Clove for a moment before nodding, stepping aside to let her in. Clove didn’t hesitate, stepping into the room, her sharp eyes scanning the space as if assessing it. Ophelia closed the door and turned to see Clove’s gaze land on her vanity.

“This is cute,” Clove commented, walking over to brush her fingers along the edge of the desk. “I like the vanity.”

Ophelia smiled slightly, crossing her arms. “Thanks.” 

Clove turned back to her, face smoothing into something more serious.

“So,” Ophelia prompted, tilting her head. “What’s up, girl?”

Clove hesitated. Just for a moment. Then, with a deep breath, she squared her shoulders. “I want training.”

Ophelia blinked, caught completely off guard. “… Training?”

Clove gave a single, decisive nod. “You won the Games.” She tilted her chin up slightly. “I trust your judgment more than the trainers at the Academy.”

Ophelia laughed, shaking her head. “Clove, the trainers helped me win. I’m not any better than them.”

Clove’s expression remained unmoved. “They trained you,” she allowed, eyes sharp. “But you lived it. You know what it’s actually like.”

Ophelia hesitated. Because, technically, Clove wasn’t wrong. She had lived it. She’d fought, she’d bled, she’d killed, and she’d survived. She knew what it felt like to be hunted. She knew what it felt like to have her name called. She knew what it felt like to hold a dying body in her arms and to walk away with blood that wasn’t hers soaking her hands.

And Clove wanted that knowledge.

Ophelia sighed, rubbing her forehead before looking back at her. “Okay, okay,” she relented, shaking her head. “I get it.”

Clove watched her expectantly.

“If I have the time,” Ophelia continued, giving her a pointed look, “I can give you some pointers.”

Clove’s lips twitched slightly, something like satisfaction flickering in her dark eyes. “Good.”

June, 73 ADD

The woods behind the Victors' Village had become their arena. Sunlight dappled through the canopy, casting patches of gold on the dirt floor as Ophelia stood a few paces behind Clove, watching carefully as the younger girl lined up her shot.

Clove exhaled slowly, her dark eyes locked on the target. Her fingers flexed around the knife’s handle before she let it fly.

Thud.

It landed— too low.

Clove’s jaw tightened.

“Again,” Ophelia instructed, crossing her arms.

Clove yanked another knife from the holster at her thigh, adjusting her stance before throwing.

Thud. Too far left.

Ophelia didn’t say anything, just waited as Clove pulled another blade.

This time, Clove inhaled sharply through her nose, steadied herself, and threw. The knife hit dead center.

Clove’s lips parted slightly before she grinned, her sharp satisfaction palpable.

Ophelia smirked. “There it is.”

Clove didn’t respond, but the glow of pride in her expression was enough.

Sparring was next.

At first, Clove lost. A lot. It frustrated her— visibly. The sharp, snappish huffs of breath whenever she hit the dirt, the way her fingers curled into fists after every failed attempt to pin Ophelia down.

But she didn’t give up. She kept getting back up, kept throwing herself at Ophelia with relentless persistence. And Ophelia could see it— the way Clove adjusted each time, the way she learned from her losses.

That had been two weeks ago.

Now, Clove wiped blood from her split lip with the back of her hand before throwing herself at Ophelia again.

This time, she won.

Ophelia hit the dirt, hard, her back slamming into the ground with a force that knocked the breath out of her.

A second later, Clove was on her, a knife pressed firmly against her throat.

The world around them was quiet— only the sound of their heavy breathing filling the thick silence between them.

Then—

“Well, damn.”

Both girls turned their heads to see Cato leaning against a tree, arms crossed over his chest, watching them with something like amusement flickering in his sharp blue eyes.

“Little Clove took you down?” he mused, raising a brow at Ophelia. “Didn’t see that coming.”

Ophelia sighed, rolling her eyes before smacking Clove’s arm lightly to signal a tap-out. “Alright, alright,” she muttered. “You win this one.”

Clove smirked, pushing off of her before offering a hand. Ophelia took it, letting the younger girl haul her up before dusting the dirt off her sweatpants.

Pushing off the tree, Cato stepped closer as he eyed them both. “So, who’s taking me on?”

Clove snorted, stretching out her arms before cracking her neck. “You’re serious?”

Cato arched a brow. “You scared?”

“Not even a little,” Clove said, a slow grin stretching over her lips.

Ophelia exhaled a breath, already knowing where this was going.

With a shake of her head, she stepped back. “Alright,” she said, raising a hand between them. “You two fight, I call it.”

Cato cracked his knuckles. “Just don’t be biased.”

Clove smirked. “She’s not. You’re just gonna lose.”

Cato scoffed. “You wish.”

And then he lunged.

For a few moments, it was even— Clove was fast, but Cato was strong, and the force behind his movements nearly overpowered her more than once. But Clove now had technique— sharper, more precise. She ducked, she evaded, she moved like she had already planned six steps ahead.

With a sharp pivot, Clove dodged his strike, hooked her foot behind his knee, and took him down. Hard. Cato hit the ground with a thud, blinking up at the sky like he couldn’t believe what just happened.

Clove grinned, leaning down to tap two fingers against his chest. “Tap out, big guy.”

Cato glared. Then, without warning, he rolled, knocking her off balance before pinning her beneath him.

“I had you,” Clove huffed, shoving at his arm.

Crossing her arms, Ophelia sighed before calling out, “Are you two gonna keep rolling in the dirt or are we calling this?”

Cato shot her a look. “She cheated.”

Clove scoffed. “I outmaneuvered you.”

Ophelia groaned. “Cato. Just tap out.”

Cato huffed before pushing off of Clove, standing and brushing dirt from his arms. “I swear, you cheated,” he grumbled.

Clove scoffed. “You’re just a sore loser.”

Cato shot her a glare before pushing himself up. “You next, Oph.”

Ophelia tilted her head, lips curving. “You sure? You’re already down one.”

Cato scoffed. “Please. I can take you.”

Shaking her head, Ophelia laughed and stepped forward. “Alright, baby bro. Let’s go.”

Clove crossed her arms, smirking as she leaned against a tree.

It took exactly three minutes before Ophelia had Cato pinned. 

“You guys are cheating.”

Ophelia grinned down at him, her weight pressed firmly against his back. “Say it, Cato.”

Cato grumbled something under his breath.

“What was that?” Ophelia smirked, leaning in closer.

Cato huffed. “I tap out.”

Ophelia laughed, pushing off of him as she stood. Cato scowled, pushing himself up before dusting himself off.

Ophelia smirked, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “Better luck next time, bubba.”

The lake stretched before them, dark and rippling under the soft afternoon breeze. Sunlight flickered across the surface, casting shifting patterns of gold and silver. The air smelled fresh— like damp earth and pine, like autumn creeping in at the edges of summer.

Ophelia sat on the bank, legs stretched out, ankles crossed. Beside her, Clove sat with her knees drawn up, hunched slightly forward as she tore small pieces from her sandwich, tossing them absently into the water. Concrete lay sprawled beside them, his small, aged body pressed against Ophelia’s thigh, eyes half-lidded in contentment as she absently scratched behind his ear.

The sandwiches were simple— just cold cuts, cheese, and a smear of mustard— but Ophelia wasn’t really hungry. She took a slow bite, chewing as her eyes flickered toward Clove, watching the way the younger girl’s jaw was set, the way her fingers clenched around the bread like she had too much energy to just sit still.

Ophelia swallowed before speaking. “Why do you want to train so early?”

Clove flicked a piece of bread crust into the water, watching as it drifted before a small fish darted up to snatch it.

“I have to,” she said simply.

Ophelia arched a brow. “You have, what, another four years before you’re considered prime volunteer age? You don’t need to worry about this yet. Even if you do get reaped, you’ll have a dozen other girls waiting in line to volunteer in your place.”

Clove didn’t answer right away. She just kept staring at the water, brows furrowed, jaw tight. Then, finally, she spoke, “I don’t want to wait until I’m eighteen.”

Ophelia gave her a look, shifting to face her more fully. “Clove…”

“I can do it,” Clove cut in, turning toward her now, eyes sharp, filled with something like determination. “You did it at sixteen.”

Ophelia exhaled slowly, shaking her head. “I was the same way, but—”

“You won at sixteen,” Clove interrupted. “I’m already beating you in sparring. I have a chance.”

Ophelia held her gaze for a long moment before sighing. She tore off the rest of her sandwich and held it out to Concrete, who sniffed before taking it gently from her hand.

“That doesn’t mean I was ready for it at that age,” she muttered.

Clove frowned, resting her forearms on her knees.

“Then why’d you do it?” she asked, voice quieter now. “Why did you volunteer so early?”

Ophelia stared at the water. For a long moment, she didn’t answer. A breeze rustled the trees behind them, sending a few stray leaves fluttering down to the water.

Finally, she spoke. “I was tired,” she said softly. “Tired of my parents ignoring me. Tired of them seeing me as already dead.”

Clove’s expression shifted— something flickering across her face, something that looked almost like understanding. “I want the same thing,” she admitted. “I want to prove myself to them.”

Ophelia’s stomach twisted at that, at the way Clove’s voice was so fierce, so determined.

At the way she saw herself in that. At the way she wished, for the first time, that Clove didn’t.

She looked at the younger girl, studying the sharp angles of her face, the way her fingers curled around the fabric of her pants, the way her eyes still burned with that restless, unshakable fire.

Ophelia sighed again, softer this time. She didn’t say anything. She just reached out, ruffled Clove’s dark hair, and turned back to the water.

July, 73 ADD

The Tribute Center training room smelled of sweat and rubber, of exertion and something sterile beneath it all.

Ophelia stood off to the side, her arms loosely crossed over her chest, watching as her female tribute moved through a round of hand-to-hand drills. The girl wasn’t bad— her footwork was quick, her strikes well-placed— but she was still too restrained, too mindful. A good tribute knew when to fight smart, but they also needed to know when to stop thinking and just move.

She made a note to address it later.

It had been years since she was in their position, but she still remembered the feeling— the coiled energy in her muscles, the constant push to be faster, stronger, better. District 2 bred warriors. Their tributes won. That was how it had always been.

Beside her, Gloss hummed, shifting his weight as he watched his male tribute grapple with another boy near the weight racks. His arms were folded, one hand tapping idly against his bicep. “The winning streak’s going to end this year,” he said, his voice laced with amusement. “My guy’s promising.”

Ophelia exhaled softly, dragging her gaze from her tribute long enough to glance at Gloss.

Cashmere, standing to Ophelia’s left, chimed in smoothly, her arms folded in a mirror of Ophelia’s stance. "My girl’s promising too," she added, her tone light but with an unmistakable edge of pride. 

Ophelia gave a half-hearted shrug, bringing her bottom lip between her teeth as she looked back at the training mat. She could feel the rough skin beneath her teeth, peeling at the already dry patch at the center of her lip.

She wasn’t really thinking about it. She wasn’t thinking about much of anything, actually.

Cashmere shot her a quick glance, noting her silence. Ophelia knew that look— Cashmere had a sharpness to her, a way of noticing things even when they weren’t said.

She was spaced out, and Cashmere could tell. But she didn’t push. Not here, not now.

Instead, they stood together, watching their tributes move through the training exercises, the unspoken weight of the Games settling between them, familiar and heavy.

Across the room, Finnick tried not to look at her. It was stupid. It was stupid that he noticed her at all.

But he did. He noticed the way she stood— shoulders squared, but her weight settled just slightly on one hip, like she was caught somewhere between tension and boredom. He noticed the way she bit her lip, how she was peeling at the dry skin with sharp, absent tugs of her teeth.

His stomach twisted, irritation curling beneath his ribs.

There was nothing remarkable about her. She was a Career Victor— trained from childhood, molded into something sharp and ruthless, made to win. He knew her kind. She wasn’t delicate. She was a girl from District 2, raised with a blade in her hand and a kill in her future.

And yet—

"Finnick. Finnick, Finnick—"

Finnick forced his gaze away, inhaling sharply through his nose.

No. 

She wasn’t anything special.

Her hair frizzed at the ends, the soft caramel-blonde strands stubbornly refusing to fall sleek like Cashmere’s. Her lips were chapped from how often she bit at them. She had this annoying habit of shifting her mouth to the side when she was focused, like she was chewing on a thought she wasn’t ready to spit out.

He clenched his jaw.

It was nothing. She was nothing. And whatever he felt— whatever this was— he would kill it before it could take root.

The bright lights of the Tribute Center auditorium cast a shimmering glow over the stage, reflecting off the golden accents woven into the deep blue fabric of Caesar Flickerman’s suit. His voice carried across the massive room, smooth and animated as he leaned toward the girl seated beside him, microphone in hand.

Aquila.

Ophelia watched from the mentors’ section, her arms loosely folded over her lap, her nails digging lightly into her own skin.

Aquila was handling herself well. She smiled easily, answering Caesar’s questions with a natural confidence that made her seem older than her eighteen years. She had the kind of poise that Capitol audiences loved— sharp, but not severe; charming, but not too rehearsed. And when she laughed at something Caesar said, tilting her head just enough for the lights to catch in her dark eyes, Ophelia knew the sponsors would be drawn to her like moths to a flame.

“She’s got a shot,” Brutus muttered beside her.

Ophelia barely turned her head. She didn’t need to look at him to know his expression— gruff, unreadable, his arms crossed over his broad chest.

She shrugged. “Your kids usually win over mine and Enobaria’s. I get the ones that choke at the last second.”

Brutus exhaled a short laugh, shaking his head. “Not this one,” he said. “She’s got the charisma. And the looks. She’ll get sponsors easy.”

Ophelia didn’t respond right away. She knew he was right. That was what unsettled her.

She felt her throat tighten as she watched Aquila flash another effortless smile. The Capitol adored beauty. They loved young, charming Victors who could play the game. Who could captivate an audience.

Ophelia thought of Finnick. Of the way he smiled for the cameras, even when his eyes looked hollow. Of the weight that came with being too desirable. Of what winning had cost him. 

Aquila had a shot. Ophelia wasn’t sure she wanted her to take it. 

Her gaze flickered, almost unconsciously, across the auditorium. She didn’t have to search for him. Finnick sat beside Mags, his posture easy, his arms draped along the back of his chair. He was watching the stage, his face unreadable.

But he must have felt her eyes on him. Because after a second, he glanced toward her.

Their gazes locked. It was barely a second, but Ophelia felt it like a wire pulled too tight, straining under the weight of something neither of them had the words for. Finnick looked away. And just like that, the moment snapped.

“Are you even listening?”

Ophelia wasn’t.

She sat perched on the edge of a velvet chaise, her third drink balanced between her fingers, her bottom lip raw from the absentminded way she was biting at it. Across from her, Cashmere and Gloss were deep in conversation, their voices blending into the hum of the party around them. Gloss said something dryly amused, and Cashmere laughed, tilting her head back, her golden hair gleaming under the light.

Ophelia barely reacted.

Her gaze was elsewhere.

Finnick.

He stood across the room, surrounded by a small circle of Capitolites— older men and women, draped in absurdly elaborate garments, their faces stretched and painted into permanent masks of indulgence. Finnick’s posture was relaxed, one hand wrapped around a glass of something amber-colored, the other tucked into the pocket of his tailored slacks. He smiled when the group spoke to him, nodding along, effortless as always.

Ophelia’s throat felt tight.

For a fleeting moment, she let herself imagine it— crossing the room, stepping between him and the others, pressing her lips to his before he could react. Letting herself feel the shape of his mouth against hers, the heat of him under her hands. Would he let her? Would he pull her closer, slip his hand beneath the hem of her shirt, let her steal him away from the noise and the crowd?

Her grip tightened around her glass.

Stop. 

She sucked in a breath and tipped her head back, draining the rest of her drink in one long swallow. 

The burn of it hit her throat hard, grounding her, chasing the thought out of her head before it could root itself any deeper. She lowered the empty glass and turned back to Cashmere and Gloss, forcing herself to focus. She laughed a beat too hard at something Gloss said, her voice just a little too bright. Cashmere glanced at her, arching a brow, but didn’t say anything.

Across the room, Finnick’s gaze flickered toward her. He saw the way she downed her drink, the way she laughed— forced, like she was trying too hard to be present. His jaw tensed, but his face didn’t betray anything else.

His own glass was still half full, the conversation around him droning on, but he no longer heard it. Then he felt a hand. Slender fingers, painted a rich violet, sliding up beneath his shirt, pressing against the taut muscle of his stomach. Finnick didn’t move.

The woman beside him— older, draped in silk and diamonds— leaned in closer, her heavily lined eyes watching him expectantly. He exhaled sharply and knocked back the rest of his drink in one swallow.

The jacket sat at the top of her carry-on bag, neatly folded, the sleeves tucked in just so. Finnick’s jacket. The one he had tied around her waist in the elevator, the fabric still holding the faintest trace of salt and sea and something undeniably him.

Ophelia hovered over it, fingers ghosting above the gilded fabric, debating.

For the past week, she had told herself she would return it. That it was ridiculous to keep it. That she didn’t need it. That Finnick had only given it to her because it was the decent thing to do, because he pitied her in that moment, half-exposed and mortified in the elevator.

And yet, every time she thought about handing it back, something in her stopped.

The recap of that day’s events in the arena played on the massive screen in her Capitol suite, the muted sounds of cannon fire and screams filtering through the walls. Ophelia barely glanced at it. Instead, she sat cross-legged on the edge of the bed, staring at her bag like it held something dangerous.

Why was she hesitating?

Because she was avoiding Finnick. That was the logical answer. She had barely seen him since the Capitol penthouse party, and she had no reason to seek him out. But there was another answer, one that she hated even more.

Maybe— just maybe— she was clinging to that moment in the elevator.

A single minute in time where Finnick had looked at her and not seen a Career Victor, not seen another player in the Capitol’s twisted game, but her. He had cared for her, even if just for a second. Even if it meant nothing.

That thought made her sick.

Pathetic.

She curled her fingers into fists, pressing them into her lap. It was stupid. He was stupid. He had been kind to her out of necessity, out of obligation, nothing more.

Ophelia exhaled sharply, pushing herself off the bed. She would return it tomorrow.

Without another thought, she turned on her heel and strode into the bathroom, reaching for the shower dial and cranking it to the hottest setting. Scalding hot. Steam billowed up instantly, curling around her as she peeled off her clothes, letting them drop unceremoniously onto the tiled floor.

The air grew thick, damp, suffocating.

She stepped under the steamed spray, closing her eyes as the water cascaded over her skin, burning away the frustration, the doubt, the shame.

The ninth day of the Games had been brutal.

It had been one of those drawn-out, stomach-churning finales where the inevitable slowly unfolded in a way that left the audience breathless, enraptured, eager for blood.

Ophelia had watched in silence as Aquila climbed the jagged side of a mountain, her body moving with practiced ease, her fingers gripping the rock like she’d done it a hundred times before. The last tributes— four of them— were below, scrambling for cover, but they had nowhere to go. The terrain was their downfall.

And Aquila had made sure of it.

One by one, she threw what remained of her knives, landing each with lethal precision. When she ran out, she broke branches from fallen trees and sharpened them with the edge of a rock, crafting makeshift spears. She didn’t miss.

By the time the cannon fire ceased, the Capitol erupted into applause.

Ophelia barely moved. She had four drinks in her system— two of them taken from Cashmere’s hand when the tension had grown unbearable, her fingers trembling too much to sit still. Now, she was lightheaded, warm, buzzing. The sound of celebration crashed over her like waves, like static in her skull.

Aquila had won.

Her tribute had won.

She should be smiling, grinning, gloating, basking in the praise from the surrounding Capitolites, from the other Victors who wore their congratulatory expressions like masks. But all she could think about was what happened to Finnick when he won.

The flood of people around her didn’t notice her hesitation.

“Ophelia, a triumph!” one voice beamed, grasping at her arm. “Another win for District 2!”

“Flawless.” Another voice. “Your girl played it smart.”

“I knew she’d take it in the end!” A third. “You must be so proud.”

More drinks were pressed into her hands, more words wrapped around her in saccharine tones. Ophelia took it all, let herself smile, let herself nod, let herself be turned and led from the viewing lounge. Brutus’ firm grip found her elbow, steadying her as they moved toward the elevators.

The hospital floor. She was going to meet Aquila in the Tribute Center, the same way someone had once met her.

From across the room, Finnick’s eyes followed her. She didn’t look at him. Didn’t notice the way he exhaled sharply, fingers twitching around the stem of his empty glass, jaw tight as he flicked a glance toward Mags. 

Mags, who had already been watching him. Mags, who said nothing, but who knew exactly what he was thinking.

The train ride home was long. Quiet. Ophelia slept for most of it— at least, pretended to— her body curled into the seat, her carry-on bag tucked against her side like a lifeline. Every time she closed her eyes, flashes of the arena played behind her lids. Aquila scaling the mountainside. The way her last makeshift spear had lodged into the final tribute’s throat. The look on her face when she realized she had won.

Ophelia had worn that look once. She should be proud. She was proud. But she was also something else— something that made her throat feel tight and her fingers press deeper into the fabric of her bag.

By the time she stepped onto the platform in District 2, she was smiling.

Her mother was the first to greet her, pulling her into a tight hug. “Ophelia, darling, what a win!”

Her father stood a step behind, hands on his hips, nodding approvingly. “Well done.”

Cato shoved past them before she could react, slinging an arm around her shoulder. “Damn, Oph, you did it. You must be over the moon.”

Ophelia forced a smile, laughing softly as she gently pushed Cato’s arm off of her. “Yeah, well. It was all her.”

She downplayed it. Brushed it off. But she didn’t argue. Because some small, guilty part of her was proud. She exchanged a few more pleasantries before excusing herself, claiming exhaustion from the long journey home. It wasn’t entirely a lie.

She took the stairs to her bedroom, carrying her bag with her. She had just placed it on the bed when Cato followed her in, leaning lazily against the doorframe. 

“So,” Cato started, his grin already irritating. “Did you see your boyfriend?”

Ophelia froze mid-unzipping her bag before rolling her eyes. “He is not my boyfriend. Not even close.” 

Cato snorted. 

“But, if you must know—” Ophelia continued, giving him a pointed look. “We looked at each other twice. But we didn’t speak.”

Cato’s brows lifted, his expression intrigued. “Why not?”

Ophelia ignored him, pulling out a few folded outfits, moving to her dresser to put them away. But as she reached back into her bag, her fingers brushed against something smooth, something heavier than the rest.

Gold fabric.

She stilled.

Cato noticed.

His gaze dropped to the item she was pulling free, and the moment he recognized it, his mouth curled into a smirk. “Oh, well look what we have here. Whose jacket is that?”

Ophelia hesitated before answering. “… No one’s.”

Cato let out a sharp laugh. “Oh, no one’s? Right. Right.” He stepped forward, plucking the sleeve between his fingers before she could pull it away. “It’s gold,” he mocked. “And Capitol-made. Which means it’s his.”

Ophelia snatched the jacket away, but it was too late.

Cato’s laughter filled the room as he flopped onto her bed, grinning at her like a complete menace. “You kept Finnick Odair’s jacket? What, do you sniff it while you sleep?”

An eyeroll. A snort. Ophelia muttered a weak, “Shut up.”

“Oh, that’s rich—” Cato rolled onto his back, laughing harder. “Does he have a pair of your panties? Is that where they went in the elevator?”

Ophelia turned red. She immediately launched the jacket at him, her voice rising. “Get out! Get out!”

Cato, still cackling, rolled off the bed and darted toward the door. “I knew you had a thing for him!”

“I do not!”

August, 73 ADD

The bass thrummed beneath Ophelia’s skin, pulsing up from the floors of the grand Capitol ballroom and settling into her bones. The entire room was bathed in shimmering golden light, the glow of chandeliers catching on the sequins and metallic fabrics of the elites swaying and laughing all around her.

She was drunk. Delightfully drunk.

She giggled to herself as she swayed on her feet, her fifth drink still clutched between two fingers. Cashmere stood beside her, the same flush of alcohol brightening her cheeks, while Enobaria stood off to the side, arms crossed, lips curled in mild disapproval.

Ophelia pouted at her. “Oh, come on, Enny, don’t just stand there.” She reached out to tug on her arm, but Enobaria simply raised a brow and took a deliberate sip of her own drink. “Let’s dance.”

“I would rather not,” Enobaria replied flatly. "I've danced with you before. Would rather not relive that."

Ophelia turned to Cashmere, her grin widening. “Cash, tell her to dance.”

Cashmere hummed, swirling the remains of her drink in its glass. “She doesn’t seem to be in the mood."

Ophelia rolled her eyes before turning her attention to Brutus and Gloss, who stood a few feet away, watching them with varying levels of amusement. Brutus— annoyed. Gloss— mildly entertained.

She narrowed her eyes at them before grabbing Cashmere’s wrist and pulling her toward the dance floor. “Fine. I don’t need her,” she called over her shoulder.

Cashmere laughed, not resisting as Ophelia dragged her into the sea of bodies, the beat of the music wrapping around them.

Ophelia moved easily, the alcohol loosening her limbs, making her body light and effortless. She twisted her hips to the music, her golden dress shimmering under the dim lights. The room spun pleasantly as she let herself get lost in it, in the way her heartbeat synced with the pounding bass, in the warmth of Cashmere laughing beside her as she, too, gave in to the music.

When the beat dropped, Ophelia dipped low, running a teasing hand up her own thigh before flipping her hair back over her shoulder as she rose.

Cashmere smirked and followed her lead, mirroring her movements with ease, the two of them dancing together like they had a thousand times before— at parties, in training rooms, in Victory tours.

From the sidelines, Enobaria watched with narrowed eyes, her gaze flicking toward Gloss.

Gloss sighed before tipping back the rest of his drink. “I’ll get them,” he muttered, setting his glass down on a nearby tray before stepping onto the dance floor.

He reached them in seconds, placing a hand on Cashmere’s arm and another on Ophelia’s waist. “Alright, ladies, fun’s over,” he said, voice low but firm.

Cashmere pouted, flicking her golden hair over her shoulder. “Gloss, don’t be such a bore. We’re having fun.”

Gloss exhaled sharply. “You’ve had fun. We’re leaving.”

Ophelia barely heard them, her attention flitting across the room. No one was watching her. The realization hit her like a jolt—unfamiliar and unwelcome.

She was always watched. Always admired. Always the center of attention. Yet, here, in this golden Capitol ballroom, she was just another body moving to the music. Before she could think, before she could stop herself, she turned on her heel and ran. It was instinct— impulsive, reckless. But the thought of disappearing, of slipping away into the glittering expanse of the Capitol night, thrilled her in a way she couldn't explain.

She barely made it two steps before a heavy arm hooked around her waist, yanking her off the ground. A startled squeak left her lips as she was unceremoniously thrown over a broad shoulder.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

Brutus. His grip was firm, unyielding, his voice lined with the exasperation of a man who had long since lost patience.

“I was just—” Ophelia squirmed, but Brutus tightened his hold, hauling her toward the exit where Enobaria, Gloss, and a still-tipsy Cashmere waited.

“You were about to do something stupid,” he finished for her. “I know you, Ophelia.”

She huffed, arms crossed as she dangled over his shoulder. “You don’t have to carry me.”

Brutus didn’t respond, simply striding past the curious eyes of the Capitol elites, not caring in the slightest about the spectacle he was making.

Gloss exchanged a look with Enobaria, who merely shrugged, before falling into step behind them.

November, 73 ADD

Ophelia shoved another dress into her suitcase, pressing down to make room for the rest. The Capitol had sent a wardrobe in preparation for the Victory Tour— expensive, delicate, and entirely not her taste. She’d considered packing her own clothes, but Pulchra would throw a fit if she stepped off the train in anything not meticulously planned. So, the Capitol’s choices it was.

She sighed, glancing around her room, already feeling the weight of the next month pressing down on her.

A month.

Almost an entire month of trains, speeches, banquets, and smiling until her face ached. Of standing beside Aquila and pretending she didn’t feel some deep, twisting guilt over the entire thing. Of traveling across Panem, stepping foot in every district— each one home to at least one family that hated her for what her tribute had done.

She tossed a pair of heels into the suitcase with more force than necessary.

Just as she was debating whether she could fake an illness convincing enough to skip the whole thing, her bedroom door creaked open.

Cato stepped in, leaning against the doorframe, watching her for a second before speaking. “Hey.”

Ophelia glanced up briefly before shoving a folded blouse into the bag. “Hey.”

Cato squinted at her, then nodded toward the suitcase. “Almost done?”

Ophelia shrugged. “M’fine. Just ready to get this over with.”

Cato didn’t say anything right away, which was unusual for him. Usually, he had some annoying quip, some sarcastic remark that would make her roll her eyes. But instead, he lingered, hands stuffed into the pockets of his hoodie.

Then, finally, he muttered, “I’ll miss you.”

Ophelia’s hands stilled.

She turned her head, studying him.

Cato had always been the most irritating person in her life. Loud. Obnoxious. Constantly pushing her buttons just because he could. But he was also her brother. Her kid brother, despite the way he had surpassed her in height since he was thirteen. 

She softened. “C’mere.” She waved him over.

Cato hesitated, then sighed and walked across the room.

Ophelia wrapped her arms around him, pressing her cheek to his shoulder. He was broader than she remembered. He wasn’t a little kid anymore— he hadn’t been for a while. She sighed, squeezing him gently. “Love you, bubba.”

Cato huffed out a breath, hugging her a little tighter for a second before pulling back just slightly. “Alright, now you’re getting mushy on me.”

Ophelia smirked before pulling back just enough to plant an exaggerated, sloppy kiss on his cheek.

“Ew!” Cato recoiled immediately, shoving her away. “You’re disgusting!”

The towering white columns of the Presidential Mansion loomed ahead, their marble gleam bathed in the golden glow of Capitol lights. The massive iron gates had already been swung open in invitation, and beyond them, a throng of elegantly dressed Capitolites moved about the courtyard in a haze of laughter, music, and the clinking of crystal glasses.

Ophelia stepped forward, her heels clicking against the polished stone pathway as she walked beside Aquila. Their district escort, Valentina, followed closely behind, her heart-shaped painted lips curled into a pleased smile as she took in the spectacle.

Aquila’s fingers twitched slightly at her sides. “What should I expect?” she asked, her voice quieter than usual.

Ophelia glanced over at her, her lips twitching into something that was almost a smile. “Lots of fanfare,” she answered, voice casual. Then she lifted a manicured hand and pointed a finger. “Oh, and don’t drink the silver drink that the Avoxes bring around. It’ll make you vomit.”

Aquila blinked, her brow furrowing. “What? Why?”

“Because Capitolites eat more than they can stomach,” Ophelia said with a light shrug. “And they don’t like the inconvenience of feeling full.”

Aquila frowned. Ophelia could see the thoughts churning behind her sharp brown eyes, but before she could say anything else, Valentina swept forward, linking arms with her.

“We must mingle, darling,” the escort cooed, her platinum curls bouncing. “Smile, wave, accept their praise. You are their newest star, after all.”

Aquila let herself be led away, and Ophelia watched them go for a moment before exhaling, shifting her weight onto her back foot.

Now that she was alone, she scanned the courtyard, eyes flitting over extravagant gowns and tailored suits, searching for familiar faces. Cashmere, Gloss… Brutus? She didn’t really care who she found, so long as she found someone.

She moved further into the courtyard, sidestepping a Capitolite couple engaged in an exaggerated conversation about fur imports, and just as she turned to keep walking—

She collided with someone. Ophelia jolted back slightly, immediately reaching out to steady herself. “Oh, my gosh, so sorry—”

Johanna Mason blinked at her, unimpressed.

Ophelia’s mouth clamped shut.

Johanna’s dark eyes flickered over her for the briefest of moments before she huffed, stepping back. “Figures,” she muttered, brushing imaginary dust off the front of her dress. Then, with a sharp, pointed look at Ophelia, she added flatly, “You would smell like strawberries.”

Ophelia blinked.

Then Johanna turned on her heel and strode off, her dark hair swaying behind her.

Ophelia stood there, slightly stunned.

What the hell just happened?

She recovered quickly, smoothing down the front of her dress before tossing her caramel-blonde hair over one shoulder. She had better things to do than puzzle over whatever that was.

So Ophelia wove through the sea of silk and champagne once more, her mind buzzed, her thoughts erratic. She wasn't entirely sure where her feet were taking her, so long as she could escape whatever awkward oddity had just taken place. Ophelia wasn't entirely sure what she had done to Johanna Mason. Come to think of it, she had never even spoken to the girl. It wasn't exactly out of the ordinary; most of the lower districts tended to avoid the labeled Career districts. 1 and 2 tended to stay with their kind, just as the other districts did so. It was an unspoken rule amongst the Victors. 

Perhaps that was why Finnick didn't like her all that much. He was merely following the social hierarchy of the Victors. Districts stayed with districts. Careers with Careers. It shouldn't have shocked her, not really, but it did disappoint her in some sad way. She did not take Finnick to be someone who stuck with such constructs.

As though she had willed it into existence, Ophelia caught sight of said man up ahead. He was stepping away from a small group of older men, his expression schooled into something neutral. Polite. The way he always looked after entertaining them, after letting them paw at his arm, smooth their hands over the expensive fabric of his sleeves, pretend like they had any real claim over him.

Ophelia stopped.

She stared at him, watching as he ran a hand through his hair before shaking off whatever weight had settled onto his shoulders. She could turn away. She should turn away. But something in her frayed, snapping apart like a pulled thread.

She was ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous for acting like she was afraid of him. So she started walking.

Finnick saw her immediately. His sea-green eyes flicked to hers, then away, his jaw shifting as if debating something. He hesitated for a fraction of a second, as though weighing the idea of leaving before she reached him. But then, something in him gave up, and he remained where he stood, shoulders rolling back as if resigned to whatever this was.

Ophelia’s heart thudded harder than she cared to admit as she neared him. She should have thought of what she wanted to say before marching over, but she’d been too caught up in her own frustration to consider that. Now, standing in front of him, she realized she had nothing prepared.

The moment stretched between them.

Finnick raised a brow. His mouth curved— not quite into a smirk, but close. “What?” he asked, his voice just loud enough to be heard over the hum of the party.

Ophelia blinked up at him, flustered for only a fraction of a second before she gathered herself. “I have your jacket.”

Finnick’s expression didn’t change, but something in his posture shifted. “I know,” he said. The way he said it was almost amused. “I was the one who gave it to you.”

Ophelia’s lips parted slightly before she pressed them together, suddenly feeling warm. Her fingers curled at her sides. “I brought it with me,” she said after a pause. “So… if you want it back, I have it.”

Finnick watched her for a beat, something unreadable passing over his face before he exhaled lightly, shifting his weight. “I can buy a new one.” His tone was casual, dismissive— but only to the untrained ear.

Ophelia didn’t know what exactly it was that gave him away. Maybe it was the way his fingers twitched at his sides. Or maybe it was the fact that she knew— knew that that suit had been custom-made by one of his clients, knew that the fabric wasn’t something that could simply be plucked off a Capitol boutique rack, no matter how many gold coins he slipped into waiting hands.

Finnick’s eyes flickered over her face, reading something in the way her lips parted slightly, the way her fingers tensed at her sides. For a moment, he did nothing. Said nothing. Then, with an almost imperceptible shift, he looked away. His gaze trailed over the courtyard, over the glowing chandeliers hanging from the veranda, over the swirling silks and shimmering golds of the Capitolites. Then, inevitably, it landed on them. A small group of older men and women hovered nearby, watching him, waiting. He recognized their faces. Knew their names. Their habits.

Finnick clenched his jaw before inhaling through his nose. He didn’t need to look at Ophelia again to make his decision.

Leaning down slightly, he murmured, “Do you know how to dance?”

Ophelia blinked, tilting her head up to him. “…I mean, kind of.”

Her immediate answer was confident, but then something flickered behind her eyes, her expression shifting slightly. Memories. He could almost see them in real time— the way her nose scrunched as if recalling something amusing.

Finnick raised an eyebrow.

Ophelia pressed her lips together for a brief moment before clearing her throat, as if shaking off whatever she had been thinking about.

He almost asked. Almost. But he figured he didn’t need to. Instead, he nodded toward the crowd. “Well, if we’re going to keep chatting," he said the word deliberately, eyes gleaming with something unreadable, "we’re going to have to dance."

Ophelia followed his gaze for a fraction of a second, spotting the expectant Capitolites waiting nearby. She pursed her lips to the side in thought before exhaling sharply through her nose and stepping forward. Without hesitation, she grabbed his hand.

Finnick let her lead him toward the dance floor, letting her fingers curl around his palm as she weaved them through the crowd. He had half a mind to smirk, to tease her about how eager she was to get him alone, but he held his tongue. Just this once.

Once they reached the center of the dance floor, the music swelled around them, a slow, lilting melody played by a live ensemble perched on a marble platform. Ophelia turned toward him, her fingers still loosely laced with his.

Finnick tugged her hand slightly, stepping closer, his voice a low whisper against the buzz of conversation and music. “I’m supposed to lead,” he murmured, tilting his head slightly toward hers. “It’s proper etiquette.”

Ophelia blinked up at him, caught off guard by the proximity. For a fleeting second, her fingers twitched in his grip, like she was debating whether or not to pull away. But she didn’t. Instead, her lips parted slightly, and then— almost hesitantly— she let him lead.

Finnick exhaled lightly, his grip shifting, his hand pressing against the curve of her waist as he guided her into a slow ballroom step. The movement was fluid, effortless. He felt her body relax into the rhythm of the dance, felt the warmth of her against him as they turned, as they moved together.

At first, Finnick was just humoring her. That’s what he told himself. She had been the one to come up to him, after all. And if she was going to interrupt his night just to stand there awkwardly, flustered and pink-cheeked, he might as well make it worth her while.

He guided her through the first steps, his grip light but steady, the warmth of her hand soft against his palm. It should have been easy. A slow waltz— nothing complicated. And yet, not even ten seconds in, Ophelia stepped directly on his foot.

Finnick tensed only slightly, more out of surprise than pain, and Ophelia immediately recoiled, eyes wide.

“Oh, shit—” Her head snapped up to him, embarrassment flashing across her face like lightning.

Finnick barely reacted. He just let out a slow exhale through his nose, schooling his expression into something unreadable, before murmuring, “That’s one way to keep me on my toes.”

Ophelia’s lips parted, flustered. “I—”

Then she stepped on him again.

Finnick did react this time, inhaling sharply, and Ophelia panicked.

“Oh, my God, sorry," she rambled. "I’m sorry— I’m really not a good—”

He exhaled sharply through his nose, suppressing a smirk, before leaning down— so close that his lips almost grazed the shell of her ear. “Relax,” he murmured.

Ophelia went still.

Finnick felt it— the way her breath hitched, the way the warmth of her skin rose in tandem with the heat in the ballroom.

“Let me lead,” he continued, voice quieter now. “That’s kind of the whole point.”

Ophelia swallowed, blinking up at him. Then, slowly— almost hesitantly— she let herself follow his movements. The next few steps were smoother, more fluid, and Finnick allowed himself to ease into the dance, just slightly.

After a few more seconds, he murmured, “There we go.”

Ophelia huffed softly, eyes flickering up at him.

Finnick smirked, just barely. “You can follow instruction.”

Ophelia rolled her eyes, letting out a small laugh. “I was told I was coachable in the Academy.”

Finnick’s lips twitched. “Were you?”

Ophelia nodded, her steps now more confident. “Mhm. I even won an award.”

Finnick raised an eyebrow.

Ophelia grinned, amusement flickering behind her bright blue eyes. “Most improved in a year.” Then she let out a small, self-deprecating laugh before adding, “And most accident-prone, after one of my knives bounced back and almost cut off my ear.”

Finnick blinked at her. For the first time, really blinked at her. Not at the Career. Not at the polished, Capitol-friendly Victor from District 2 who could gut someone in ten seconds flat. At her. He wasn’t even sure what it was, exactly— maybe the way she said it, so lighthearted and unguarded, as if she wasn’t used to speaking about herself in a way that wasn’t rehearsed.

It wasn’t that she wasn’t lethal— he knew she was. But this? The way she talked about herself so openly, without posturing or arrogance? It softened something in him. Something he wasn’t sure he liked.

But instead of dwelling on it, Finnick exhaled lightly through his nose before murmuring, “Well, that tracks. That aligns pretty well with you making my toes go numb.”

Ophelia laughed, tipping her head back slightly. “Oh, my gosh, are they really?”

Finnick let out a short chuckle, shaking his head slightly. “Not yet. But if you keep this up…”

Ophelia giggled again, and for a moment— just a moment— Finnick forgot where they were. Forgot about the Capitolites watching. Forgot about the hands he would have to let trail over his skin later, the voices he would have to entertain, the expectations that would choke him the second he stepped away from the dance floor.

Right now, it was just him. And her.

The final notes of the waltz drifted through the air, lingering for a moment before fading into the low hum of conversation and the distant chime of crystal glasses. Ophelia and Finnick slowed, their movements coming to a natural stop.

For a moment, neither of them let go. Finnick's grip was loose but present, the warmth of his palm still pressed against hers. Ophelia could feel the ghost of his touch along the small of her back where his other hand had guided her, the sensation tingling even as the dance ended.

They stood there, unmoving, the space between them charged with something neither of them wanted to acknowledge. Then, after a beat— almost as if he realized what he was doing— Finnick dropped her hand. His touch left her skin completely, his fingers retreating as if nothing had happened. As if he hadn't just pulled her close, whispered against her ear, made her heart stutter against her ribs.

Ophelia blinked, glancing down at her now empty palm before slowly looking back up at him. "Thank you for the dance," she said softly, her voice lighter than she intended.

Finnick exhaled through his nose, something flickering behind his sea-green eyes— something unreadable, something conflicted.

She was looking up at him like that again.

That way that made him feel unsettled, like she was seeing through him, really seeing through him, like she wasn’t looking at Finnick Odair, Victor of the 65th Hunger Games, Finnick Odair, the Capitol’s golden boy, Finnick Odair, the property of the highest bidder—

Just Finnick.

And he didn’t know what to do with that.

So he defaulted to something— a slow, small smirk, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You were an adequate partner.”

Ophelia let out a breath of laughter, rolling her eyes. “Wow. High praise.”

Finnick huffed, just slightly. His gaze softened— but only for a moment, only for a fraction of a second— before he stepped back.

She was beautiful. Objectively. That was all this was. That was all it was. He was trained to recognize beauty, trained to pick up on attractive qualities in anyone, to notice the way lips curved, how eyes softened, how skin glowed beneath the ballroom lights.

That was all this was.

Nothing more.

But still— still. She was staring at him like she wanted something. And he wasn’t sure if it was something he could give her.

Finnick inhaled, subtle and steady, before shifting his gaze over her shoulder.

The Capitolites were still waiting. The people who owned him. And it wasn’t a choice, not really, not when he knew exactly what would happen if he lingered too long in something that wasn’t meant for him.

So Finnick turned, walking back toward them, each step taking him further from Ophelia— further from the warmth of her hands, the softness of her laugh, the way she made him forget for just a second.

Her fingers twitched at her sides, but she didn’t move. Didn’t call out to him. Because this was how it had to be. She knew that. She had always known that. She could want him— could let herself acknowledge, for the first time, that she wanted him— but she would never have him. That was the way of things.

Ophelia watched as he moved toward the edge of the dance floor, where the group of Capitolites was waiting for him like vultures circling a fresh kill. He didn’t hesitate— didn’t so much as pause before stepping back into the life that owned him.

She saw the way one of the men reached for him, fingers brushing over the fabric of his sleeve like he had a right to touch him. Her stomach twisted.

Before she could take another breath, the shifting bodies on the dance floor obscured her view of him entirely. Ophelia inhaled through her nose, forcing herself to walk. To turn. To let it go. But her skin still tingled where he had held her.

She barely had a moment to collect herself before a manicured hand grasped her wrist.

"There you are!"

Ophelia blinked, snapping out of her trance as Valentina materialized beside her, her heart-shaped painted lips curling into a relieved smile.

"I've been looking everywhere for you," Valentina sighed, already tugging her away from the dance floor. "Come, we need to find Aquila. She’s been positively swarmed since we arrived. You must be seen together before the night is over."

Ophelia let herself be pulled away. She didn’t protest. She didn’t look back.

But she felt everything.

Chapter Text

December, 73 ADD

ALL OPHELIA COULD DO WAS STARE AT THE CEILING. Stare and feel nothing. Something cold sat heavy in her stomach, an ache she couldn’t quite name. Dread, maybe. Or boredom. Or maybe just that gnawing emptiness that came with knowing— knowing that there was nothing left, that she had already done what she was meant to do, that the best of her life had already happened.

She had fought. She had won.

And now?

Now she just existed. A Victor with no real victory, no purpose beyond training tributes that would die anyway and standing in rooms full of people she didn’t care about, plastering on a smile while the Capitol paraded her around like a trophy.

Maybe this was all there was. Maybe this was all there would ever be.

The door creaked open.

Ophelia didn’t turn her head, didn’t move. She knew who it was before she heard the quiet shuffle of his footsteps, before the bed dipped under his weight, before the blanket lifted and Cato slipped beneath it beside her.

Neither of them spoke right away.

He was warm— warmer than her, his body heat seeping into her side as he settled in beside her. The scent of iron and sweat and District 2 training halls clung to him, faint but familiar, grounding her in something solid.

Cato turned his head slightly on the pillow. “It’s almost noon.”

Ophelia breathed in but said nothing.

Cato didn’t push. He never did.

She let the silence stretch between them for a long moment, let herself sink into the quiet, the stillness, before finally, in a whisper so soft it barely left her lips, she admitted, “I think I’m depressed.”

Cato didn’t say anything at first.

She could feel him processing, could hear the subtle shift in his breathing as he turned his head toward her fully.

Then, finally, “Why do you think that?”

Ophelia swallowed, staring up at the ceiling. “I just…” Her voice trailed off before she forced herself to continue, quieter now. “I feel like I don’t have a purpose. Like, I don’t have a reason to live other than to train tributes that die almost every year and go to fancy Capitol parties full of people I don’t know. I fought in the arena and won. I did what I needed to do. And now, I just…” 

She exhaled through her nose, voice growing even softer. “I don’t know what’s left for me.”

Cato was quiet for a moment before he finally asked, “That’s all?”

Ophelia let out a breath that was almost a laugh, but it wasn’t really funny.

“No,” she sighed, shaking her head slightly against the pillow before continuing, her voice barely above a whisper. “And I feel alone. I feel like the only people I’m friends with care about me because I’m a Capitol celebrity or because we saw the inside of the arena and made it out. And the people that I want to care about me don’t want anything to do with me.”

That part was the hardest to say.

Because she wasn’t just talking about the general Capitol masses, the sponsors who only liked her when she smiled for the cameras. She wasn’t even talking about the other Victors who nodded at her in passing but never really knew her.

She was talking about him. And she hated that. Hated that she even cared. Hated that he made her feel like this.

Cato was silent again, and when Ophelia finally turned her head to look at him, his expression was unreadable.  But then— softly, honestly— he said, “I wish I could help you.”

Ophelia let out a quiet breath, something tight in her chest loosening just slightly at his words. She turned toward him, shifting closer beneath the blankets before resting her head against his shoulder.

Cato stayed still for a moment before exhaling through his nose and patting her back, the gesture a little awkward, but warm nonetheless.

Neither of them said anything after that. And maybe Cato couldn’t help her. Maybe no one could. But for now, at least, she wasn’t alone.

January, 74 ADD

The streets of District 2 were quieter than usual as Ophelia made her way home, the setting sun casting long shadows across the cobbled roads. The distant clang of metal and the rhythmic grunts of soldiers training in the Academy rang through the air, blending with the murmur of citizens going about their evening routines.

She adjusted the strap of her bag on her shoulder, exhaling slowly. The weight of the day pressed against her— not in exhaustion, but in that hollow, creeping way that had been settling into her chest more and more lately. She just wanted to get home, to crawl into bed and let the world exist without her for a while.

Then—

A firm hand landed on her shoulder.

Ophelia’s breath caught as her body stiffened instinctively, muscles tensing as she jerked around, eyes widening when she came face-to-face with the white, expressionless mask of a Peacekeeper helmet.

Her heart lurched.

Shit.

For a brief, terrifying moment, panic clamped around her ribs. Had she done something? Had she said something? Was this about her attitude at the last Capitol event? Had Snow finally decided she was more trouble than she was worth?

Then— three quick taps against her shoulder.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

The tension in her body uncoiled just slightly, her sharp breath softening as recognition dawned.

Ovid.

She should have known.

The panic still hadn’t fully subsided as she watched him gesture subtly for her to follow him. Without a word, she fell into step behind him, glancing over her shoulder once before ducking into a narrow alleyway off the main road.

The dim light of the evening barely reached the brick walls enclosing them, casting the space in deep shadows. Ophelia set her bag down against the wall, leaning back against the cool bricks before exhaling sharply.

“You could’ve been a little more casual,” she murmured, voice low. “I thought you were gonna contain me.”

Ovid scoffed, reaching up to unclasp the latch of his helmet before pulling it off. Beneath the cold white mask was a familiar face— tanned skin, sharp jaw, hazel eyes that always carried a hint of something unreadable. His dark buzzcut was slightly damp with sweat from wearing the heavy armor all day.

“I wasn’t trying to draw attention,” he said, voice steady but not entirely apologetic.

Ophelia studied him for a moment before rolling her shoulders against the wall, crossing her arms loosely. “So?” she prompted, arching a brow. “What did you need from me?”

Ovid met her gaze, his lips twitching into something that wasn’t quite a smirk but lingered close. “You know what I need.”

And then he was there, closing the space between them before she could reply, his lips finding hers with practiced ease. Ophelia barely had time to laugh before she let herself sink into it, her fingers curling into the front of his uniform as she kissed him back.

There was something almost clinical about this— about them. It wasn’t romance. It wasn’t anything close to that. It was just an exchange— one that they had fallen into over time, an unspoken arrangement where she offered a reprieve from his grueling duties, and he offered something solid, something that made her feel real when everything else in her life felt like a performance.

Ovid’s hands ghosted over her waist, his touch firm but familiar as he pressed her back against the brick wall. His lips were insistent, moving against hers like he already knew she would match his pace. And she did. At least, until—

Finnick.

The unwelcomed thought crept in.

The brush of Ovid’s lips against hers, the way he gripped her hip— it should have been grounding, should have been distracting. But for some stupid, stupid reason, all she could think about was someone else.

The way Finnick had looked at her on the dance floor. The way his voice had lowered when he whispered for her to relax. The way he had held her hand, even if only briefly. The way she had felt like something inside of her was unraveling every time he so much as glanced in her direction. 

And she hated it.

She pressed harder into the kiss, desperate to drown out the thought, to chase it away with something tangible, something right in front of her.

She was being stupid. She knew that. Finnick wasn’t hers to think about. He wasn’t anyone’s to think about. He was a distraction. A Capitol-trained charmer who knew how to make anyone feel special, who had to make people feel special because it was his job.

Ovid’s lips trailed down to her jaw. Down to her neck. She exhaled through her nose, squeezing her eyes shut.

Just enjoy the moment, she told herself. Stop thinking about him.

Her fingers dug into Ovid’s shoulders as she let herself fall back into the familiarity of this, pushing everything else— him— as far down as she could.

February, 74 ADD

The air was sharp, the kind of cold that cut through fabric and bit at exposed skin, but Ophelia barely felt it. She stood at the edge of the frozen lake behind the Victors’ Village, her boots buried in the snow, her breath curling in the air before her like wisps of smoke. A small pile of rocks sat at her feet, collected from the frosted ground, each one smoothed by time and weather.

She picked one up and turned it over in her palm before tossing it onto the ice. It landed with a hollow thunk, skidding slightly before coming to a stop. Ophelia grabbed another. This time, she threw it harder.

Thunk.

The sound echoed in the stillness.

She kept going, watching each rock bounce, roll, settle. She wasn’t really sure what she was waiting for— maybe a crack, maybe a break, maybe nothing at all.

“Is this how you plan to spend your birthday?”

The voice came from behind her, dry and unimpressed, but unmistakably familiar.

Ophelia’s hand froze mid-throw, her fingers tightening around the rock in her grip before she turned her head slightly, peering over her shoulder. Enobaria stood a few feet away, arms crossed, watching her with that same sharp, assessing gaze she always wore.

Ophelia blinked. “You remembered my birthday?”

Enobaria scoffed, stepping closer. “Only because it’s the last day of the month. Kind of hard to forget.”

A small smile tugged at Ophelia’s lips before she turned back to the lake, throwing the rock in her hand onto the ice. It landed with another dull thunk.

Enobaria stopped beside her, glancing down at the pile of rocks by Ophelia’s feet before holding out a hand. Ophelia raised an eyebrow but handed her a few.

For a moment, the two of them stood in silence, side by side, throwing rocks at the frozen water. The only sounds were the steady rhythm of stone meeting ice, the occasional crackle as fractures spread across the surface.

Eventually, Enobaria broke the quiet. “What’s bothering you?”

Ophelia’s next rock hit the ice a little harder than the others. She frowned slightly, rolling another between her fingers before murmuring, “I have too many feelings.”

Enobaria let out a short, amused exhale. “That’s never good.” She tilted her head. “What kind of feelings?”

Ophelia didn’t answer right away. Instead, she picked up a larger rock, gripping it tightly before launching it across the lake with a little more force.  A loud crack splintered through the air as the ice fractured further, thin white lines spiderwebbing outward from the impact point. She watched it spread for a moment before exhaling. 

“If I tell you,” she said quietly, “you’ll think it’s stupid.”

Enobaria hummed, tossing another rock without looking at her. “Maybe,” she admitted. “But tell me anyway.”

Ophelia bit the inside of her cheek, staring at the cracks in the ice as they stretched farther, deeper, wider. She was almost afraid to see how far they would go. She tossed another rock onto the ice. 

Then another. 

She watched the fractures spread— delicate at first, then growing more aggressive, more jagged, creeping outward in an intricate web of destruction. Her breath curled in the frigid air as she stared, her chest tightening with something she couldn't name, something heavy and restless and aching.

And then, without looking at Enobaria, she admitted: "I have feelings for Finnick Odair."

The confession fell from her lips, quiet and sharp, like a blade slipping between ribs. It felt foreign, even to her own ears, but there it was— hanging between them in the cold winter air, unchangeable, irreversible.

Enobaria didn’t react right away.

Ophelia exhaled, her fingers tightening around another rock as she continued, words tumbling out in a rush before she could stop them. "And I’ve been having sex with a Peacekeeper in town for almost two years," she added, voice tight. "Not because I love him or anything, just because I’ve been so alone, and I wanted to feel something. I don’t even think I like him."

She inhaled sharply, her grip on the rock trembling before she hurled it onto the ice, watching it bounce and skitter toward the center. "And then the other day, when I was with him—" she swallowed, shaking her head. "I couldn’t stop thinking about Finnick."

The name felt raw in her mouth, like she wasn’t supposed to say it, like she was admitting to something forbidden.

She let out a humorless laugh and ran both hands down her face before groaning into her palms. "And it’s stupid. I know that it’s stupid. I know what he does, what they make him do, and that just makes me feel worse for thinking about him like that. He doesn’t even like me."

She dropped her hands and let out a breath, visible in the crisp air, before shaking her head again, more frustrated this time. "But then— he gave me his jacket after my dress ripped open. He won’t take it back, and now it’s just sitting in my closet because I can’t bear to get rid of it." Her voice cracked slightly. "It’s pathetic," she muttered. "I’m such a loser."

She clenched her jaw and hurled another rock. It hit the ice with a hollow thunk before rolling into one of the larger fractures.

For a long moment, Enobaria was silent. Ophelia finally glanced at her. She was staring. Not in judgment, not in pity— just watching, expression unreadable, sharp eyes fixed on Ophelia like she was trying to work something out.

The quiet stretched. And then, without a word, Enobaria held out her last few rocks.

Ophelia hesitated before taking them, exhaling through her nose as she shifted her stance and started throwing again.

Harder this time.

One rock after another, each landing with a brutal impact, splintering the ice further and further until a deep, sharp crack tore through the stillness.

The center of the lake gave way. The ice broke open. Dark water gaped beneath it, jagged shards floating aimlessly, displaced, lost.

Ophelia stared at it, her heart pounding. Her fingers were empty. She had nothing left to throw.

March, 74 ADD

The sheets were silk. They were always silk. Smooth and cool beneath Finnick’s hands, beneath his knees where they pressed into the mattress. The woman beneath him sighed— a soft, pleased sound— as he brushed his lips along her collarbone, letting his fingers slide the thin straps of her nightgown down her shoulders.

He closed his eyes.

He didn’t think. He didn’t feel. He moved the way he was supposed to, touched the way he knew she wanted, kissed the way that made her breath hitch and her fingers tighten in his hair.

This was routine. A performance perfected over years. His body knew the script even when his mind wandered. It was all mechanical. He had done this so many times before, he could go through the motions in his sleep. His body reacted without thought, without hesitation.

But his mind— his mind was somewhere else.

Ophelia.

The thought sliced through him before he could stop it, unbidden and unwelcome. He saw her, felt her— the way her body had fit against his when they danced, the nervous laugh she tried to stifle when she stepped on his feet, the soft curve of her mouth when she had smiled up at him.

Finnick’s jaw tightened as he kissed the woman beneath him deeper, trying— failing— to push the image away. He focused on the warmth of the body beneath him, the perfume that clung to her skin, the way her hands traced the lines of his arms.

But she wasn’t Ophelia. He knew that. And yet, as he slid the silk down further, exposing soft skin beneath, his mind betrayed him.

His fingers trembled, just slightly. Finnick clenched his teeth, frustration curling deep in his gut.

Not her. Not her.

His grip on control wavered, and in its place came something almost desperate. He needed to shake the thought, needed to wipe her from his mind. Instead, he focused on nothing. He kissed without thought. Touched without care. Let himself sink into the moment the way he had a thousand times before. He tried to clear his mind, to think of nothing, to let muscle memory carry him through. But nothingness was too empty, and emptiness left space for things to slip in.

So he let her stay. If only to get through it.

He imagined her hands on his back, her lips beneath his. Imagined the way her body would shift under his weight, the way her breath would stutter, the way her fingers might tangle in his hair instead of just brushing through it, careful, detached, the way she would sound when she—

His pulse kicked up— not from the woman beneath him.

It was her voice he heard in his head when he kissed the slope of her throat. It was her body he pictured beneath him as he moved lower, as his fingers pressed against warm skin, as lips parted against his. 

His breathing deepened. His lips parted.

“Oph—”

The syllable barely ghosted his tongue before he caught himself, strangling the name before it could fully leave his lips.

His stomach twisted, nausea curling at the edges of his mind.

What the hell was wrong with him?

His grip faltered, his rhythm nearly breaking. But she didn’t notice. She never did. Because she didn’t care who he thought about. She only cared that he was here.

May, 74 ADD

Ophelia was sitting cross-legged on her bed, a bottle of teal nail polish resting on the nightstand beside her. The smell of acetone lingered in the air, mixing with the faint scent of her strawberry lotion. She dragged the small brush over her pinky toe, careful not to smudge the fresh coat on her other nails.

A noise at the door made her glance up.

Cato stood there, lingering in the doorway, his broad frame blocking part of the dim hallway light from spilling into her room. He had his arms crossed, his jaw set in a way that made him look even more stubborn than usual. It wasn’t the first time that he had done so, only this time, he wasn’t smirking. Wasn’t making some sarcastic quip about her ugly nail color or how she was such a girl. He just stood there.

Odd. 

Ophelia exhaled through her nose. "Why are you still awake?" she asked, dipping the brush back into the bottle.

Cato hesitated. "Can I talk to you?"

Ophelia narrowed her eyes slightly.

Another oddity. That wasn’t like him. Not the talking part— Cato was never quiet— but the asking part. He didn’t usually ask her for anything. He just barged in, ran his mouth, and left.

Still, something in his expression made her cap the nail polish, setting it aside. "Yeah," she said, tilting her head. "What’s up?"

Cato remained in the doorway for a beat longer before stepping inside. His usual arrogance— the cocky way he carried himself— was absent, replaced with something unreadable.

Finally, he spoke. “Clove wants to volunteer this year.”

Ophelia’s stomach dropped. She blinked, her expression twisting with confusion. “Why?”

Cato exhaled sharply, scratching at his jaw. “Because of you.”

Ophelia’s heart pounded. “What?”

“She saw your tribute win,” Cato said simply. “And all the training you’ve been giving her… She thinks she has a shot.”

The words hit Ophelia like a slap. She stared at him, her pulse ringing in her ears.

Her tribute. The training she’d given Clove. The nights in the woods, showing Clove how to hold a knife differently, how to aim, how to spot weaknesses in an opponent’s stance. The hours of sparring, of drills. Of promising that the hard work would pay off.

She had known that Clove had wanted to volunteer; most, if not all, of the children in 1 and 2 had the desire to do so. It was what they had been born and bred to do. A rite of passage. An honor, even. Still, the reality was sinking in, coiling bitter in her stomach.

She had led Clove here. Just like she’d led Aquila. Just like Enobaria had once led her.

Ophelia felt her pulse quicken.  "Well, tell her to not," she snapped, her voice rising before she could control it.

Cato flinched, like he wasn’t expecting her to react like that. "It’s not just her," he said, irritation creeping into his tone. "We made a pact to go in together."

Ophelia stared at him. She felt something claw up her throat— something hot and ugly and filled with horror. "Why would you do that?!" she shouted.

Cato’s jaw tightened. "Because we’ve been training for this since we could walk!" he shot back. "This is what we’re supposed to do!"

"No!" Ophelia’s voice was sharp, cracking against the walls. "No, call off whatever stupid pact you made. It’s not happening!"

Cato scoffed. "You don’t get to decide that."

"Like hell I don’t!" She shoved herself off the bed, pointing a finger at him. "I knew you were stupid, but this is so stupid! So fucking stupid! You don’t know what you’re about to get yourself into!"

His eyes darkened. "You think I don’t?" he snarled.

"No, you don’t," Ophelia shot back, voice shaking. "You have no fucking idea."

Cato clenched his fists. "You act like you’re the only one who’s ever been through it," he snapped. "Like you’re some tragic fucking martyr. It’s pathetic."

Ophelia felt something inside her crack open.

But Cato wasn’t done. "You sit here in your room, painting your fucking nails, pretending it didn’t happen," he sneered. "But it did. And you won. And now it’s my turn."

She flinched. "Cato—"

"Stay out of it," Cato cut her off, voice like steel.

Then he turned, storming out of the room and slamming the door behind him. 

The walls shook.

Ophelia stood there, staring at the door, breath coming too fast.

The teal polish on her nails was still wet.

Ophelia’s bare feet moved quickly across the cool hardwood floor. She was still in her sleep shorts and a loose shirt, her hair falling over her shoulders in messy waves, but she didn’t care. She had barely given herself time to think before she was pushing open the heavy door to her parents’ bedroom without knocking.

“Talk him out of it.”

Her voice came out sharp, breathless, as she stepped into the dimly lit room.

Her mother and father were sitting up in bed, clearly caught off guard. Her mother had been reading, the book still resting open in her lap, while her father— ever the disciplined soldier— looked as if he had been awake anyway, sitting rigid against the headboard.

Her mother frowned slightly. “Ophelia—”

“Talk him out of it,” Ophelia cut her off, her voice rising. “Cato. Tell him he’s not volunteering.”

Her father exhaled through his nose before pinching the bridge of it. “Ophelia, it’s late.”

“I don’t care.” Her hands curled into fists. “You need to talk to him. You need to stop him.”

Her mother sighed, shutting her book. “He’s trained for this, sweetheart. Just like you did.” She paused briefly before adding, "It's his choice if he volunteers."

Ophelia’s stomach turned violently. “The fuck it is!” she shrieked, stepping further into the room. Her voice cracked, her hands shaking. “You’re going to let him do this?! After my Games?! It’s Cato!”

Her mother’s eyes softened, but her father remained impassive, his face unreadable. “Ophelia,” her mother started gently, “you know how it works.”

Ophelia let out a strangled, disbelieving laugh. “Oh, I know how it works?” she repeated mockingly. “I know? Great, then let me spell it out for you—” Her voice broke on the next words, but she didn’t stop. “If he volunteers, he’s going to die.”

Her father finally spoke, his tone even. “That’s not necessarily true.”

Ophelia snapped. “Oh, fuck you,” she spat, her voice shaking with rage. “Don’t do that. Don’t sit there and act like there’s some honorable way this ends, like it’s all just training and strategy. He’s a kid, and you’re letting him throw himself to the wolves.”

Her mother’s face tensed. “You volunteered.”

“That was different!” Ophelia shouted. “I—” Her breath came short. “I didn’t know what I was walking into.”

Her father’s eyes darkened. “You knew exactly what you were walking into.”

Ophelia stared at him, her lips parting slightly in disbelief.

And then, suddenly, a new voice entered the conversation.

“Oh my God, will you shut up?”

Ophelia turned sharply, her pulse spiking as she saw Cato standing in the doorway.

He was still in his sleep clothes— sweatpants, a loose tank top— but his stance was anything but relaxed. His arms were tense at his sides, his face twisted in irritation. “I could hear you from my room,” he said, his voice sharp. “The whole damn house can hear you.”

Ophelia inhaled sharply, still breathless from shouting. “Cato—”

“Stop trying to control me,” he snapped, stepping further into the room. His voice rose with every word, his anger igniting into something raw and explosive. “You don’t own me! You don’t get to make decisions for me just because you don’t like them!”

Ophelia’s chest constricted, her nails biting into her palms. “This isn’t about me not liking it,” she seethed. “It’s about me knowing what’s going to happen to you.”

“You don’t know anything,” Cato shot back. “You just think you do.”

She looked at him— really looked at him, at the way his jaw was clenched, the way his hands were shaking slightly at his sides. She turned back to her parents. Her mother was watching silently, lips pressed together, while her father’s face remained unreadable.

And suddenly, it hit her.

They weren’t going to do anything. They weren’t going to stop him. They weren’t even going to try.

Ophelia’s throat tightened, rage and something far more painful clawing its way up her chest. She let out a sharp, bitter laugh, shaking her head as her vision blurred at the edges. “Unbelievable,” she breathed. And then, louder— raw and shaking: “Unbelievable!”

She turned, her glare moving from Cato to her parents, her voice breaking as she choked out, “I don’t even know you people anymore.”

And with that, she stormed past Cato, her shoulder brushing his as she shoved past him. She didn’t stop until she was back in her room, until the door was slammed shut behind her, until she collapsed onto her bed.

June, 74 ADD

The silence between them stretched into weeks. 

Ophelia didn’t mean for it to last this long, but avoiding Cato became easier than facing him. Or maybe it was just easier in general— to stay in her room, to jog mindlessly around the deserted streets of the Victors’ Village, to pretend like she didn’t hear their parents talking about her behind closed doors.

At home, she lingered in her room most of the day, slipping out only when she was sure she wouldn’t run into Cato. She kept her window cracked, the breeze carrying in the distant sounds of steel clashing and voices shouting from the Academy. She knew where Cato was spending his time— who he was spending it with.

Clove had stopped showing up to their training sessions. Ophelia knew why. Cato had told her. 

She had tried not to care. But it gnawed at her anyway, a dull, bitter thing that sat heavy in her chest. She could imagine Clove’s reaction— her sharp, knowing smirk, her dismissive shrug. She and Cato had always been cut from the same cloth, always understood each other in a way Ophelia never really had with anyone in District 2.

Cato and Clove had always been Career first.

And Ophelia— despite everything— had never been able to stomach that word. Not really.

So she stayed away. From the lake that they had frequented in the summer. From Clove. From him. But it was impossible to avoid Cato forever. Especially when they lived under the same damn roof.

Ophelia sat cross-legged on her bed, dragging a comb through her damp hair in long, even strokes. She had showered after her evening run, hoping to rinse away the exhaustion that had settled into her bones. But as the hours stretched on, she only felt heavier.

The bedroom lamp cast a warm glow against the walls, the only source of light in the room. Concrete— small, old, and curled up beside her— breathed deeply in sleep, his tiny body rising and falling beneath the covers. The rhythmic motion was almost soothing.

Then, her bedroom door creaked open. She knew who it was before she even glanced up. Cato lingered in the doorway, his broad shoulders filling the space like he was waiting for her to acknowledge him. 

She didn’t. She dragged the comb through another section of her hair, her fingers twisting a damp strand absently.

Cato exhaled sharply through his nose. He took a step inside, the weight of his presence sinking into the room. “I know you can hear me.”

Ophelia continued combing.

Cato made a low sound of frustration, stepping further in, crossing the floor with heavy, deliberate footsteps. “Are you seriously gonna keep ignoring me?”

Silence.

Concrete let out a soft sigh in his sleep, unconcerned by the tension crackling in the air.

Cato stared at her, his hands flexing at his sides before curling into fists. “You’re being ridiculous.”

Ophelia pressed her lips together and kept her attention on the comb, sliding it through her hair with slow, precise movements.

Cato let out a short, bitter laugh. “Right. Of course. You can ignore me all you want, but it doesn’t change anything.”

She didn’t look at him. 

“I don’t get you,” Cato muttered, and there was something raw in his voice now, frustration laced with something else. “You think sulking in here is gonna change anything? You think acting like I don’t exist is gonna make me not volunteer?”

Her fingers tensed around the comb.

Cato scoffed.  “That’s what this is about, isn’t it?” His voice sharpened, cutting through the stillness. “You can’t handle the fact that I’m not you. That I don’t think like you. That I actually belong here.”

Ophelia’s grip on the comb tightened.

“That’s what pisses you off the most, right?” Cato continued, stepping closer. “That I believe in this. That I want this. That I’m better at this than you ever were.”

The words hit their mark.

Something twisted inside her, sharp and unforgiving. She stared down at her bedspread, her vision blurring slightly.

Cato lingered for a second longer, his breathing uneven, his fists still clenched— like he was waiting for her to say something.

But Ophelia still didn’t look at him.

Cato made a disgusted noise in the back of his throat before turning sharply on his heel. “Whatever,” he muttered under his breath, shoving the door open. “Not like I need your approval anyway.”

Then— slam.

The door rattled in its frame.

Ophelia barely flinched. She just sat there, comb still gripped in her hand, staring down at the fabric of her comforter. Her breath shuddered slightly as she squeezed her eyes shut. She didn’t know if she wanted to scream or cry.

July, 74 ADD

The sun was merciless.

Ophelia could feel its weight pressing down on her shoulders, heating the stage beneath her feet. She had chosen something neutral to wear— a cream colored blouse and plain pants. It gave her some sense of normalcy, even for a moment that her concerns could be focused on her outfit. But it didn’t really matter. Nothing did. Because she already knew how this day would end.

She stood on the stage beside Brutus and Enobaria, her hands clasped in front of her, her expression carefully schooled. She had done this before— stood here in front of the district, watching as another batch of tributes was selected, clapping along with the rest as children stepped forward to march toward their deaths.

She just had never gotten used to it. Not really.

District 2’s reaping was nothing like the other districts’. There was no immediate march to the stage, no forced silence from a crowd too terrified to breathe. Here, there was choice. And yet, it felt like fate. A twisted inevitability disguised as tradition.

The red-haired Capitol escort, Valentina, stood in front of the microphone, her lips— painted into the shape of a purple heart— curved into a delighted smile.

“Ladies first!” she trilled, plunging her hand into the bowl and retrieving a single slip of paper.

She unfolded it delicately, then cleared her throat.

“Bruttia Hall.”

A murmur passed through the crowd, but no one moved.

Because the deliberation had only just begun.

The process was nothing new. Volunteers stepped forward, showcasing their abilities— fighting techniques, rankings in the Academy, the most impressive skills that would promise the highest chance of victory. The mayor, alongside a small selection of officials, carefully considered each prospect before making a final decision.

Four hours passed.

Four excruciating hours.

Ophelia tried not to let her mind wander, but it was easier to sink into distraction than to face the reality of what was happening in front of her. She focused on the heat pressing against her back, on the sweat gathering at the nape of her neck, on the way Valentina’s sequined dress caught the light in nauseating flashes of gold.

Brutus nudged her shoulder.

The motion jolted her slightly, dragging her back into the moment. She turned her head toward him, catching his pointed look.

Ophelia inhaled quietly, nodding once before straightening up, forcing her posture into something composed.

Valentina beamed at the crowd, adjusting the microphone with a flourish.

“And our female tribute for the 74th Hunger Games is…” She paused for effect, the silence stretching taut. Then— “Clove Kentwell!”

A roar of applause erupted across the square.

Clove strode toward the stage with a confidence that was almost unnerving.

She moved like she belonged there. Like she had already won.

Ophelia clapped along with the rest of the district, her hands moving mechanically, the sound distant in her own ears.

Clove climbed onto the stage, stepping up beside Valentina with ease, her sharp brown eyes scanning the stage before settling on Ophelia. She met her gaze. Clove’s expression didn’t change— didn’t need to. Because she knew that look. But she didn’t react. She kept clapping.

Valentina turned back toward the crowd, reaching for the next name.

Ophelia didn’t have to look to know what was coming. Her stomach twisted anyway.

Valentina’s manicured fingers plucked a single slip of paper from the bowl, her smile widening as she unfolded it. The square had gone silent again, thousands of eyes fixed on her, waiting, anticipating.

She cleared her throat. “Gabbro Mars.”

For a second, there was nothing. Then a ripple through the crowd.

The first voice rang out almost immediately. “I volunteer!”

Then another.

And another.

Cato’s voice cut through them all, the loudest, the most certain.

Ophelia didn’t lift her head. Her teeth found her bottom lip instead, clamping down, worrying at the chapped skin until she tasted the metallic sting of blood. She barely noticed.

Valentina, unbothered, clapped her hands together, her voice lilting with excitement. “Ah! A spirited response, as always!” She turned toward the gathering of young men stepping forward, her amusement evident. “Alright, gentlemen. Step aside for deliberation.”

The process began again.

Six hours.

Six hours of tests, of assessments, of watching as the most promising contenders battled for the right to be chosen.

Ophelia barely moved, barely breathed, as the hours dragged on. Her head ached, her jaw sore from the tension she held there.

Valentina returned to the stage, microphone in hand, her grin shining like a polished gemstone.

"And our male tribute for this year’s Hunger Games is…" Another pause, another moment of unbearable silence before she declared, "Cato Hadley!"

The roar of the district was deafening.

Cato turned, grinning, victorious, his arms shooting up in triumph as the crowd erupted around him. He let out a celebratory yell, the sound of it bleeding into the applause and cheers, fueling the energy of the square.

Ophelia’s vision blurred.

Valentina’s voice rang through the noise, sing-song and giddy: "What an honor! The brother of our very own Ophelia Hadley!"

The eyes were on her before she could prepare for it— stares from the audience, from the mayor and the officials standing along the front rows. They were waiting. Expecting.

Her lips pulled into a smile. And she cheered. It came so easily, so naturally, as if she had rehearsed it— clapping, smiling, laughing like she had never been prouder in her life. Like she wasn’t swallowing back the acid rising in her throat.

Cato was still celebrating as he strode toward the stage, his energy radiating, his confidence unmistakable. He belonged here. He had wanted this. But Ophelia— Ophelia had wanted to stop him. Her hands clapped, her smile stayed fixed, but her eyes burned.

And as Cato took his place beside Valentina, standing tall, standing ready— Ophelia wondered if he even noticed.

The square had mostly cleared out, the reaping festivities winding down, leaving only the hum of distant conversations and the occasional cheer from clusters of Academy students still celebrating. 

Ophelia stood outside the grand stone building that housed the mayor’s office. Brutus and Enobaria stood with her when Ophelia spoke abruptly: “I want to mentor this year.”

Enobaria arched a brow. “We alternate.”

“I know,” Ophelia replied, shifting her weight. “But I don’t want to alternate this year. I want to mentor Clove.”

Enobaria let out a short, knowing laugh. “Let me guess, you think you’ll do a better job keeping them alive?”

A muscle in Ophelia’s jaw ticked. “I think I have a better chance of making sure they come home.”

Brutus snorted. “You won’t.”

Ophelia turned to him sharply. “You don’t know that.”

Brutus held her gaze, unimpressed. “You won because you adapted. Because you knew when to back off and when to strike. Cato isn’t you. He’s a hammer. You can’t make a hammer think it’s a scalpel.”

“I can try,” she argued, though the words felt weak in her mouth.

Brutus exhaled through his nose. “I’ll handle Cato.”

Ophelia’s fingers curled into her palms, nails pressing into her skin. “Brutus—”

“I’ll prepare him,” Brutus said, his voice final. “I’ll mentor him. You focus on… whatever it is you need to focus on with Clove.”

Ophelia didn’t look away, even as a lump formed in her throat.

Brutus wasn’t wrong. Cato wasn’t her. He was reckless, explosive. He thrived on the rush of a fight, on the satisfaction of breaking down whatever— or whoever— stood in his way.

He wouldn’t play it safe. He wouldn’t be careful. And there was nothing she could do to stop him now.

The doors to the mayor’s office creaked open. Ophelia turned just as their parents stepped outside, Cato following close behind.

Mrs. Hadley’s eyes were red-rimmed but her face remained composed. Mr. Hadley kept a firm hand on Cato’s shoulder. If their father was concerned, he didn’t make it known. Didn’t let it show.

Cato stood with them for a moment before his gaze found Ophelia. He looked at her, studying her, like he was expecting something— anger, disappointment, another lecture. Instead, Ophelia simply looked back at him.

He shifted his weight, then exhaled. “Don’t be mad at me.”

The words landed heavier than he probably meant them to. Ophelia’s lips parted, her breath catching slightly.

She should have yelled. She should have told him exactly how selfish, how stupid, he had been. She should have torn into him for throwing himself into the slaughterhouse of the Capitol for the sake of glory that wasn’t real, for a legacy that only ended in death.

But when she spoke, her voice was quiet. “I’m scared for you.”

Cato hesitated. His face, so often set in confidence, wavered. Not much. Not enough for most people to notice. But she noticed. His fingers twitched slightly at his sides, his lips pressing together as if he were biting back whatever impulse had struck him.

Then, just as quickly as the moment had come, it was gone. Cato scoffed, shaking his head before stepping past her.

Ophelia turned, watching as he walked toward the station, toward the train that would take them away from District 2. Her hands trembled. She curled them into fists.

“Chariot ride’s first.”

Brutus leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, his voice steady as he went over the week’s itinerary.

“That’s your introduction to the Capitol, so you better hope your stylists do their damn jobs.” He exhaled, running a hand over his face. “Then it’s three days of training at the Tribute Center. You don’t need me to tell you what to expect there.”

Clove sat forward slightly, fingers drumming against her thigh. Cato sat back, arms folded, expression unreadable.

Ophelia sat beside Brutus, hands clasped together in her lap, resisting the urge to pick at the dry skin on her lips.

She didn’t look at Cato.

Brutus continued, his tone as even as ever. “The last day of training, you’ll have your individual assessments with the Gamemakers. Your rankings come out that night. You both already know that matters, but it’s not everything.” He looked pointedly at Cato, then at Clove. “There have been tributes with high scores that still got themselves killed first.”

Clove smirked slightly. “That won’t be us.”

Brutus snorted. “Damn right, it won’t.” He moved on. “Then it’s the tribute interviews. That’s your final impression before the Games start. Sponsors will have their eyes on you. If you can sell yourself, it’ll make the difference between a gift at the right time or nothing at all.”

A beat of silence passed before Brutus turned to Ophelia. “Anything you want to add?”

She hesitated.

For the first time since they boarded the train, she looked up. Cato was staring at her. Not like a brother. Not like family. Like a tribute. Like she wasn’t his sister anymore.

Then, for the briefest second, she let her gaze flick toward Clove. She had been training Clove, all those months in the woods behind the Village. She had given her every lesson, every piece of strategy, every bit of guidance she could.

And now, for the first time, she wondered— had Clove ever actually liked her? Or had she just been playing a role, using her to become a better tribute? To win?

It didn’t matter. None of it mattered anymore. She wasn’t a sister now. She wasn’t a friend. She was a mentor.

Ophelia exhaled softly before speaking. “Be likable.”

Clove’s brows furrowed slightly, and Cato gave her a look.

Ophelia leaned forward slightly, resting her elbows on the table. “Sponsors won’t send gifts to tributes they don’t like.”

Cato scoffed, shaking his head. “I don’t need—”

Ophelia cut him off. “It’s not about needing them, Cato. It’s about keeping every option open. It’s about making sure that when you do need something, it’s there.”

Cato didn’t argue. Clove didn’t either. Ophelia let out a breath, then reached for the bottle of vodka on the bar cart beside them.

Without another word, she stood and walked out of the dining car, leaving the conversation behind her.

The train hummed beneath her, a steady, ceaseless motion that did nothing to quiet her thoughts.

Ophelia sat cross-legged on the bed in her compartment, her back resting against the cushioned headboard, her fingers absently running along the smooth surface of the half-empty vodka bottle beside her. She took one last swig from the bottle, the alcohol burning down her throat, numbing just enough to make the pressure behind her eyes dull to something bearable.

Then, she heard it— footsteps.

A moment later, the frosted glass doors to the compartment slid open. Brutus stood in the doorway. 

Ophelia didn’t look at him. She just set the bottle down on the table with a soft clink and let out a breath. “I should’ve let Enobaria mentor,” she murmured, her voice low, distant. “I don’t know if I can do this.”

Brutus was silent for a long moment before he finally stepped further into the room.

Ophelia didn’t wait for his response.

Instead, she pushed herself up off the bed, her bare feet hitting the cool floor, her balance just slightly off from the vodka swimming in her veins. She ran a hand through her hair, long strands slipping between her fingers as she let out another breath, this one heavier.

“He’s acting like…” Her voice trailed off into nothing.

Brutus didn’t respond immediately. He just watched her, arms crossed, his expression unreadable. She finally looked up, meeting his eyes. He had seen this before. He had seen this in every other mentor who had been forced to watch someone they loved step onto that stage, into that arena. But this was District 2. And District 2 didn’t love their tributes. They trained them. They prepared them. They sent them off to win.

Finally, Brutus broke the silence: “Stop thinking like his sister.”

Ophelia’s head snapped up. Brutus stepped closer, his gaze hard. “You go soft on him, and you’ll get him killed.”

That truth hit Ophelia harder than it should have. She didn’t look away.

“You don’t have the luxury of emotions anymore, Ophelia,” Brutus continued, his voice low but firm. “Not here. Not with him. Not if you want him to come home.”

Ophelia swallowed against the knot in her throat.

Brutus didn’t wait for her response. He turned and walked out of the room, the door clicking shut behind him. She stood there, staring at the empty doorway, the weight of his words pressing against her ribs. Slowly, she sat back down on the bed, pressing her fingers against her temple.

She had to stop thinking like a sister. She had to start thinking like a mentor. Because if she didn’t, Cato wouldn’t make it home. She couldn't live with that weight, that knowledge. She would never forgive herself. And neither would her parents.

Cato had to make it home.

Chapter Text

July, 74 ADD

THE TRAIN DOORS SLID OPEN, and the deafening roar of the Capitol greeted them.

Ophelia remained a step behind as Valentina led Cato and Clove onto the platform, her red hair gleaming under the artificial station lights, lips painted into a perfect heart as she smiled and waved at the cameras. Cato and Clove followed, their movements sharper, more purposeful, their eyes flicking between the flashing lights and the sea of Capitol citizens waiting outside.

Brutus and Ophelia trailed behind them. Cato looked over his shoulder at her just once before turning back ahead, shoulders squared. Ophelia pressed her lips together and kept walking. 

The Tribute Center loomed above them, grand and sterile, its marble floors gleaming as they stepped inside.

“Come, come!” Valentina called, her voice sugary and bright. She gestured dramatically down the hall. “Let’s show our fierce little tributes to their new home, shall we?”

Cato and Clove didn’t need to be told twice. Valentina led them through the halls, showing them their quarters— an apartment floor so lavish that it might’ve been impressive if Ophelia hadn’t already seen it all before. Brutus and Ophelia split off into their usual rooms, tucked away on the left side of the apartment.

Ophelia stepped inside, shutting the door behind her, exhaling quietly at the brief moment of solitude. She moved toward the closet, fingers trailing over the handle before pulling it open. Her clothes from last year were still there. Steamed, cleaned, pressed to perfection— just like she’d left them. The Avoxes had made sure of that. She closed the door and walked into the bathroom. Her fingers traced over the bottles lined neatly on the counter. The same shampoo and conditioner she had snuck in last year— vanilla and strawberry scented. They’d been untouched, undisturbed. Waiting for her. She pressed her lips together and turned away. She walked back into the bedroom, reaching for one of the provided dresses— a maroon number, the deep red fabric pooling between her fingers. District 2’s color.

A knock at the door made her pause. She didn’t answer. It opened anyway.

Pulchra entered, all elegance and extravagance, a vision of Capitol beauty with her painted lips and shimmering attire. She clasped her hands together, eyes sweeping over Ophelia before landing on the dress in her grasp. 

“Ah, lovely choice,” Pulchra cooed, stepping forward. “Very regal, very strong. Perfect for a mentor.”

Ophelia said nothing.

Pulchra tilted her head, watching her as she moved to lay out her styling tools. “It must be nerve-wracking,” Pulchra continued, smoothing a hand over the fabric of the dress. “But so exciting, yes?”

Ophelia’s grip on the dress tightened.

Pulchra took her silence as agreement. “Well, let’s not waste time then,” she said with a bright smile, gathering her tools. “We have to make you look perfect.”

Ophelia stood still as Pulchra worked, fitting the dress to her frame, styling her hair, applying the makeup with precise strokes.

She let herself drift— somewhere far, far away— where the scent of vanilla and strawberries wasn’t threatening to choke her, where her little brother wasn’t about to step into an arena built to kill him.

Pulchra kept talking, but Ophelia didn’t listen. She just kept staring ahead, expression blank, as the Capitol prepared her to send her brother to war.

The crowd roared.

The sound of thousands of Capitol voices cheered in unison, a deafening, frenzied excitement that filled the air as the chariots began their procession down the avenue. Ophelia stood beside Brutus, her maroon dress rustling with each movement, the ruffled skirt brushing against her legs. The high neckline felt stifling under the heat of the lights, but she barely noticed.

Her eyes were trained on the chariot carrying Cato and Clove.

The District 2 tributes rode past, clad in sleek, steel-plated armor, glinting under the lights. They stood tall, formidable, Clove’s eyes sharp with a near-smirk on her lips, Cato drinking in the adoration of the crowd with his usual swagger. The Capitol loved them already— how could they not?

Brutus stood beside her, watching them with a level expression.

Ophelia looked up at him, raising her voice over the noise.

“I have a good feeling about these Games,” she said, forcing a lightness to her tone. She bit at her bottom lip before adding, “I think we could really win over the sponsors.”

Brutus didn’t respond immediately.

She turned to face him fully, studying his profile— the sharp set of his jaw, the deep lines etched across his forehead, his gaze locked onto the chariot. “You’re quiet,” she added.

Brutus exhaled through his nose, finally looking down at her. “They’re good,” he said. His voice was steady, level. “They just need to keep a level head. Or they’ll lose it.”

Ophelia nodded. She turned back toward the avenue, letting the electric energy of the crowd settle over her as more chariots passed. District 3, then 4, then 5. The roar of the crowd fluctuated depending on who rode by— higher for the Careers, a little less for the lesser districts, polite claps for the ones they’d already written off.

Then the fire came.

A sharp gasp echoed through the crowd, voices rising in shock and awe as the District 12 chariot emerged. Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark, dressed in black suits, wreathed in flames. 

Ophelia stared.

District 12. The poorest district. The district that hadn’t won in decades, that barely made it past the bloodbath, that the Capitol rarely even bothered to place bets on. They weren’t supposed to look like that. They weren’t supposed to look like something worth watching.

She swallowed, forcing her gaze away, telling herself that it didn’t matter. One stunt wouldn’t change the fact that they were District 12 tributes. No amount of theatrics could rewrite history.

The Careers would take care of them before the Games even properly began.

She turned her attention back to the chariot carrying the District 1 tributes, and as the crowd erupted into cheers once more, she joined in, clapping and smiling, letting the moment pass as if District 12 had never caught her eye.

The glow of the television flickered across the darkened walls of Ophelia’s room. She lay propped up against the pillows of her bed, one knee bent, the other leg stretched out, an untouched tray of Capitol fruit balanced beside her. She barely tasted anything as she bit into a grape, her gaze fixed on the screen.

Caesar Flickerman and Claudius Templesmith sat side by side on the broadcast, their laughter echoing through the speakers, easy and practiced. The segment had started as a general discussion of this year’s tributes, but it had quickly shifted— because of course it had.

"Now, Claudius," Caesar grinned, his signature pearly-white smile gleaming under the studio lights. "I think we both know who the people are looking at this year, District 2’s own Cato Hadley. The brother of a Victor! What a story!”

Claudius nodded, his expression eager. “It’s rare that we get siblings in the arena, especially with one of them already having won their Games! If anything, it only makes him more of a sure bet.”

Ophelia’s stomach twisted.

Sure bet.

She picked at the skin on the inside of her thumb as the camera panned to footage of Cato stepping off the chariot, waving to the crowd like he belonged there. And maybe he did.

"Not just any Victor, either," Caesar continued, shifting in his seat. “Ophelia Hadley!”

“Who could forget her Games?” Claudius chimed in, gesturing to the screen. “That arena! The caves, the blizzards, the avalanche! And let’s not forget the infamous Titus—”

She felt it like a phantom touch— the cold bite of the wind, the ice numbing her fingers, the sting in her ribs from where she had curled into herself in that cave, hiding after finishing off the cannibalistic tribute who had torn through the others like a rabid wolf.

The screen shifted, flickering through clips of the arena. Snow-covered cliffs. The avalanche. Her own face, younger, peering out from the shadows of a cave.

Then came the footage of her throwing knives.

A direct hit to the throat of a tribute from District 7. Another to the chest of a girl from 6. The grainy, Capitol-enhanced replay of blood hitting the snow.

Ophelia grabbed the remote and shut the television off. The room fell into silence. She let out a slow breath, pressing her fingers to her temples before reaching for the fruit tray again. She stared at it for a second before pushing it away. She wasn’t hungry anymore.

The knives flew fast.

Ophelia watched from the side of the target station, arms crossed, weight shifted onto one leg, as Clove sent another blade soaring through the air. It struck dead center, the force of impact rattling the wooden board before the hilt stilled.

Clove barely took a breath before drawing another from her belt. Her stance was perfect— shoulders relaxed, fingers loose, but grip firm. Fluid. Easy.

Another throw. Another direct hit. And another. And another. Ophelia didn’t need to correct her. 

“You’ve stayed sharp,” she said, voice even, measured. “Good.”

Clove’s lips curled, something sharp in her smirk. She didn’t turn away from the target as she pulled out another knife. “Glad I have your approval.” Then, after a pause, her tone turning almost amused, “Didn’t think you’d give me any, considering how badly you didn’t want me and Cato volunteering.”

Ophelia’s gaze flickered, her stomach twisting slightly. She exhaled slowly, leveling Clove with a look. “I wasn’t against it because I doubted you. I was only—”

Clove cut her off before she could finish. “Sure you weren’t,” she said, voice lilting with something too close to mockery. “I mean, it’s not like you spent the past few months acting like we made the worst decision of our lives or anything.”

Ophelia’s jaw tightened.

Clove turned, spinning another knife between her fingers, watching her with an expression that toed the line between amusement and challenge.

The thing about Clove— the thing Ophelia had always known about her— is that she was sharp. In every sense of the word. She was a knife herself, quick, precise, and capable of cutting deep when she wanted to. Her words were just another weapon in her arsenal, and she wielded them just as effortlessly as the ones she had holstered at her waist.

Ophelia took a step forward, closing the space between them. Clove didn’t budge. Ophelia then leaned in slightly, lowering her voice just enough to make sure her tribute heard every syllable. “You can have your reservations about me all you want,” she said, tone cool, steady, “but I’m your mentor. You want a shot at making it out? Don’t be fucking rude.”

Clove’s smirk twitched. Her fingers tightened slightly around the handle of her knife.

Ophelia held her gaze for another beat before straightening and turning on her heel. She walked away without another word— until the sound of shouting cut through the training center. She barely had time to let out a breath before she recognized the voice of her brother. Loud, heated, the kind of fury that always came fast with him, like a match struck too hard.

“I put my knife right there and suddenly it’s missing. Tell me where my knife is!”

Her stomach twisted.

Ophelia turned, already moving toward the commotion.

Cato was squared up against a boy— one of the District 6 tributes, lanky, wide-eyed, already half a step back. Cato, by contrast, was vibrating with aggression, his hands clenched into fists at his sides.

“You took my knife!” Cato spat. “Admit it! Admit it and maybe I won’t punch you in the head right now. Tell me where my knife is!”

The boy shook his head, raising his hands slightly in protest, but Cato was already taking another step closer.

Ophelia’s pulse kicked up. Shit.

“Cato, stop—”

She was barely between them before the hit landed. The impact was sudden, a sharp, stunning blow to her cheek that sent her stumbling back. Pain flared across her face, ringing through her skull as she instinctively clutched the side of her face.

For a moment, everything blurred. The room had gone quiet, or maybe Ophelia just couldn’t hear past the ringing in her ears.

She didn’t know if it had been the other tribute or Cato. But judging by the way the room went silent— the way Cato’s anger was replaced with something wide-eyed and frozen, his fists still half-raised, his mouth slightly open— it had probably been him.

His chest rose and fell in sharp, uneven bursts. “Shit.” The word came out rough, almost like he wasn’t aware he said it. His hands twitched at his sides. “I—”

Ophelia barely heard him. The ringing in her ears was still loud, but not loud enough to drown out the sound of another set of footsteps approaching.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Finnick walking over from across the training center, silent, his expression unreadable. His sea-green eyes flickered to her, pausing for half a second too long on the spot where she’d been hit. Then they moved to Cato. Finnick wasn’t looking at Cato the way he usually did when dealing with cocky, hotheaded Careers.

It wasn’t amusement or boredom or even mild disdain. It was quiet. Cold.

Cato barely had time to process what he’d done before Finnick stepped between them. It wasn’t casual. Finnick moved with purpose— deliberate, fluid— putting himself directly in front of Ophelia like a wall. Like a line that Cato had already crossed once and wouldn’t be allowed to cross again.

Ophelia blinked, still standing behind Finnick, still feeling the sting of the hit pulsing through her cheek. But now, her focus wasn’t on the pain. It was on Finnick. Because he wasn’t just standing in front of her. He was staring down Cato. And he wasn’t saying a word.

Still bristling from the argument, Cato gave Finnick a look, sharp and irritated, but there was a flicker of something else there— something more restrained than before. More cautious.

He narrowed his eyes. “What’s your problem?”

Finnick didn’t move. Didn’t react. Didn’t even blink. The weight of his stare was heavy, pressing, unyielding. And quiet . Too quiet.

Ophelia, still behind Finnick, felt herself go still. Because Finnick never did this. He could be smug. He could be charming, playful, sharp. He could be everything people expected him to be, switching between them like changing outfits for the Capitol cameras.

But this— this wasn’t any of those things. This was something colder. Sharper. A kind of quiet she had never seen from him before. And when she flicked her gaze to Cato— her hotheaded, volatile little brother, who had barely backed down from anyone his entire life— she saw it.

For the first time, Cato almost looked scared. It was subtle, but it was there— the stiffness in his posture, the brief flicker of hesitation in his expression. His hands, still clenched into fists at his sides, twitched slightly before he exhaled through his nose and took a step back. He turned his head, looking at Ophelia. His face was still tight, still unreadable.

But she knew him. She could see the way his shoulders shifted, the way he was still thinking— still fighting the urge to talk his way out of this. To explain. To fix it.

So, he tried. Cato stepped forward— not aggressively, but deliberately— his gaze still locked onto hers. “Ophelia—”

Finnick moved. Not in a rush. Not in an obvious, threatening way. But he moved.

As soon as Cato tried to step around him, Finnick mirrored the motion— following it seamlessly, blocking him again, keeping that same, steady stare locked on him.

Cato’s jaw tensed. For a second, it looked like he might push it— might try to shove past Finnick the same way he shoved past everyone else. But he didn’t. He just stood there, glaring, before he turned on his heel and walked away. 

Ophelia watched him go, her breath slow, steady. Finnick did too. He didn’t say anything as Cato disappeared into the other side of the training center. Didn’t look away until he was gone. And then, without a word, he turned, his hand finding the small of her back as he subtly guided her out of the room.

The hallway outside the training room was quiet.

The soundproofing of the Capitol’s facility was nearly perfect, muting the chaos inside until it was nothing more than a distant hum behind thick steel doors. The stark white lighting overhead cast long shadows, stretching across the marble floors and highlighting the faint sheen of sweat on Ophelia’s skin.

She stood still, her hand pressed against her cheek, fingers splayed delicately over the tender skin where Cato’s fist had landed. She wasn’t trembling. She wasn’t crying. She was just still.

Finnick was silent beside her.

For a long moment, he said nothing at all. Then, finally, he reached out. He moved carefully, his touch light as he grasped her wrist. He didn’t pry her fingers away, just rested his hand there, waiting. A silent question. A wordless request.

Ophelia hesitated before letting him. She dropped her hand, her fingers uncurling from her cheek, the loss of warmth making the sting more pronounced. Finnick guided her wrist away, tilting his head slightly as his gaze swept over the reddened skin.

A muscle feathered in his jaw. The imprint of the impact was already blooming across her cheekbone, an uneven flush of color that would darken before the night was over. The Capitol’s medical team could fix it in minutes if she asked, but Ophelia knew she wouldn’t.

Finnick stared at it for a long moment. His thumb barely ghosted near the mark, as if considering whether or not to touch, before he pulled back. He exhaled slowly, his breath even but tight.

His hand dropped from her wrist.

Ophelia still didn’t look at him. Her eyes were fixed on the marble floor, on the way her own shadow stretched faintly beneath her. Her breath came soft, steady, measured.

Finnick’s wasn’t. Not entirely. His silence wasn’t easy. It wasn’t his usual kind, the effortless, well-practiced quiet he used when navigating Capitol conversations or the suffocating expectations pressed upon him. No, this silence was thick with something else— something heavier, something strained.

He was caught in the space between saying something and walking back into that training room. He could feel the weight of it in his body, the sharp pull of instinct that made his fingers twitch, made his shoulders tighten. He had already seen the moment replay in his mind— Cato’s swing, Ophelia stumbling, the way she had pressed her hand to her face.

The worst part was that he knew, deep down, that Cato hadn’t meant to do it. But that didn’t make it nothing. And that didn’t mean Finnick wanted to let it slide.

Ophelia must have sensed it, must have caught the way his weight shifted slightly, the way his hands curled into loose fists at his sides, because she finally spoke. Barely. 

“It was an accident.” 

Finnick closed his eyes for a fraction of a second. When he opened them again, she was still looking at the floor, still standing there with the faintest flush of color on her skin, not just from the hit but from the tension of the moment itself.

And just like that, Finnick understood. She wasn’t just telling him what had happened. She was telling him what not to do. Don’t go back inside. Don’t make it worse. Don’t make this a thing.

Finnick let out a slow breath. His gaze lingered on her cheek, on the way the skin was already shifting from red to something deeper, something more defined. His fingers twitched again.

Then, finally, he spoke, “Doesn’t mean it didn’t happen.” His voice was quiet, but steady.

Ophelia said nothing. 

Finnick was still looking at her.

The weight of his stare pressed against Ophelia’s skin, heavier than the dull ache in her cheek. He hadn’t said anything yet, and she wasn’t sure if that was better or worse.

Then— softly, evenly— he asked, “Are you okay?”

Ophelia inhaled slowly through her nose, but it didn’t steady her like she wanted it to. She should’ve nodded. Should’ve given some dismissive, easy answer. Should’ve lied. But she didn’t. She hesitated, her throat tightening, her fingers curling at her sides.

Then, quietly, barely above a whisper, she admitted, “I don’t know.”

Finnick didn’t respond right away.

He just stared at her.

She could feel it— the way his gaze didn’t move, didn’t waver. He wasn’t looking at her cheek anymore. He was looking at her.

Ophelia clenched her jaw, willing herself to hold it together.

Don’t cry.

Her vision blurred slightly. She sucked in a sharp breath, shaking her head once, as if the motion could shake off the weight pressing into her chest.

Don’t cry.

She had held herself together through worse. She had stood in front of the cameras, smiling and poised, after nearly choking to death by the hands of a cannibalistic tribute. She had endured her Victory Tour after being sedated for nearly half of her district stops. She had survived the arena.

She could handle this.

Don’t cry.

But then Finnick moved. It was small. Subtle. Just the slightest motion— his hand lifting from his side, a faint, almost hesitant tilt of his head. A silent invitation. And it broke her.

A soft, sharp breath caught in her throat before she could stop it, and suddenly, her chest was tight, her fingers trembling as she moved forward— just barely, just enough— before she was pressing her face against his shoulder.

And then— then she was crying. Quiet, muffled sobs, barely more than shaky breaths, but it didn’t matter. She was breaking. 

Finnick didn’t speak. Didn’t say anything stupid like “it’s okay” or “you’re fine”— because it wasn’t okay, and she wasn’t fine. He just stood there. Solid. Steady. Letting her cry against him. 

For a moment, his muscles were tense beneath her touch, like he was bracing himself, like he was forcing himself not to react. Then, slowly— barely— he relaxed. Not much. Just enough. Just enough to let himself be there. Even though he knew they weren’t alone. Even though he knew that somewhere, tucked behind the sterile walls of the Tribute Center, there were cameras.

And somewhere, behind those cameras— behind the screens and watchful eyes and puppet strings— was Snow. Finnick knew better than anyone what it meant to have his every move dissected, every breath analyzed, every interaction picked apart.

And yet— he stayed. Because he couldn’t do anything else. Because she was crying against him, and he couldn’t tell her no. So for now— for this one fleeting moment— he let himself forget about the cameras. He let himself forget about what this looked like. He let himself just be there.

Cato’s voice was the first thing Ophelia heard when they stepped off the elevator onto their apartment floor.

“Ophelia—”

She didn’t stop walking. Didn’t look at him. Didn’t acknowledge him. She just moved past him, past Clove, past Brutus, straight down the hall to her room.

Cato said her name again, a little sharper this time. She still didn’t stop. Didn’t answer.

She heard his footsteps behind her, quick, like he might follow her, when she heard Brutus’ voice, loud and firm. She didn’t make out the words. She didn’t need to. Because the footsteps stopped, and she kept walking.

Ophelia sat on the edge of her bed in her room, still dressed in her training gear, fingers curled loosely in her lap as she listened.

Brutus was talking to Cato. Not just talking— lecturing . His voice carried through the walls of her bedroom, low and forceful.

Cato wasn’t saying anything. Or if he was, he wasn’t saying much.

Ophelia closed her eyes and took a breath. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to hear what was being said or if she was glad she couldn’t make out the words. Either way, she didn’t leave her room for the rest of the night.

The next morning, when she stepped out of her room, Cato didn’t look at her. Didn’t say anything. Didn’t even acknowledge her.

Ophelia wasn’t stupid. She knew what this was about. It was Brutus. Whatever he had said to Cato last night had worked. And for now, that was enough.

Pulchra hummed under her breath as she dabbed a brush against Ophelia’s cheekbone, the concealer spreading smoothly over the bruising.

“Such a shame,” she murmured, tilting her head. “It’s a good color on you, you know.”

Ophelia huffed out a laugh, dry and humorless. “Right.”

Pulchra just smiled, brushing a curl back from Ophelia’s face before adding the finishing touches. “There. Good as new.”

Ophelia didn’t bother checking the mirror. She just nodded, standing and heading toward the door.

On the training floor, Clove was quieter than usual. She still threw her knives with perfect precision, still barely needed correcting, but she wasn’t snarky about it. Didn’t smirk when she hit the bullseye. Didn’t roll her eyes when Ophelia gave her a note on stance. It was strange. Not unwelcome. But strange.

Ophelia found herself wondering— maybe getting hit by Cato was a good thing. At least for now. At least if it meant this. If it meant that Clove was finally listening. If it meant that Cato—

Her thoughts trailed off when she caught movement in her periphery.

Finnick. He was standing with his male tribute, a small younger boy, leaning lazily against a table with his arms crossed over his chest.

And he wasn’t looking at her. Not even once. Not even accidentally. And he wasn’t coming near her. 

Ophelia’s stomach twisted. Did he regret helping her? Regret her?

Her hands tightened at her sides. She didn’t know. She hated not knowing.

The apartment floor was quiet.

It usually was after training. Even Clove, who had the energy of someone who never stopped, had disappeared into her room early. Brutus had poured himself a drink, sitting on the couch with his eyes trained on the Capitol broadcast, but the volume was low, his mind likely elsewhere.

Ophelia sat on the edge of her bed, a makeup wipe in hand, swiping away the layer of concealer Pulchra had carefully applied earlier.

The moment the bruise appeared beneath it, she let out a breath. It wasn’t as bad as she expected— though, in the right lighting, it looked worse than it probably felt. Her fingers twitched in her lap.

A knock sounded against her door.

Ophelia blinked. She turned her head, slowly, and saw Cato standing in the doorway.

For a moment, he just stood there, hands stuffed into his pockets, shifting his weight slightly, looking like he was waiting for something.

Ophelia didn’t say anything. She didn’t invite him in, but she didn’t tell him to leave either.

Eventually, Cato stepped forward. His boots were heavy against the floor, his shoulders squared like he was bracing for something. Then he stopped walking. Stopped breathing, maybe.

Ophelia still didn’t look at him, but she didn’t need to. She knew what he was seeing: the makeup wipe in her lap, the bruise on her cheek.

His fault.

Cato swallowed. “I’m sorry,” he said. His voice wasn’t quiet— Cato never spoke in whispers— but there was something lower about it. Something rough.

Ophelia inhaled. “I know you’re sorry.”

Cato didn’t shift. Didn’t fidget. Didn’t move closer. But he exhaled, shaking his head slightly. “I didn’t mean to.”

Ophelia nodded once, still not looking up. “I know.”

Silence stretched between them. Eventually, she lifted her gaze.

Cato’s hands were clenched into fists at his sides, his head slightly bowed, his jaw tight. Then, suddenly, he looked away. Looked past her, at the wall, at the window, at anything else. 

His fingers flexed, unclenched, clenched again. “I don’t know why I’m like this.”

Ophelia’s chest tightened. She set the makeup wipe aside.

Cato let out a sharp breath, rubbing his eyes roughly before dragging his hand through his hair. “I just—” He broke off, shaking his head. His throat bobbed. His eyes flickered shut for half a second before opening again. “I don’t know.”

Ophelia sighed. And then— without thinking, without planning, without hesitating— she reached forward, curling her arms around him and pulling him into a hug. 

Cato had stiffened at first— like he wasn’t sure what to do with the sudden embrace, like it was foreign to him— but then, slowly, hesitantly, his arms came around her. He let out a slow breath, his chin resting against the top of her head.

Ophelia squeezed her eyes shut.

It wasn’t often that Cato let himself be soft. Even as kids, when he had been all wild energy and bruised knuckles, he was never the type to seek out comfort. If he fell, he’d get up. If he got hurt, he’d shake it off. If someone tried to console him, he’d push them away.

And maybe that was just how it had to be. District 2 made people like that. Their parents had made sure of it. But now— Ophelia was holding him. And, for once, he was letting her.

After a moment, Cato sighed, stepping back, letting his arms fall away. He exhaled, rolling his shoulders, before raising a brow at her. “So, what, Finnick Odair’s your personal bodyguard now?”

Ophelia blinked before scoffing, crossing her arms. “Well, I think anyone would have stepped in after watching someone get decked in the face,” she said. “Accident or not.”

Cato’s eyes gleamed slightly, tilting his head as he gave her a look. “Right,” he drawled. “He just happened to step in. No reason at all. Totally random.”

Ophelia huffed, leveling him with a look of her own. But before she could say anything else, Cato reached forward and ruffled her hair— messing it up completely.

“Ugh, Cato!” Ophelia batted his hand away, trying to fix the strands he had tousled.

Cato just grinned, stepping toward the doorway. Then, just as he reached the threshold, he turned slightly, shooting her a smirk over his shoulder. “You got your panties on this time?”

Ophelia gawked, then she grabbed a pillow from her bed and launched it at him. Cato laughed, dodging it just in time before disappearing into the hallway.

The screen flickered as the scores began appearing.

Cato and Clove sat forward on the couch, tense with anticipation, their eyes fixed on the rankings as they appeared district by district.

When Cato’s score appeared first— a 10— he grinned, leaning back, satisfied.

Then Clove’s— another 10.

Brutus let out a short, approving laugh from where he sat beside them, nodding. “That’s what I like to see.” His tone was smug, the pride unmistakable.

Ophelia allowed herself a small nod, a smile breaking through. She reached out, giving Clove a quick high-five before turning to Cato and doing the same.

“Well done,” she said simply, and Clove smirked.

“Obviously,” Clove muttered, leaning back against the couch, arms crossed.

Cato let out a huff of laughter.

Then the next districts began appearing. No one paid much attention— until the District 12 scores came up.

Peeta Mellark— 8.

That was… higher than expected. But it was the next score that made the room freeze.

Katniss Everdeen— 11.

Silence.

“What the hell?” Cato snapped, sitting forward so fast the couch shifted beneath him.

Clove’s lips curled in a sneer. “You’re kidding.”

“An eleven?” Cato’s voice was sharp, disbelieving. “Her?” He gestured wildly toward the screen as if Katniss Everdeen herself would step out of it and explain. “She didn’t show anything in training. How the hell did she get an eleven?!”

Clove’s grip tightened on her knee. “She’s hiding something.”

Ophelia barely heard them. Her stomach had dropped. Her hands curled into fists at her sides.

An eleven.

Even she had never scored that high.

And not just any tribute— someone from District 12.

District 12, which hadn’t won in decades. District 12, which produced weak tributes who barely made it past the Bloodbath. District 12, which wasn’t a threat.

Until now.

She looked at Brutus, her horror mirrored in his expression.

He exhaled through his nose, rubbing a hand along his jaw as he stared at the screen, deep in thought. “That,” he muttered, voice unusually low, “is not good.”

Cato let out a sharp breath before standing so abruptly that the couch rocked slightly. He stormed out. Didn’t say anything else. Didn’t wait for a reaction.

Just shoved his way toward his room and slammed the door behind him so hard the walls seemed to shake. Brutus barely reacted. He just stared at the screen, his mouth drawn into a tight line. Ophelia sat still for a moment. They looked at one another. She didn’t say anything. Neither did he.

Then Ophelia pushed herself up from the couch and walked toward Cato’s room. The door to his room was slightly ajar, and she pushed it open without knocking.

Inside, Cato was pacing, his breaths sharp, his fists clenched. His entire body was drawn tight, coiled like a spring about to snap.

The bedside lamp went flying. It crashed against the wall, shattering on impact.

Ophelia stood in the doorway, silent, watching.

Cato grabbed a chair next, shoving it over with a sharp bang before raking a hand through his hair. His breaths were ragged, his chest rising and falling quickly. His jaw was locked so tight it looked painful.

Another crash. A book from the nightstand. A glass of water. A plate from dinner that had been left untouched.

Ophelia let him. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t move to stop him. Because she knew this feeling— the rage, the helplessness, the fire in his veins that had nowhere to go. She had felt it too, once.

So she stood there, arms crossed, watching in silence.

It took another minute, maybe two, before Cato slowed. His shoulders rose and fell heavily, his hands still balled into fists at his sides. His fingers twitched before going to his hair, tugging at the strands in frustration. His face was flushed, his breath uneven.

Then— finally— he spoke, “I’m going to win.” His voice was sharp, certain. Like there was no other option.

Ophelia met his eyes. She nodded. “You will.” Then, softer, “You have to.”

Cato let out a sharp breath, looking away for a moment before turning back to her. “I’ll kill them all.” His voice was steady now, even. “Every last one of them. I’ll take out District 12 first. Then I’ll make sure Clove and I are the last ones standing.” He exhaled roughly through his nose. “And then I’ll win.”

His confidence was absolute. Unshaken. It had to be.

Ophelia held his gaze.

“You know what you need to do,” she said, her voice shifting— not as his sister, but as his mentor. “So do it,” she continued. “No matter what that means.”

Cato stared at her for a long moment. His head tilted slightly, something flickering behind his eyes. “You mean that?” His voice was quieter now, but there was something heavier behind it. Something darker.

Ophelia hesitated, just for a second. Because this— this was the line. The line she had crossed herself when she was in the Games. And now she was pushing him over it.

She thought about what it had taken to get her home. The things she had done. The way she had changed.

And she thought about him. Her little brother. Would she rather him come home broken— scarred in ways that could never be undone— or not come home at all?

The answer was simple. She would take him home. They would deal with the rest later. 

“Yes.”

Brutus clapped his hands together once, the sound sharp against the quiet hum of the apartment. "Alright," he said, leaning forward in his chair, elbows braced against his knees. "We need to talk interviews."

Cato and Clove sat across from him on the couch, Cato slouched back with his arms crossed over his chest, Clove sitting forward with her elbows on her knees.

Ophelia sat beside Brutus, one leg crossed over the other, watching them both closely.

"Your interview with Caesar is just as important as your training score," he said, his voice low and steady. "It’s the last thing people will remember before you step into the arena. The last chance to sell yourself. You make them like you, make them care, and you’ll have a better shot at getting the sponsors you need."

Clove scoffed. “I don’t need to suck up to a talk show host.”

Ophelia turned her head sharply. "You’ll need to if you want to feed yourself in the arena," she said, her voice even but firm. She tilted her head slightly. "He can make you look really good or really shitty if he’s in the mood for it."

Cato, who had been silent up until now, leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on his thighs. "Maybe we should get some practice in," he said, tilting his head slightly. "You know, speaking to an audience. Talking to Caesar." His voice was lighter than the conversation warranted, but there was an undercurrent of something serious there.

Brutus let out a sharp breath, nodding in approval. "Good. That’s smart."

Ophelia shrugged, leaning back in her chair. "Yeah, sure." Then— she turned her head, glancing toward Pulchra, who was stretched out on the couch, flipping through a Capitol magazine.

"You got any wigs?"

Five minutes later, Ophelia strode back into the room with all the theatrics of someone who had just stepped off a Capitol stage. The bright purple wig perched on her head was slightly crooked, the curls bouncing as she moved, and in her hand, she clutched a bottle of wine like it was a prized microphone.

Cato, who had been slouched in his chair with his boots propped up on the table, lifted his head and stared. His mouth parted slightly before twisting into a smirk. "What the hell are you wearing?"

Clove barely blinked, her lips curving upward in amusement. "I think I’m more offended by the wig than I am by the fact that you’re about to make us go through this."

Brutus, on the other hand, exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand down his face. "Are you serious?"

Ophelia ignored them, throwing out her arms with theatrical enthusiasm.

"Ladies and gentlemen of Panem, welcome, welcome, welcome to the 74th Annual Hunger Games!” She let out a loud, exaggerated laugh— one so spot-on that for a split second, it was as if Caesar Flickerman himself had materialized in the room.

Cato made a choking sound, barely containing his laughter, while Clove sat back, watching with mild, unimpressed amusement.

Brutus sighed.

Then— Ophelia’s hand snapped forward, waving Cato toward her. “Come on, big guy! Let’s give the Capitol a show!"

Cato hesitated for a split second, but then, with an exhale, he stood, rolling his shoulders before stepping forward.

Ophelia’s grin widened as she turned to face him, bottle of wine held up like a microphone. “Now, tell me, Cato—" she purred, her voice carrying that same smooth, practiced charm Caesar wielded so easily. "You’re from District 2. Strong, ruthless, ready to fight. But tell me, what makes you special?”

Cato scoffed, shifting his weight. "I'm stronger, faster, and better than the rest of them. I'll kill anyone who gets in my way."

Ophelia gasped dramatically, clutching her free hand to her chest. "Oh my, such confidence! The crowd loves it!" She threw her arm out as if motioning to an imaginary audience, then leaned in. "And tell me, do you have any weaknesses?"

Cato smirked. "No."

Ophelia let out an exaggerated cackle. "How positively barbaric! The audience loves that!" She turned toward the imaginary crowd, throwing her arms out. "District 2, everyone! Give him a hand!" She patted his cheek before waving him off. "Alright, alright, get out of here, tough guy, let’s get to the real showstopper! Clove Kentwell!"

Clove sighed but got to her feet, her movements languid, exaggerated in their reluctance. "Oh, Caesar, I’ve dreamed of this moment," she deadpanned, placing a dramatic hand over her chest.

Ophelia let out a fake, deeply moved gasp, holding the bottle up to Clove’s lips. "Sweetheart, the Capitol adores you already!"

Clove gave an exaggerated fake smile, batting her lashes. "Do they? Wow. I’m so honored. Tell me, will they still adore me when I’ve got blood up to my elbows?"

Ophelia clutched her heart, her lips pulling into a deep, overly dramatic pout. "Oh, my dear, how tragic! Such youth, such beauty, and yet such deadly precision!" She turned back to the imaginary audience, throwing her hands up. "Do you think she has what it takes, ladies and gentlemen?!"

Cato let out an actual laugh, shaking his head, while Brutus sat back with his arms crossed, watching with a mixture of amusement and exhaustion.

Ophelia finally dropped the act, yanking the wig off her head and tossing it straight at Brutus. "Your turn."

The hallway was cold.

The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, their dull glow casting an artificial sheen over everything— the concrete floor, the metal-framed doors, the faces of the tributes waiting to be sent to their deaths. 

Ophelia walked beside Brutus. Cato and Clove trailed just ahead, their movements easy, fluid. Like this was just another training session. Just another day in the Academy. Like they weren’t about to walk onto that stage, lock eyes with the Capitol audience, and commit themselves to the slaughter.

Brutus was the first to stop when they reached the final checkpoint— the small, dimly lit corridor that led to the stage wings. The place where tributes waited for their names to be called, where the cameras would find them, where they would step into the light and officially become this year’s Career monsters.

Brutus barely lingered. He clamped a firm hand on Cato’s shoulder, muttered something low and approving— “Make it worth it, kid”— before nodding at Clove and turning on his heel, striding back the way they came.

Ophelia hesitated.

Then, without thinking, she stepped forward, reached out, and hugged Cato.

Cato let out a sharp exhale, caught completely off guard. His arms stayed rigid at his sides as she pulled him in, his entire body stiff, bracing like he was under attack. “Oh, for fuck’s sake, Ophelia—”

“Shut up.” She squeezed him tightly before he could shove her away, her chin pressing against his shoulder.

Cato muttered something under his breath— half a groan, half a protest— but after a second, his body lost just a fraction of its tension. He didn’t hug her back, but he allowed it, which was something.

Ophelia smirked. Just to be a menace, she pulled back slightly and kissed his cheek.

Cato recoiled immediately. “Ophelia!” he hissed, jerking away. “What the hell?!”

She grinned, entirely unbothered.

He wiped at his cheek aggressively, rolling his eyes so hard she thought they might get stuck. “That was disgusting.”

“You’re disgusting.” She tapped his shoulder before turning on her heel, already walking away. “Love you.” She didn’t wait for a response.

Cato scoffed loudly behind her, but didn’t say anything else.

Ophelia didn’t look back as she strode after Brutus, her footsteps light, practiced. But the moment she turned the corner, her smirk faltered.

She saw Finnick. He was walking away from the waiting area for District 4, his stride easy, his expression unreadable. But he wasn’t looking at her. He wasn’t acknowledging her. That was typical.

His gaze stayed ahead, locked on some invisible point in the distance, his posture fluid but oddly rigid.

Still, Ophelia caught it. The way his fingers flexed at his sides. The way his jaw worked ever so slightly. The way something in his gaze shifted— just for a moment, just long enough for her to notice— before he locked it down.

She exhaled, her steps slowing.

Finnick had heard her. And he was thinking about it.

“Love you.”

The words played again in his head, his fingers twitching slightly, curling and uncurling as he kept walking. 

It wasn’t for him. She hadn’t said it to him. It had been casual, easy, effortless— meant for her brother, meant for someone who had always been a part of her life, someone she had always known.

Not him. Never him.

Finnick exhaled sharply through his nose, his fingers flexing again, his knuckles tight. Then, without breaking stride, he forced the words from his mind and kept walking.

The lights were blinding.

Clove stepped onto the stage, her movements controlled, confident. She didn’t hesitate, didn’t flinch at the deafening roar of the Capitol audience as her name was announced. If anything, the cheers— shrill and overwhelming— seemed to fuel her.

She lived for this.

“From District 2, another volunteer,” Caesar Flickerman’s voice rang through the studio. “Please welcome Clove.”

The applause intensified, filling every inch of the grand stage. Clove took her seat with a smirk, crossing one leg over the other as she draped an arm over the chair’s armrest, exuding nothing but ease.

Caesar, ever the showman, gave her his signature grin as the cheers finally began to subside. “Now, Clove,” he began, his tone warm, inviting, as if this was nothing more than a casual chat between friends. “I’ve heard you’re quite facile with the knife.”

Clove didn’t hesitate. Didn’t miss a beat. “I’m the best,” she said, tone matter-of-fact.

The audience gasped— a ripple of excitement and disbelief threading through the crowd at her sheer confidence.

Caesar arched a brow, clearly entertained, leaning in just slightly. “Really?”

Clove didn’t blink. “I could kill you from clear across the stage.”

Another gasp. Louder this time.

A sharp inhale spread through the audience, their anticipation thick in the air. The camera zoomed in, catching the way Clove’s lips curved slightly, the way her fingers twitched against the armrest as if itching to prove it.

Caesar chuckled— nervous but delighted, always knowing how to spin a moment. “Well,” he said, leaning back with a show of exaggerated caution, “lucky for me, there are rules against that sort of thing, aren’t there?”

Clove tilted her head slightly, considering. “For now.”

Laughter burst from the audience— uneasy, charged, but undeniably thrilled.

“Oh, my dear,” Caesar grinned, eyes twinkling with amusement. “You are dangerous, aren’t you?” He spread his hands. “So tell me, Clove, what’s the secret to being the best?”

She took her time with her response, letting the silence stretch just long enough for the audience to hang on it. “People hesitate,” she said simply, shrugging a shoulder. “I don’t.”

Caesar blinked, visibly impressed. “That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

Ophelia sat in the front row of the mentor section, her hands folded neatly in her lap as she watched the interviews unfold. She had seen this before. Had done this before. But it never stopped feeling strange, watching tributes sell themselves to the audience, to the Gamemakers, to the people who would ultimately decide their fate.

And now, it was Cato’s turn.

The audience roared as his name was announced, their excitement nearly deafening. Cato strode onto the stage with the confidence of someone who knew he was meant to be there, his shoulders squared, his chin lifted, his smirk sharp. The boy who had trained for this his whole life.

The boy who had wanted this.

He shook Caesar Flickerman’s hand— firm, strong, the way a Career tribute was supposed to— before settling into the chair beside him. His posture was easy, relaxed, exuding the arrogance that District 2 tributes were practically bred for.

Caesar turned toward the audience with an animated grin before refocusing on Cato, his voice warm and inviting as he began. "Now, Cato, you’re here by choice," he said, the emphasis deliberate.

Cato grinned. “Yeah.”

Caesar nodded, a flicker of amusement in his eyes. “Why?”

Cato paused, considering, but not for long. “I mean…” He tilted his head slightly, as if searching for the right words. “I think these are the greatest Games ever invented.”

The audience cheered, the energy in the room vibrating with approval.

Cato paused again, just long enough to create anticipation, to let the audience wait for what he would say next. And then, with a shrug, he added, “I saw my sister win six years ago, against the odds stacked against her, and I just… I want to be here, too. To win it. Just like her.”

Ophelia blinked. She wasn’t sure if that was really a compliment. Did he actually believe that? Or was he playing into the audience’s emotions? Trying to stir up whatever lingering admiration they had for her? For the girl who had clawed her way to victory when the odds hadn’t been in her favor?

Whatever the case, the audience ate it up. A murmur of appreciation rippled through the crowd.

Caesar leaned in, grinning. “That’s quite the statement.”

Cato shrugged again, playing it cool. “I think it’s awesome,” he said, his voice brimming with enthusiasm. “It’s something I’ve always wanted since I was a kid, even before Ophelia stepped foot in the arena. And I think anybody who doesn’t want to is an idiot.” He let out a short laugh, shaking his head. “It’s just amazing.”

What an odd thing to say, Ophelia thought. Even for Cato. She saw Brutus, seated a few rows away, smirking in amusement.

Caesar chuckled, though he lifted his brows, feigning mild disbelief. “I wouldn’t go that far,” he said, still smiling.

Cato grinned wider. “I’d go farther than that.” His voice was loud, full of bravado. “It’s the Hunger Games!”

The crowd exploded. Laughter, cheers, applause.

Ophelia watched as Cato basked in the response, his smirk deepening, his eyes glinting under the lights. She couldn’t tell if she wanted to shake her head or roll her eyes.

He was a showman, that much was certain. He had the crowd in the palm of his hand, feeding into everything they wanted to hear, everything they loved to believe about the Games. The spectacle. The honor. The privilege of competing.

And yet, beneath all of it, Ophelia couldn’t shake the gnawing feeling in her gut. Because no matter how much Cato thought he understood— no matter how eager he was, how prepared, how ready— he still had no idea what was waiting for him inside that arena.

And that was what terrified her the most.

The District 2 apartment was silent— the kind of silence that settled over a place waiting for something. The calm before a storm. A breath before the plunge.

Cato walked through the darkened hall, his footsteps nearly soundless against the polished marble floors. The adrenaline from the interviews had worn off, but sleep hadn't come— not yet, maybe not at all. He should've been back in his own room, resting, preparing. But instead, his feet carried him here.

To her room.

He paused at the doorway, fingers ghosting over the handle before pushing it open. The room was dark, but not completely— just enough light seeped in from outside to illuminate the outline of her figure beneath the covers.

Ophelia was curled on her side, her breathing slow, even, the sheets rising and falling with each inhale. She was barely visible in the dim light, only the faintest glimpse of her face peeking out from the tangle of blankets.

Cato lingered for a moment, just standing there, watching her sleep.

She looked different like this. Less like the hardened mentor he had grown used to seeing. Less like the Victor the Capitol praised and paraded around. She just looked like his sister.

He exhaled through his nose before moving toward the bed. His steps were cautious, but not hesitant— Cato had never been hesitant in his life. He walked around to the other side, where there was just enough space, before slipping under the covers beside her.

The mattress dipped slightly from his weight, the sheets shifting with him.

Ophelia stirred, not fully waking, but shifting just enough to move closer, seeking warmth. Her forehead brushed against his shoulder, her body relaxing into his like it was second nature. Like it had been when they were kids, when nightmares had sent him crawling into her bed and she had never pushed him away.

Cato lay there, staring at the ceiling, before glancing down at her. She was still asleep. Still safe. His throat felt tight, though he didn’t know why.

He hesitated, then leaned in slightly, voice barely above a whisper. “I love you,” he said, like it was a secret. Like it was something fragile.

Ophelia didn’t respond.

Cato exhaled, shifting onto his back, staring up at the dark ceiling again. He swallowed, rolling his tongue over his teeth before letting out a breath of a laugh.

“I’m sorry for being so annoying,” he muttered. He paused, then smirked slightly. “Not sorry for being the funnier one, though.”

This time, there was movement beside him. Her voice was barely audible, groggy, but still Ophelia, still full of that effortless sarcasm that made her— her. “You aren’t,” she murmured, eyes still closed. A pause. Then, softer, “And still won’t be when we go home.”

Cato’s smirk faltered. Just for a second. He turned his head to look at her, but her eyes were still closed, her expression unreadable in the dim light.  She had said it so easily, so certainly, like she wasn’t even entertaining the possibility of anything else. Like it wasn’t even a question. Like she believed it.

He let out a breath, shaking his head slightly, before settling back against the pillow. They didn’t say anything else. They just lay there, side by side, like they used to when they were little, back when things had been simple. Before the arena. Before the Games. Before everything that had changed them.

Eventually, they both drifted off to sleep.

Chapter Text

July, 74 ADD

THE MORNING WAS COLD. Not in a literal sense— the Capitol was never cold, not really. But the air felt different. Heavier. Like the city itself knew what was coming. Like it was watching.

Ophelia walked beside Brutus, her arms crossed over her chest, the baggy gray shirt hanging loose on her frame. She hadn’t bothered to change into anything else. What did it matter? She wasn’t the one stepping into the arena.

Clove and Cato walked ahead of them, their footsteps light against the pavement, the hovercraft waiting just beyond the glass doors of the Tribute Center. Neither tribute said a word.

It wasn’t until they reached the platform leading up to the hovercraft that Cato stopped. Clove didn’t. She just kept walking, barely glancing back as she stepped inside, her stance sure, her movements practiced, as if this was just another day of training. Cato, though— he lingered.

His shoulders tensed as he turned, his gaze moving over his shoulder, searching— finding— Ophelia.

She stopped in place. Their eyes met. For a moment, neither of them spoke. Ophelia wasn’t sure what she expected him to say. If she expected him to say anything at all.

Cato had never been the sentimental type. Even last night, slipping into her bed like he was still a kid, his words had been few and fleeting, spoken only in the dark, in the safety of a silence that allowed things to exist without the weight of meaning behind them.

But now… in the daylight… He hesitated. And then, without a word, he turned fully, walking back to her.

Ophelia barely had a second to react before his arms wrapped around her, pulling her into a tight, solid embrace. It wasn’t like the half-hearted, begrudging hugs he used to give her when they were younger, the ones where he’d push her away or roll his eyes or shove her in the shoulder after.

This was different. It was real.

Ophelia stiffened for half a second, her brain catching up with what was happening, before she exhaled, pressing her forehead briefly against his shoulder, her arms wrapping around him in return.

She felt the tension in his back, the way his grip lingered just a second longer than expected. She shut her eyes. “Come home,” she whispered. She didn’t say if you can. Didn’t say if you win. Just come home.

Cato was silent. Then, after a beat, he pulled back. He ruffled her hair, rough and familiar, forcing an annoyed huff out of her even as she fought the burn in her throat.

And then— without another word— he turned and walked away.

Ophelia didn’t look away. Didn’t move. Just watched as he stepped into the hovercraft, his figure disappearing behind the metallic door as it slid shut.

She swallowed. Then, finally, she shifted her gaze to Brutus. He was already watching her, silent, unreadable.

After a moment, he gave her a small nod before reaching out, patting her shoulder, his grip firm but not unkind. Neither of them spoke. There wasn’t anything to say.

The viewing room was silent. It wasn’t empty— far from it— but in these final moments before the Games began, before the countdown started and the world turned its eyes to the bloodbath waiting at the Cornucopia, no one spoke. Ophelia stood next to Brutus, arms crossed, her oversized gray shirt swallowing her frame. She knew she should’ve changed into something nicer, something that fit the image of a polished, untouchable Victor, but she hadn’t cared enough to.

Not today.

Not now.

Her eyes stayed locked on the large screen mounted across the room, where the wide, aerial shot of the arena was frozen on display. Any second now, the countdown would begin. Any second now, Cato would be standing on his platform, waiting for the moment the Games truly started.

Ophelia exhaled through her nose, barely blinking. She was so focused on the screen that she almost didn’t notice Cashmere approaching— almost.

“Ophelia,” Cashmere’s voice was soft, smooth, carrying the effortless charm she always wore like a second skin.

Ophelia blinked, looking over just as Cashmere reached her, her golden curls cascading over her shoulder.

“I haven’t seen much of you,” Cashmere said, her expression easy, but her eyes sharp— searching.

Before Ophelia could reply, Cashmere pulled her into a brief hug, the scent of expensive Capitol perfume clinging to her skin.

Ophelia shut her eyes for a moment, sinking into the brief, fleeting comfort of something familiar before whispering, “Sorry. I’ve been busy.”

Cashmere didn’t say anything at first. Then, slowly, she pulled back, her eyes meeting Ophelia’s as she gave her a knowing look.

Ophelia held her gaze. Cashmere didn’t press her. Didn’t ask the obvious. She didn’t have to. They both knew why Ophelia had been avoiding everyone. Why she had stayed away from the others— why she hadn’t let herself be seen.

Ophelia exhaled, looking past her just as Gloss gave her a quiet nod beside Brutus.

She nodded back.

Ten.

She clenched her hands at her sides.

Nine.

Cashmere subtly shifted closer.

Eight.

Ophelia’s stomach twisted.

Seven.

She felt it before she saw it— that unsettling prickle against the side of her face.

Someone was watching her.

Six.

Her body knew before her mind caught up, a strange, inexplicable awareness pulling at her before she even turned her head. She looked across the room and found him.

Finnick stood beside Mags, his stance relaxed, his hands clasped loosely in front of him, but his sea-green eyes— sharp and unreadable— were locked onto her.

Her breath caught in her throat. She didn’t move. Neither did he.

The air between them stretched, pulling taut with something neither of them had the words for.

She wanted to go to him. Wanted to walk across the room, to close the unbearable distance, to say something, anything. But she didn’t. She only stayed where she was, watching him, feeling the weight of his stare press into her like something solid, something undeniable.

Finnick clenched his jaw, his fingers flexing at his sides. He wanted her to stop looking at him. He wanted her to keep looking. He wanted her, period. But she wasn’t his to want.

He forced himself to look away, swallowing hard.

Ophelia exhaled, barely realizing she’d been holding her breath.

Three.

She turned back to the screen.

Two.

Her nails pressed into her palms.

One.

The screen flickered with movement as the tributes ran from their pedestals, scrambling to grab weaponry or survival packs— or to merely just run away from imminent death and danger.

Ophelia stood still, arms loosely crossed over her stomach, her nails pressing lightly into her forearm as she watched the bloodbath at the Cornucopia unfold. Beside her, Brutus let out a low, approving grunt as Cato slashed his sword straight through the District 4 boy’s throat. He didn’t look a day over twelve years old. The kid let out a choked sound before collapsing.

The cannon fired a second later.

Across the room, Finnick’s jaw clenched.

Ophelia felt it before she saw it— that shift in energy, that prickle of something sharp running up her spine.

She glanced over.

Finnick hadn’t moved, hadn’t made a sound, but Ophelia could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers curled into fists at his sides. His expression was unreadable, but she knew him well enough to know what was happening behind his eyes.

His tribute. A kid from his district. Dead at the hands of her brother.

“You must be so proud,” Gloss murmured, voice smooth, almost amused.

Ophelia tore her gaze away from Finnick, turning toward Gloss instead. He was watching her with that lazy sort of smirk he always wore, but there was something sharper in his eyes. 

Ophelia didn’t answer. She didn’t know how to. Because she was proud, wasn’t she? Cato was doing what he was trained to do. What she had trained him to do. He was fast, efficient, merciless. Everything a Career should be.

Ophelia exhaled slowly, forcing herself to look back at the screen.

Cato wiped his sword on the grass before grabbing a pack from the ground.

Clove had secured her knives.

Ophelia barely nodded at the sight. Good. She had told Clove again and again not to waste time going after a weapon she wasn’t skilled with. If she was going to kill, she needed to do it right.

On screen, Cato and Clove ran out of the Cornucopia, their bodies sharp and quick against the golden grass. They moved together instinctively, seamlessly, before Marvel and Glimmer fell in step beside them.

Ophelia barely glanced toward Cashmere before they both reached out and knocked their fists together in a brief, wordless gesture. A silent acknowledgment.

Across the room, Finnick shifted. He wasn’t watching the screen anymore. He was watching her.

Ophelia could feel it again, that burn of his gaze pressing into the side of her face. She didn’t look over this time.

Finnick flexed his hands at his sides. He had expected this. He knew how the Games worked. He had lived it, breathed it, survived it. And yet, it still made his stomach turn.

Not the killing— he had long since learned to stomach that part. But her.

The way she stood there beside Brutus, Cashmere, and Gloss, perfectly poised, perfectly still. The way she barely even reacted to her brother slicing the blade of a sword through a kid’s throat. The way she had only seemed to hesitate when he had reacted.

Finnick had spent years trying to rid himself of every last piece of softness inside of him, but Ophelia made him feel like a boy again. And he hated her for it. Hated the way she had wormed her way inside of him. Hated the way he wanted her, even now, when she stood on the side of blood and violence and everything he despised. Hated the way she had looked back at him after Cato had killed his tribute— like she had felt something close to guilt.

Because what was the use of guilt when her brother was the one holding the sword?

The lounge was extravagant, as most things in the Capitol often were, filled with the chatter of escorts, stylists, and the occasional Victor looking for an escape from the viewing room.

Ophelia moved through the space with ease, plucking a pale pink cocktail from the tray of a passing server. It was sweet, syrupy, the kind of drink the Capitol loved to dress up with edible gold flakes and ridiculous fruit garnishes. She took a sip anyway, relishing in the sugar flakes that lined the rim of the glass.

Beside her, Cashmere selected two drinks, one for herself and one for Gloss, while Ophelia reached for something dark and neat for Brutus.

"You're looking over at Finnick," Cashmere noted idly, her voice barely loud enough to be heard over the murmuring of the room.

Ophelia stilled for half a second before rolling her eyes, lifting her drink to her lips. "Well, my brother did kill off his tribute," she murmured. "I was a little curious how mad he was about it."

Cashmere hummed, her curls glinting beneath the warm light of the lounge. She said nothing for a moment, but Ophelia felt the weight of her attention—sharp, assessing, because she knew how to read people. She didn’t press, though. Instead, she simply asked, “And?”

Ophelia exhaled, pretending to focus on the way her drink swirled against the glass. “Well, it’s Finnick Odair,” she said lightly, shrugging one shoulder. “He’s not exactly an open book of emotions.” Cashmere gave her a knowing look but didn’t push further. 

It was true, after all. Finnick had spent years perfecting the art of keeping people at arm’s length— of making them see what he wanted them to see. He was charming when he needed to be, devastating when he had to be, and infuriatingly unreadable when it came to anything that actually mattered.

Ophelia had spent enough time around him to know the difference. Still, she ignored the twinge in her chest and took another sip of her drink.

Cashmere let the conversation die there, and the two of them turned, making their way back through the lounge, drinks in hand.

Across the room, Finnick stood near the bar, untouched glass of whiskey in his hand, his eyes following Ophelia’s retreating form without meaning to. Without wanting to. And yet, he did.

He always did.

The moment Ophelia and Cashmere returned, the sugary rim of Ophelia’s cocktail glass was already half-destroyed, the edible gold flakes smeared across her lips. She had downed the drink in record time— sweet, fizzy, light on the burn but strong enough to warm her chest.

She ran her tongue along the rim, licking off the last traces of sugar as she stepped back into the dim viewing room. Gloss, who had just reached for his drink from Cashmere, arched a brow at the sight before reaching out to muss her hair in passing.

"You're a mess," he muttered, shaking his head before taking a sip from his glass.

Ophelia scowled and swatted at his hand, lazily trying to fix her hair before giving up. Cashmere ignored them both, turning to Brutus. “What’d we miss?”

Brutus gestured toward the large screen with his glass, his lips set in a firm line. "Cato took out the District 4 girl," he said simply, watching Ophelia for a reaction. "And we’ve got a new addition to the pack. An outsider."

That made both Ophelia and Cashmere turn toward the jumbotron.

The image flickered, shifting between aerial shots of the arena, different camera angles capturing the brutal start of the Games. Then, a close-up of Cato, Clove, Marvel, and Glimmer— just as it had been before— only now, another figure stood among them.

Peeta Mellark.

Ophelia retracted her tongue from the rim of her glass, eyes narrowing at the screen. For a second, she thought she was imagining things. That she had downed her drink too fast, and the Capitol’s ridiculous editing was making her see things.

But no. There he was. Golden-haired, mild-mannered Peeta Mellark, standing in the middle of the Career pack.

Ophelia could only stare, her fingers tightening around the delicate stem of her glass. Cato had taken out all of Finnick’s tributes. And now this?

Cashmere was the first to speak, breaking the silence. “Why the hell would they do that?” she murmured, voice skeptical.

Gloss, standing beside her, exhaled sharply through his nose. "Kid got an eight in training,” he muttered, taking another sip of his drink. “Must’ve impressed them."

Brutus made a noncommittal sound before shrugging. "They probably took the rankings personally." His tone was dry, but there was truth in it. Careers didn’t like being outdone. Didn’t like surprises.

A score of eight from District 12? That would get under their skin.

Ophelia exhaled through her nose, watching the screen as Cato shifted his weight, talking to Peeta with a lazy kind of amusement. Clove was eyeing him like a wolf sizing up a new packmate. Marvel and Glimmer looked far less enthused, but they weren’t fighting it.

Yet.

Ophelia took one last sip of her cocktail before murmuring, "Wonder if they're tryna track down the 12 girl."

Brutus grunted. “Wouldn’t be surprising.”

Cashmere pursed her lips. “If they are, I hope they do it quick.”

Ophelia hummed, her gaze still locked on the screen. Because if they weren’t careful, that little girl from District 12 was going to make them all look like fools.

The elevator ride back to the District 2 floor later that evening was silent. Ophelia leaned against the back wall, her fingers grazing the smooth metal railing behind her, while Brutus stood beside her with his arms crossed, his expression unreadable.

It had been a long night. Long, but successful. Cato was still standing. Alive. That was what mattered.

When the elevator doors slid open, Brutus walked ahead first, not bothering to check if Ophelia was following. She did, eventually, stepping out onto the sleek marble floors of their penthouse and closing the doors behind her.

She kicked off her shoes in the living area, abandoning them somewhere near the couch, before heading toward her bedroom.

But she didn’t sleep.

Instead, she lay on her back atop the expensive silk sheets, staring up at the vaulted ceiling, thoughts running in endless loops through her head.

Finnick.

His face had been burned into her mind ever since she saw him across the viewing room.

The way he had looked at her. Not with hatred, exactly. Not entirely. But close.

She swallowed hard, exhaling through her nose as she turned her head slightly against the pillow. He must hate her, she thought. Hate Cato.

Not that she could blame him.

Cato had wiped his tributes out of the Games before they’d even gotten a chance to run. The boy hadn’t even made it to the edge of the Cornucopia before Cato’s sword had decapitated him.

Twelve years old. A child. But then again, they all were.

Ophelia closed her eyes, pressing her lips together.

Had Cato done that on purpose? Had he known whose tributes they were? Had he looked at the small, scrawny boy with the messy curls and decided that he would make Finnick watch him die? Or had he simply not cared? Had it been easy? Had it been thoughtless? Had he looked at the boy as nothing more than another body in his way?

Ophelia didn’t know which was worse. But she didn’t care. She couldn’t care. Cato was in that arena, and she was out here. She couldn’t afford to think too hard about how many bodies he’d leave behind on his way to the top. Couldn’t afford to let herself feel anything about it.

As long as it got him home.

The first thing Ophelia did when she woke up was drag herself into the shower.

She was still groggy, sleep clinging to her bones, but she moved on autopilot— stripping down and stepping beneath the steaming water.

The District 2 penthouse had its own luxurious shower, bigger than the cramped one back home, with water pressure that made her feel like she was standing under a waterfall. She let out a slow exhale, rolling her shoulders beneath the heat, tilting her head back as the water cascaded through her hair.

Reaching for the body wash she’d packed from home, she popped the cap and squeezed a generous amount onto her loofah. The scent of ripe strawberries filled the steam-heavy air as she lathered her skin, scrubbing away the remnants of the night before.

Capitol air always made her feel sticky. Too much perfume, too many artificial scents clogging up her lungs. She scrubbed harder, skin turning pink beneath the pressure, until she felt like herself again— clean, real, herself.

She worked the suds down her arms, over her stomach, her thighs— anywhere she could reach— before twisting her loofah around her back to catch the places that always felt forgotten.

Then, hair.

She uncapped the thick hair mask, scooped a dollop into her hands, and raked it through from root to ends. It smelled faintly of honey and jasmine, something expensive from the Capitol, but it worked, so she used it.

Ophelia ducked her head under the water to rinse, but as soon as she tilted forward, water splashed straight into her mouth. She sputtered, choking on the taste of whatever minerals the Capitol insisted on pumping into their pipes, swiping a hand down her face to clear her vision.

With a huff, she finished rinsing out the mask, working her fingers through the tangles until the strands ran smooth between them.

And then, she stilled.

Letting the water run over her, her arms hung limp at her sides, droplets tracing slow, steady paths down her skin.

Her mind wandered before she could stop it.

Finnick.

His name sank into her thoughts like a hook, sharp and unshakable.

She remembered the way he had grabbed her wrist, gently but firmly, when she’d tried to brush away the bruise on her cheek. The way his green eyes had flickered, dark and unreadable, as he took in the damage. The way his fingers had found her waist when he walked her out of the training room, grounding, warm, there.

She had been fine. It was fine. It happened. It wasn’t like she hadn’t taken worse hits before. But Finnick had stood in front of her anyway. Like some part of him couldn’t help it. Like some part of him wanted to.

Ophelia’s lips parted as she exhaled, her palms running over the mounds of her breasts before pressing her hands to her stomach, feeling the rise and fall of her own breath. Her eyes fluttered shut, frustration curling hot in her chest.

Stop thinking about him.

She ducked her head under the water again, trying to drown the thoughts before they could burrow any deeper, trying to rinse him down the drain.

By the time Ophelia entered the viewing room, her hair had been straightened into a sleek, waist-length sheet of caramel-blonde, and she’d changed into a lavender blouse and jeans. She never dressed as extravagantly as the Capitol expected— it had never been her style. Comfort over convention.

Gloss and Cashmere were already inside, standing near the bar, sipping on drinks that likely weren’t their first of the day.

"Where’s Brutus?" Ophelia asked as she joined them, smoothing the cuff of her sleeve.

Gloss didn’t bother looking away from the screen as he answered. "Off talking to a sponsor," he said, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. "Probably strong-arming them into sending something for the kids."

Cashmere, barely paying attention to the exchange, turned to Ophelia with an approving glance. "Your hair looks nice," she noted.

Ophelia flicked a strand over her shoulder, her lips tilting up in amusement. "Thanks, I washed it," she said dryly.

Cashmere huffed a soft laugh, shaking her head before returning her attention to the jumbotron. Ophelia followed suit, her eyes locking on the screen just as the Career pack came into view. Peeta was still with them, which meant he was still of use to the four originals.

Ophelia tilted her head, watching as the five tributes moved through the forest with predatory purpose. Their footsteps were frantic as they whooped and cheered, their weapons at the ready. Their prey had nowhere to run.

“Where are you going?!” Clove shouted, slowing down beside Cato as they stared up at her.

Glimmer cupped her hands around her mouth, “That’s not going to help you up there, Katniss!”

Katniss continued to scale the tree.

"They've got her cornered," she murmured to Cashmere and Gloss.

Onscreen, Cato stepped forward, his patience wearing thin. He adjusted his grip on his sword before stepping toward the tree, glancing up at the girl perched on a high branch. Without hesitation, he grabbed onto the lowest limb and started to climb.

Typical. Cato had never been one for waiting things out.

He had gotten further up than Ophelia expected until he latched onto a weaker limb, falling down to the forest floor. He was visibly annoyed. 

Ophelia would have laughed if the situation allowed for it.

Taking this as her opportunity, Glimmer lifted the bow she’d claimed from the Cornucopia, pulling an arrow from her quiver. A second later, she loosed the shot—

And missed.

Ophelia frowned as the arrow veered off course, embedding itself into the bark of the tree where Katniss crouched, her dark braid slipping over her shoulder.

Ophelia narrowed her eyes. "Did she not do the archery sim?" she muttered, incredulous.

Cashmere scoffed. "If she did, she clearly wasn’t paying attention," she said, unimpressed. 

Picking himself up off of the ground, Cato swiped the bow and arrow from Glimmer. “Gimme that.”

“Go for it,” Marvel encouraged.

Another miss.

“Maybe you should throw the sword,” Katniss taunted from her post up on the high limb.

Clever.

Clove rolled her eyes.

Peeta’s voice cut through the tension, "Let’s just wait her out.”

The group on screen paused.

"She’s gotta come down at some point," Peeta added. "Either that or starve to death. We’ll just kill her then."

Ophelia remained still, watching the way Cato hesitated before nodding.

“Okay,” Cato agreed. He shoved the bow into Glimmer’s hands. “Somebody make a fire.”

Behind Ophelia, heavy footsteps approached. "Got a sponsor for Cato and Clove," Brutus said gruffly, stepping up beside her.

Ophelia nodded, acknowledging his words, but her eyes stayed locked on the screen.

The sun sank lower over the arena, but the Careers remained camped beneath the towering tree. They could wait. They had the supplies, the weapons, and the numbers. Katniss Everdeen had nowhere to go.

Meanwhile, in the Captiol viewing hall, Ophelia leaned back against the couch, the room buzzing around her. She was half-listening as Brutus spoke to a potential sponsor and Cashmere charmed another.

Gloss stood behind Ophelia, drink in one hand, the other absently running through her hair as he listened to Brutus talk. It wasn’t unusual— Gloss had always had a habit of fidgeting, and Ophelia had long since stopped questioning it. His fingers combed through the long, sleek strands of caramel blonde before twisting a section around his knuckles, then smoothing it out again.

Ophelia, in turn, reached for Cashmere’s glass the second her friend turned to laugh at something a sponsor had said.

She took a sip.

And then another.

By the time Cashmere turned back, Ophelia was finishing off the last of the drink, setting the empty glass down with a satisfied sigh.

Cashmere narrowed her eyes. "Really?"

Ophelia licked the remnants of sugar from her lip, her expression all innocence. "You weren’t paying attention."

Cashmere huffed, but she didn’t seem to care enough to be mad. Instead, she leaned over and grabbed another drink from the tray of a passing Avox.

From the back of the room, Finnick watched them. He and Johanna had claimed a small corner of the lounge, near the towering windows that overlooked the Capitol streets. Unlike the others, they weren’t actively courting sponsors tonight. They didn’t have any tributes left to sponsor, thanks to Ophelia’s brother.

Johanna lifted her glass to her lips, taking a slow sip as her eyes flicked toward the group of Career Victors across the room. “They look like they’re having fun,” she said, voice lined with a sharp-edged amusement.

Finnick didn’t respond right away.

She tilted her head. “Something so charming about a bunch of trained killers throwing back drinks and flirting with their patrons,” she mused, swirling the amber liquid in her glass.

Finnick exhaled through his nose, a quiet, almost imperceptible laugh. But it wasn’t amusement. Not really.

Johanna glanced at him, catching the way his jaw ticked ever so slightly. She smirked.

“What’s the matter, Odair? Don’t tell me you’re feeling sentimental about them,” she said, feigned innocence dripping from her tone. “Or is it just one of them?”

Finnick stayed quiet, his expression unreadable as his gaze flickered toward Ophelia.

Johanna followed his line of sight before her smirk widened, dark amusement flashing across her face. “Oh, you have got to be kidding me,” she said, letting out a low, incredulous chuckle.

Finnick finally turned toward her, a warning in his expression. Johanna ignored it. 

“Ran into her at last year’s Victory Tour party,” she continued, as if recalling something trivial. “Smelled sickeningly sweet. I don’t know if it was her perfume or her drink, but it was awful.” She gave an exaggerated shudder. "Bumped into me, then just stared. Like she didn’t have a single thought in that perfect little head of hers."

Finnick’s fingers tightened around his glass.

He hated this— hated how his first instinct was to snap back, to say something sharp and defensive in Ophelia’s favor. Hated how wrong Johanna was about her, how unaware she was of the depth Ophelia kept carefully hidden beneath those soft smiles and playful remarks.

But he couldn’t. Because to defend her now— to defend her at all— was dangerous. So he didn’t say anything.

Johanna laughed again, taking his silence as agreement.

Finnick took a slow sip of his drink, forcing himself to look back at the screen.

The Careers were still waiting beneath the tree. Ophelia was still sitting with her allies, Gloss still combing his fingers through her hair, Cashmere still teasing her. And Finnick was still furious at himself for not saying a damn thing.

The Games stretched on, each day bleeding into the next in a mess of violence and survival. But it wasn’t until the morning of the third day that the arena truly erupted into chaos.

Ophelia’s breath caught in her throat as she watched the tracker jacker nest crash through the branches. Katniss had sawed at it, sending it plummeting into the heart of the Careers’ camp. A monstrous hum filled the air, and then— screams.

The muttations swarmed.

Cato, Clove, Marvel, and Peeta broke away, sprinting into the trees. But Glimmer— Glimmer— didn’t get away fast enough.

Her body convulsed as the tracker jackers overtook her, her mouth open in a soundless scream. The venom did its work quickly. Her golden hair tangled with the damp forest floor, her skin bubbling and swelling grotesquely, her limbs jerking before going slack.

Ophelia barely registered that she had gotten to her feet, eyes wide, hands clenched at her sides as the reality of what she was seeing hit her.

Glimmer was dead.

But worse— Cato had seen Peeta. Had seen him hesitate. Had seen him help Katniss escape.

And Cato attacked.

The cameras cut to them just in time for Ophelia to watch her brother shove Peeta back into a tree, roaring something unintelligible before his sword swung up, slicing into Peeta’s leg.

Peeta crumpled.

Cato stood over him, chest heaving, arm raised to strike again.

Ophelia sucked in a sharp breath, her nails digging into her palms, but before she could react—

An arm wrapped around her, pulling her back.

"He's still safe," Gloss murmured, his voice a low reassurance in her ear.

Ophelia barely heard him.

She was still staring— at Glimmer’s swollen, grotesque corpse. At Cato, bloodied and furious, standing over Peeta’s fallen body. At the way Peeta pushed himself up just enough to stumble away, dragging his injured leg behind him, disappearing into the woods.

Gloss squeezed her arm once before letting go, reaching for his drink again.

Ophelia swallowed, forcing her nails to unclench, forcing her expression back into something neutral. She exhaled slowly, steadying herself, then turned away from the screen.

But the image stayed burned in her mind.

The next two days passed in a blur. The Games didn’t slow. Katniss and the little District 11 girl— Rue— formed an alliance. The Careers continued their hunt. Peeta, wounded and alone, had somehow managed to camouflage himself in the mud, evading capture.

And then, on the fifth day—

Brutus shoved Ophelia awake. She blinked blearily, her cheek still warm from where it had been resting on Cashmere’s lap.

"Up," Brutus ordered gruffly. "Now."

Ophelia groaned, forcing herself to sit up, rubbing her eyes as she tried to process what was happening. She turned to the screen— and her exhaustion disappeared in an instant.

The Careers’ supplies had exploded.

Smoke curled from the wreckage, the force of the blast still sending debris into the air. Katniss, alive and sprinting away, darted back into the trees.

And then there was Cato, standing over the District 3 boy, killing him. Ophelia inhaled sharply as Cato’s fury exploded, his blade slashing through the air. The boy crumpled beneath him, not even getting the chance to scream before his body hit the dirt.

A hush fell over the viewing room.

Ophelia said nothing. Just watched as Cato stood over the body, his shoulders heaving. Her chest tightened, but she stayed silent. Cato was still alive. And that was all that mattered.

The sixth night in the arena. The Feast at the Cornucopia.

Katniss barely had a second to react before Clove’s blade sliced through the air, cutting a sharp line across her forehead. Blood welled instantly, dripping down between her eyes. The District 12 girl stumbled back, dazed, her bow clattering against the Cornucopia. She fumbled for an arrow, but Clove dodged effortlessly, closing the distance between them.

Then she tackled.

A blur of motion. A sharp thud as Katniss hit the ground.

Ophelia sucked in a breath, her fingers curling over her drink as Clove pinned Katniss down, straddling her, her knee digging into her ribs.

"Come on," Ophelia murmured under her breath, eyes glued to the screen.

Clove flipped a knife in her hand, pressing the tip just beneath Katniss’s chin, teasing.

And then she grinned.

"Where’s lover boy?" Clove taunted, her voice sharp and sweet, dripping with mockery. "Oh, I see. You were gonna help him, right?"

Ophelia’s mouth parted slightly in disbelief. Clove was talking. Not finishing it. Not ending the fight. Talking.

Ophelia exhaled sharply, her frustration growing. "What the fuck are you doing?" she muttered, shifting forward in her seat. "Just finish her—"

But Clove didn’t stop. She giggled, delighting in the moment, her fingers curling around Katniss’s throat as she pressed the knife in deeper. "Oh, that’s sweet. Too bad you couldn’t help your little friend. That little girl, what was her name again? Rue?"

Ophelia’s stomach twisted.

"Yeah, well, we killed her," Clove continued, her tone cruel, "and now we’re gonna kill you—"

Ophelia didn’t even get the chance to curse her out through the screen. Because in that instant, a shadow loomed behind Clove. 

A heartbeat later, Clove was ripped off of Katniss, her scream tearing through the arena as Thresh flung her back, hands wrapped around her neck.

"Fucking damn it—" Ophelia groaned, dragging her hands down her face as the crowd in the viewing room gasped— half in horror, half in elation.

"Cato!" Clove screamed, Thresh still shouting in her face. "Cato!”

But Cato was nowhere in sight. Thresh snapped her neck, rage burning in his eyes as he threw her down to the ground.

Cato ran.

His heart pounded violently against his ribs, his breath coming in sharp, ragged gasps as he tore through the trees. The Feast had been planned. A trap, a fight. Clove was supposed to win.

She should have won.

But her voice— her screams— they clawed at him, twisted into something raw and ugly inside his chest. He pushed himself harder, the weight of his sword slowing him down, the rough terrain clawing at his legs. But none of it mattered.

"Cato! Cato!”

His stomach twisted.

And then—

Cannon.

Cato froze.

Everything inside him went still.

The forest blurred around him, the noise of the arena muffled beneath the pounding in his skull. He was breathing too fast, too sharp, but he couldn’t stop.

Because that was her cannon.

His hands curled into fists. His body trembled.

No. No, no, no.

He forced himself to move, to keep running, but his legs felt heavy. The seconds stretched unbearably long until he finally reached the clearing—

And then he saw. Clove’s body. Limp. Motionless. And the hovercraft, descending from the sky, its mechanical arms reaching down to take her.

A strangled sound tore from his throat. Cato stumbled forward, reaching out as if he could stop it— as if he could somehow pull her back.

But then the metal claws clamped around her small, lifeless form, lifting her up into the air.

Higher. Further. Gone.

A sharp, broken sob ripped from his chest. His knees hit the forest floor, dirt pressing into his palms as his whole body shook. He gasped for air, but it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t enough.

His mind blurred. He could still see her, hear her. Clove sparring beside him in the Academy, grinning when she landed a hit. Clove tugging his hand, dragging him toward the lake, laughing when Ophelia splashed him. Clove beside him, alive, breathing as they slept under the tree.

Now gone.

A guttural cry tore from his throat, his grief twisting into something violent, burning. His chest heaved. His fingers clawed into the dirt. And then—

He swung.

His fist slammed into the ground. Again. Again.

He punched until his knuckles split open, until blood smeared across his skin, until the pain became real— more real than the unbearable ache in his chest.

Cato dropped his head forward, his body trembling. He sucked in a breath. Then another. And when he lifted his head, his eyes burned with something new.

Rage.

Cato’s breath came in ragged gasps as he sprinted through the darkness, his body aching, his mind sharp with the singular focus of survival. The sound of the mutts was deafening— their claws scraping against the ground, their snarls cutting through the air like knives. They were closing in.

He didn’t stop.

The Cornucopia loomed ahead, its golden metal glinting under the moonlight. He pushed himself harder, his muscles screaming in protest as he leaped onto the structure, scrambling up the side. The metal was slick beneath his fingers, his boots slipping against the surface.

More movement.

Peeta, climbing.

Katniss, already there.

Cato barely had time to process before he was lunging, instincts taking over. His blade slashed through the air, aiming for Katniss’s throat, but she dodged— fast. Too fast. He growled in frustration, pivoting to strike again, but Peeta slammed into him, tackling him with a force that sent them both crashing against the hard surface of the Cornucopia.

Cato twisted, using his strength to gain the upper hand, his knee pressing into Peeta’s ribs as he wrapped his arm around his throat. Peeta choked, his hands clawing at Cato’s arm, his body struggling beneath the force of the hold.

Then, a whisper of movement.

Cato looked up. Katniss stood, her bow drawn, the arrow pointed directly at his head.

His breath slowed.

This was it. Everything— the years of training, the blood he had spilled, the bodies he had stepped over— it all came down to this moment.

And he had lost.

The realization sank into him like a blade.

The Games weren’t what he had been taught. They weren’t glory. They weren’t honor. They weren’t the promise of a legend written in blood. They were this— a boy, holding onto another boy, staring down the girl with the bow, waiting for his death.

"I knew you were stupid, but this is so stupid! So fucking stupid! You don’t know what you’re about to get yourself into!"

Ophelia had been right.

She had always been right.

His grip on Peeta tightened as he exhaled sharply through his nose. His fingers curled into the fabric of Peeta’s jacket, feeling the rapid beat of the other boy’s pulse against his arm.

"Go on." His voice was hoarse, broken in a way he hadn’t expected. "Shoot, and we both go down and you win. Go on."

Katniss didn’t move. The arrow still aimed at him, her knuckles white around the bowstring.

Cato’s heart pounded in his ears. He forced out a laugh— empty, hollow. "I’m dead anyway." The words spilled from his lips before he even knew he was saying them. His throat felt tight. His eyes burned. "I always was, right? I didn’t—I didn’t know that ‘til now."

The weight of it crushed him. His death wasn’t even his. It belonged to them. The Capitol. The audience. The Gamemakers. The people who had made him into this.

He let out a sharp breath, tilting his head back, staring up at the dark sky. His voice cracked as he shouted into the void, into the people watching from their extravagant couches and crystal screens. "How’s that, huh? Is that what they want?" His voice shook. He turned back to Katniss as she pulled her bowstring tighter. His lips twisted. "Huh?"

Silence stretched between them.

Cato’s chest rose and fell with each breath. He flexed his fingers around Peeta’s throat, tightening his grip. "I can still do this," he murmured. His voice was softer now, but no less resolute. His grip on Peeta’s life was the only power he had left, and he clung to it. "I can still do this. One more kill. It’s the only thing I know how to do. Bring pride to my district. Just like my sister." His voice faltered.

His mind flickered to Ophelia— his sister, watching from the viewing room, watching as he failed. Did she already know? Had she accepted this? Had she ever truly believed he would come home?

His throat tightened. He sucked in a breath, shaking his head slightly. "Not that it matters."

The bowstring snapped.

Pain exploded through his hand. Cato roared, his fingers instinctively loosening as agony lanced through his bones. Peeta wrenched free, staggering back before slamming his fist into Cato’s gut.

Air ripped from his lungs.

Cato stumbled, his balance failing him, and then he was falling. His hands scrambled for purchase, but there was nothing. Just air.

Then— impact.

His body hit the ground with a sickening crack, his armor doing little to protect him from the force of the landing. The world spun around him, his vision blurring, pain screaming through every nerve.

A low growl echoed.

Cato barely had time to register it before the mutts descended.

Pain.

Teeth sank into his leg, his side, his arm— ripping, tearing. He screamed. He twisted, struggling, but there were too many. Their jaws clamped down, their claws scraping, and Cato thrashed—

But there was nothing he could do. They weren’t killing him quickly. They were drawing it out.

Because that’s what the audience wanted. Because that’s what the Games were.

Cato coughed, tasting blood in his mouth.

Above him, the Cornucopia loomed, Katniss and Peeta staring down at him. 

Ophelia. Mom. Dad.

He exhaled sharply, his body trembling. I’m sorry, he thought.

Then, he knew nothing else.

The Capitol viewing room was filled with cheers.

Ophelia couldn’t hear them. She couldn’t hear them, even as the walls practically trembled from the force of the crowd’s excitement, even as the jubilant shouts of the Capitolites rang around her like some kind of sick symphony. All she could hear was him. Cato’s screams. The raw, bloodied sound of them as the mutts tore into him, as their massive, unnatural jaws sank into flesh and armor, as they ripped and shredded and devoured.

Ophelia couldn’t move. She stood there, her breathing nonexistent, her body weightless and heavy all at once.

This wasn’t real, she told herself. It wasn’t real. It couldn’t be real. She was standing in a viewing room. Watching it on a jumbotron. Watching as her little brother— her stupid, arrogant, reckless little brother— was being ripped apart by wolves that weren’t even real.

Her arms hung uselessly at her sides, her fingernails digging into her palms, but she barely felt it. The screen flickered, shifting angles, and her heart lurched when she saw his face. Cato, lying in the dirt, reaching— for what, she didn’t know. Maybe the Cornucopia, maybe nothing at all. Maybe for her.

Her mouth opened, but no sound came out.

Something pressed against her shoulder. A hand. She barely flinched as Cashmere gave her a gentle shake, whispering something under her breath, something Ophelia couldn’t process. Then Brutus was there. Strong hands grabbing at her arms, tugging her back.

No. No, no, no.

Ophelia shoved them off, her breath coming out in a short, sharp gasp as she stayed. As she watched. Her body refused to move. Her eyes refused to look away. She barely noticed the way the room seemed to turn toward her, the way the Capitolites— the ones still clapping, still laughing, still celebrating— were sneaking glances in her direction, watching her. Like she was some kind of entertainment in all of this. Like her grief was something they could consume.

Across the room, Finnick was watching her too. His hands were flexed at his sides, his jaw tight, his sea-green eyes dark as he stared. His throat bobbed as he swallowed, his entire body tense. And for a second— a brief, fleeting second— Ophelia thought he was going to move. Thought he was going to rush across the room, grab her, pull her out of here.

But he didn’t. Because he couldn’t. Because he knew, just as well as she did, that the Capitol was watching. That they were all watching. That this— her— was part of the show now, too.

A sharp snarl from the screen snapped her back. Cato was still moving. Still alive. The mutts were still tearing at him, their fangs ripping apart his armor, his skin.

It was taking too long. Too long.

Ophelia had seen death before. Had caused it before. She knew what it looked like, what it felt like.

But this— this was something else. Something worse. This was cruel. This was torture. And she couldn’t do anything.

The realization hit her like a blow to the chest, and suddenly she was gasping, her nails digging harder into her palms, her vision blurring—

A hand wrapped around her wrist. She barely had a second to react before she was being pulled.

"Ophelia," Gloss cursed under his breath, gripping her shoulders, forcing her to move, to turn away.

She thrashed against him. "No, let me go!"

Gloss’s grip tightened, and she felt herself being dragged, ripped away from the screen, from Cato.

"No—" she choked out. "No, I have to stay, let me stay!" Her voice broke, the words coming out jagged and breathless, her body fighting against him even as her limbs trembled, even as her legs barely worked beneath her.

Cato was still alive. She couldn’t leave him. She couldn’t.

From across the room, Finnick squeezed his eyes shut. His hands flexed again at his sides, his fingers curling, uncurling, his breath coming out sharp through his nose. Like he was fighting something inside himself. Fighting the urge to move. Fighting the impulse to go to her. To pull her into his arms. To take her away from here.

But he didn’t. Because he couldn’t.

Ophelia sat outside the Tribute Center, her body still, her mind absent. She could hear nothing but the distant hum of the city around her— the occasional whoosh of a hovercraft overhead, the murmurs of Capitol citizens still buzzing from the Games.

The Games.

She should have been crying. Screaming. Something. But she felt… nothing. Everything was blurred, her vision hazy as she stared ahead, unseeing, unfocused. Her fingers curled weakly around the cool metal of the chair beneath her, but even that felt distant. Like her body wasn’t hers. Like she was floating just above it, hovering somewhere between here and nowhere at all.

Maybe Brutus had slipped something into the water he had given her earlier. She hadn’t thought much of it at the time— had barely even realized he was handing her something, pressing a glass into her palm, murmuring something she didn’t process.

Morphling. It had to be. That would explain the numbness. The weightlessness. The way time felt stretched and wrong.

She blinked slowly. Cashmere was sitting beside her. Gloss was somewhere nearby too. She could feel their presence, could hear their voices— faint, distorted, as if she were submerged underwater— but she couldn’t make out their words. Didn’t try to.

It didn’t matter. None of it mattered. Because Cato was gone. And she— she was still here.

Later, she was on the train. She wasn’t sure how she got there. Didn’t remember walking with Brutus. Didn’t remember Cashmere hugging her goodbye, the way Gloss had murmured something low under his breath before pulling away. She didn’t feel any of it. Her mind floated in and out, barely registering the world around her.

At some point, the train started moving. She didn’t sleep. She couldn’t. Instead, she lay flat on the bed in her compartment, staring up at the ceiling, eyes wide and dry and tired.

Her body was exhausted. Heavy. But every time her eyelids so much as fluttered, the image was there. Waiting.

Blood-slicked armor. Matted blond hair.

Cato, reaching for something he’d never find. Cato, screaming. Cato, dying.

She stared harder at the ceiling, forcing herself to stay awake. She couldn’t close her eyes. She wouldn’t. Because she knew— knew the second she let herself drift, the second she let sleep take her— she would see him. And she wasn’t ready for that.

She stepped off the train in District 2, the familiar air crisp and cold against her skin. It didn’t feel real. None of it felt real.

Brutus walked beside her as they made their way through the Victors' Village, the silent houses standing like tombstones in the dimming light.

When she reached her home, she paused, staring up at it. The door was unlocked. She stepped inside, the weight of silence pressing down on her like a physical thing. It took her only a moment to notice.

Her parents were gone. Not just out. Gone.

The air was stale, the rooms empty in a way that told her they had left days ago. Maybe the moment they saw Cato fall. Maybe even before that.

Her fingers curled at her sides. She stood there for a long moment, staring at the space they used to occupy, at the hollowness they had left behind.

And she wasn’t sure if she was more angry or amused. Angry that they had left her. That they hadn’t even waited for her to come home before packing up and returning to their old house in the mountains. Or amused because— really— what had she expected? Their love had always been contingent. Always dependent on what she could give them, on what she could win for them. They had barely even looked at her until she had come home from her Games, golden and victorious, carrying blood and wealth on her hands.

And now? Now she was just a reminder. A reminder of what they had lost. A reminder of what she hadn’t been able to protect.

She let out a breath. She didn’t care. Not really. At least, that’s what she told herself.

Her feet moved on their own, carrying her up the stairs. She hesitated only when she reached her bedroom. The door creaked softly as she pushed it open. And there, curled up at the foot of her bed, was Concrete.

Her breath caught, the numbness cracking just slightly. His ears twitched at the sound of her entrance, but he didn’t stir. His little chest rose and fell steadily, his warm body pressed against the blankets.

For the first time in days, Ophelia felt. Her throat tightened. Her steps were slow as she crossed the room, as she reached out and carefully scooped him up, pressing his small body against her chest. He let out a soft sound in his sleep but didn’t resist, only snuggling deeper into her arms.

She squeezed her eyes shut. And then— finally— she broke.

The first sob hit her hard, her body curling in on itself as she buried her face into his fur. The next one came faster. And then another. And another. Her shoulders shook as she clung to him, her breath coming out in uneven, ragged gasps, her tears soaking into his soft, dark fur.

Concrete stayed still. Warm. Steady.

She held him tighter as she let herself cry.

Chapter Text

August, 74 ADD

OPHELIA HAD NEVER BEEN AFRAID OF SILENCE. She had grown up with it, learned how to live within its weight. In the dark corners of her childhood home, in the empty stretches of time where her parents hardly spoke to her, in the quiet moments before the bloodshed of the Games.

But this was different. This was loneliness.

The first month passed in a blur. Brutus didn’t visit. Enobaria left her alone. No knocks on the door, no forced conversations, no one checking in. Ophelia wasn’t sure if she was thankful for the space or furious that no one seemed to care.

She moved through the house like a ghost, existing more than living. She stayed in her room or downstairs. She avoided the west hallway at all costs— the one that led to his room. She couldn’t even look in that direction. Couldn’t risk catching a glimpse of that closed door, couldn’t let her mind wander to what was on the other side. Because if she did— if she let herself remember that he used to live there, used to throw his boots in the hallway, used to leave his weapons scattered over his dresser, used to be alive— she wasn’t sure she would recover.

So she stayed away. Instead, she kept herself occupied. Not doing anything. Just existing. Sitting on the couch, staring at the fireplace without lighting it. Wandering the kitchen without ever making a real meal. Sitting outside on the porch, watching the sky shift from blue to gold to black.

She wasn’t sure how much time had passed. Didn’t care enough to count the days. Not until she found herself standing in front of the calendar on her bedroom wall, fingers twitching at her sides, her vision blurring as she stared at the date.

August. It was August. The first of August. Only it wasn’t just August. It was Cato’s birthday.

She hadn’t realized how much time had passed. Hadn’t realized that July had slipped away. Hadn’t realized that she had let his month disappear, had let the days crawl forward without acknowledging that it was coming.

That today— today— was the day he would have turned seventeen. That today, he should have been here. That today, she should have been sneaking into his room at the crack of dawn to wake him up too early, just to piss him off, just to see the way he groaned and tried to shove her away before eventually rolling out of bed anyway, grumbling under his breath about how she was the worst.

She should have been making him breakfast, even though she was a terrible cook. Should have been forcing him to eat it while he gave her that look, the one that meant this is disgusting but I’ll eat it anyway because you made it. Should have been spending the whole day together— arguing over something stupid, shoving at each other, making fun of each other— existing.

But he wasn’t here. And she was alone. And it was August.

Her fingers tightened around the edge of the calendar.

Without thinking, she ripped it from the wall. The paper tore, jagged at the edges, as she stared down at the page in her hands.

July. 

The last month she had spent with him. The last month he had been alive. A choked breath slipped from her lips. Her hands shook. Then she was tearing. The page shredded beneath her fingers, bits of paper fluttering to the floor as she ripped and ripped and ripped, until July was nothing but tiny, meaningless scraps at her feet.

But it wasn’t enough. It would never be enough.

So she grabbed the rest of the calendar. And she destroyed it. Tore August to pieces. Then September. Then October. Page after page, month after month, until there was nothing left but fragments of time scattered around her room, useless and empty and wrong.

Her breath came fast and sharp, her hands aching from the force of it, her vision spinning. She stood there, staring at the mess, chest heaving, fingers trembling. But she still felt nothing.

September, 74 ADD

The water was warm. It curled around her body, rising up to her collarbones, steam curling toward the ceiling.

She had been sitting in the bathtub for a while now. How long, she wasn’t sure. She blinked lazily, watching the droplets of water slide down her bare arms, watching the way the surface of the bath rippled with every small movement. She felt tired. Not just physically, but bone-deep. Exhausted in a way that sleep could never fix.

Her head tilted slightly, her gaze drifting down to the water. And then, slowly, she thought about it.

What if she just... let go? Let her head slip beneath the surface. Let the water fill her ears, her lungs. Would anyone notice? Would anyone even care? Brutus hadn’t come by. Enobaria hadn’t checked in. Gloss and Cashmere had sent a letter— one she hadn’t opened yet. No one in town spoke to her when she walked through the square to replenish her groceries. Her parents hadn’t even stayed long enough to say goodbye.

She was alone. Truly, utterly alone.

She exhaled slowly. Her fingers twitched at her sides. And then, before she could think twice about it, she started to let herself slip under.

But then came a soft sound. A quiet sigh of breath.

Her head turned slightly. Concrete was still curled up on the bathmat, small and still, his little chest rising and falling in deep sleep. Waiting for her.

A lump formed in her throat. Her fingers clenched against the edges of the tub.

What was she doing?

Her eyes burned, her vision blurred. She shut them tightly, swallowing down the sudden, aching lump in her throat. A shaky breath left her lips.

Without another thought, without an other ideation, she reached for the drain. The water swirled, lowering inch by inch, until there was nothing left but cold porcelain and her own trembling hands.

She grabbed the towel from the side of the tub, wrapping it around herself before stepping out onto the mat. Concrete barely stirred, only shifting slightly in his sleep. She stood there for a long moment, looking down at him. And then— slowly— she sank down beside him, pressing her damp forehead against his small, warm body.

She wasn’t sure how long she stayed like that. Minutes. Maybe longer.  But eventually, she took a deep breath. And then another. And then— finally— she moved.

October, 74 ADD

The house was too quiet. The Village, too empty.

Ophelia sat on the edge of the living room couch, staring at the crack in the wooden floorboards beneath her feet. It was one she hadn’t noticed before— one that must’ve been there for years, small and insignificant but present nonetheless.

The house had never truly felt like hers.

It had been chosen for her the moment she won the Games, when the Capitol decided she had earned the right to live in luxury while the rest of Panem clawed for scraps. It had been waiting for her when she returned, pristine and untouched. Now, it was just a shell— large, lifeless.

The walls of the house felt like they were closing in, suffocating in their silence. She needed out.

Ophelia grabbed her knives from the mantle— her old training set, worn and familiar in her grip. The handles were smooth from years of use, the blades dulled at the edges but still sharp enough to cut. She turned them over in her palm once before stepping out into the cold evening air.

The forest stretched behind the Victor’s Village, its trees swaying slightly in the wind. The path was one she had walked a thousand times— barefoot in the summers, booted in the winters. She moved without thinking, past the familiar stones, past the bend in the trail, until she reached it.

The tree stood tall, untouched by time except for the deep scars in its bark. Indents from her knives. Gashes from Cato’s sparring sword. Faded paint from the old target she had carved in with a rusty blade when he was twelve. When he was old enough to be reaped. When he was old enough to go into the arena and—

She reached out, fingers ghosting over the splintered wood. She pressed her palm against it, let the rough edges bite into her skin, let the sting ground her. Her hand trembled slightly, a whisper of movement, and she curled her fingers into a fist.

Then, she took a step back. Ophelia rolled her shoulders, adjusted her grip, and raised her first knife.

She exhaled. She threw.

The blade missed its mark, embedding itself into the tree just outside the target.

Her lips pressed into a thin line. She pulled another knife from her belt and threw again.

Miss.

Again.

Miss.

Again.

Her hands tightened. Her vision blurred at the edges.

She didn’t know if it was frustration or grief or just the exhaustion that had been sitting inside her chest since the moment the cannon went off for Cato.

Another throw.

Another miss.

"Come on." Her voice cracked.

The next one hit the outer edge of the target, but it wasn’t right. It wasn’t good enough. She had trained Clove to throw knives with pinpoint accuracy at thirteen years old. She had watched Cato wield a sword like it was an extension of himself. She had spent her entire life turning her body into a weapon, had spent years sharpening her aim—

And now she couldn’t even hit a damn target.

Her breath hitched. Her fingers shook as she stepped forward, ripping the knives out of the tree trunk. The wood splintered beneath her grip, small pieces breaking off beneath her nails.

Ophelia stepped back again. This time, she didn’t take aim.

She threw blindly, her arms moving before her brain could think, before she could calculate distance or trajectory. The knives landed where they landed. Some in the tree. Some in the dirt. One clattering uselessly against a rock. She didn’t care.

The air left her lungs in a sharp, ragged gasp as she fell to her knees. The earth was cold beneath her, damp from the evening dew. Her hands curled into the dirt, nails scraping against the ground.

And then she broke. A sob ripped from her throat, raw and ugly.

It hurt. It hurt in a way that she didn’t know how to put into words, in a way that clawed at her ribs and twisted in her stomach. She had spent years learning how to control pain, how to mask it, how to use it, but this wasn’t pain she could control.

This wasn’t something she could turn into strength. This was Cato, gone. This was her baby brother, ripped apart by mutts while she watched from a room full of people who cheered when the light left his eyes. This was Clove, screaming for help that never came. This was her parents leaving without saying goodbye. This was everything, crashing down on her all at once.

Her breath came in sharp, uneven gasps. Her shoulders shook. And then she screamed.

It was guttural, raw, torn from somewhere deep inside of her. It echoed through the trees, filling the silence, breaking the stillness of the night.

She screamed until her throat burned. Until she had nothing left. Until she pressed her forehead to the dirt and she stayed there until the sun set over the mountains.

November, 74 ADD

The face on the screen wasn’t him.

Ophelia knew that.

Knew that the frozen image of Cato, eyes sharp and mouth set in determination, was nothing more than a well-lit Capitol photograph— a portrait taken before the Games, back when he still thought winning was guaranteed. When he still believed in the stories they’d been told as children.

The crowd in District 2’s square was silent. Their attention was fixed on the stage, on the two tributes standing before them— Panem’s golden Victors, the star-crossed lovers of District 12.

Ophelia stood a few feet away, positioned just beneath the towering screen, her shadow stretching long across the platform.

On either side of her, her parents stood stiff and unmoving.

She hadn’t seen them since they had left for the Capitol. For the Games.

They hadn’t greeted her when she returned to District 2. Hadn’t stepped foot into the Victors’ Village to see the house they had once been so desperate for her to win. Hadn’t looked her way when they stepped onto the platform. And now— now they stood beside her, backs straight, eyes fixed ahead, as if she weren’t even there.

Ophelia didn’t look at them. Didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. She focused instead on the pounding in her skull, on the rhythmic pulse of her heartbeat in her ears. On the way her fingers curled into the fabric of her cardigan, gripping the sleeves so tightly that the wool burned against her skin.

She didn’t hear what Katniss and Peeta were saying. Didn’t want to hear it.

Their words blurred together, a meaningless drone of carefully constructed condolences. The Capitol’s scriptwriters had written every syllable, crafted each sentence with surgical precision.

Ophelia had heard it all before.

"Your tributes fought bravely."

"Their sacrifice will never be forgotten."

"We honor their memory today."

Empty. Every word.

It wasn’t until Katniss’s voice cut through the static in her mind that Ophelia’s focus snapped back.

"Panem today. Panem tomorrow. Panem forever."

It was spoken without conviction. A dull recitation. But that didn’t matter.

Ophelia’s jaw clenched, anger curling deep in her chest.

Because that phrase— those three words— were the same ones that had sent her brother to his death.

The same words that had shaped him into a weapon. The same ones that had taught him to want the Games, to believe in them, to volunteer. The same ones that had taken Clove. The same ones that had taken Cato.

She swallowed, forcing her expression to stay still. She would not react. Not here. Not in front of them.

A movement at her side startled her, a gloved hand pressing lightly against her arm.

She blinked.

A Peacekeeper stood beside her, guiding her away from the stage with gentle insistence. The grip was firm but familiar. Three short taps against her shoulder. Her chest eased.

Ophelia let herself be led, stepping off the platform without a glance backward. Without sparing a second look at her parents, who hadn’t so much as acknowledged her presence.

The crowd blurred together, nothing but a sea of faces she didn’t recognize. She let Ovid steer her through the streets, past the looming buildings of District 2’s center, through the outskirts, toward the Victors’ Village.

They walked in silence. When they reached her doorstep, Ovid stopped. Then, with slow, deliberate movements, he reached up and removed his helmet.

He met her gaze. His expression was unreadable— stoic, the same way it always was, but there was something else beneath it. Pity. Sympathy. Something that made Ophelia’s stomach twist.

She exhaled sharply, shaking her head before he could speak. Her lips parted slightly, but no sound came out. 

"Don’t."

Ovid’s eyes flickered, something like understanding crossing his face. He gave a small, almost imperceptible nod before sliding his helmet back on. Then, without another word, he turned and walked away.

Ophelia watched him go, standing motionless in the dim light of the streetlamp. The evening air was cold against her skin, biting at the edges of her sleeves. She pulled her cardigan tighter around herself.

Ophelia stepped onto the marble flooring of the presidential courtyard, her heels clicking softly as she walked between Brutus and Enobaria. The courtyard smelled of perfume and champagne, of roses and something artificial, something distinctly Capitol. It didn’t smell real. Though none of it was. Not to her. 

The silk of her black slip dress clung to her frame, the open back cool against her skin. Her caramel-colored hair cascaded down in undone curls, framing her face as she swept her gaze over the glittering crowd.

She had done her makeup in the Capitol apartment just an hour before—smokey eyes smudged perfectly, nude shimmer gloss slick over her lips. Every bit the picture-perfect Victor, dressed and polished like one of them. She felt like nothing at all.

Beside her, Enobaria cast her a sidelong glance, sharp and unreadable. Brutus exhaled through his nose, already weary. "You sure you don’t want to go back?" His voice was rough, low enough that only she and Enobaria could hear. "We can say you’re sick."

Ophelia shook her head, eyes fixed ahead. "No. If I do, it’ll make things worse." Because if she were alone, the memories would come back. The thoughts would resurface. And that was what she was afraid of.

Enobaria said nothing, but she didn’t need to. Ophelia felt the weight of her stare.

No one wanted to be here. The finale of the Victory Tour was a Capitol spectacle— an extravagant, grotesque celebration of the blood spilled in the arena. For Katniss and Peeta, it was a final show of gratitude to their adoring audience. For the rest of them— the mentors, the past Victors— it was a slow suffocation, an evening spent drowning under the Capitol’s thumb.

They walked further into the courtyard, the chatter growing louder, the music swelling through the space. Ophelia let herself mentally check out for a moment, slipping into that hazy space of detachment she had perfected over the years.

That was until she felt a hand curl around her wrist.

She blinked, the world snapping back into focus. 

Enobaria’s fingers pressed firm but not harsh against her wrist, pulling her back toward their small trio before she could drift too far.

Ophelia exhaled through her nose, offering no protest.

They continued forward, weaving through the clusters of Capitolites, past women dripping in gemstones and men with glitter-dusted lips. An Avox passed by, their silver tray held out carefully. Brutus, Enobaria, and Ophelia each plucked a glass of deep amber liquid from its surface.

Brutus barely had time to take a sip before a voice rang out over the music, calling his name. He turned, brows furrowing slightly.

A tall, gaunt man in an elaborate navy suit was making his way over— one of his old sponsors, judging by the gleam in his heavily made-up eyes.

Brutus let out a breath, already annoyed.

Enobaria smirked, lifting her glass to her lips. "Better you than me."

Brutus shot her a glare before setting off toward the sponsor, his broad shoulders tensing with every step.

Enobaria and Ophelia remained in place, the two of them watching as Brutus was immediately pulled into conversation, forced to entertain whatever nostalgic drivel his sponsor wanted to rehash.

Enobaria made a small noise in the back of her throat, unimpressed, before taking another slow sip of her drink. Ophelia followed suit, draining her glass in one go, the burn tracing a warm path down her throat.

Before she could consider grabbing another, Enobaria’s gaze flickered to something across the room. Ophelia glanced up, catching the subtle shift in the woman’s posture. Someone was waving her over.

Enobaria exhaled through her nose, finishing off her drink. She turned to Ophelia, dark eyes scanning her face. "You good alone?"

Ophelia straightened slightly, shaking off the sluggishness from the alcohol. "Oh, yeah, yeah. Go ahead. I’ll stay here."

Enobaria gave her a final look, then nodded. She set her empty glass on the nearest table before slipping into the crowd, disappearing with sharp, deliberate steps. And Ophelia watched her go, then turned back to the sea of Capitolites.

She should’ve left with them. But it didn’t matter. She was already here.

Finnick stood near the edge of the courtyard, a glass of something golden and expensive dangling from his fingertips. He had just stepped away from a cluster of Capitolites— people who had been draped over him like jewelry, chattering in high-pitched voices, laughing too hard at things that weren’t funny.

The air was thick with perfume and the artificial sweetness of Capitol champagne, and Finnick exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders beneath the crisp white fabric of his shirt. His tie had been loosened, the top buttons undone, as if that small bit of freedom could help him breathe easier.

He took a sip from his glass, gaze sweeping over the courtyard, watching as the Capitolites continued their mindless socializing, basking in the final night of the Victory Tour.

Then, he saw Ophelia. Standing alone near one of the tables, turning an empty glass between her fingers, her expression unreadable.

Finnick’s grip tightened slightly around his own glass.

The silk of her black slip dress gleamed under the courtyard’s golden light, draping over her frame like liquid. The open back revealed smooth creamy skin, the delicate tie at her nape the only thing holding the fabric in place. The material hugged the curves of her body, clinging to her breasts, to the dip of her waist, the swell of her backside.

Her caramel-colored hair, usually light and golden in the sun, looked darker now, nearly chestnut in the dim Capitol lighting. It cascaded in undone curls down her back, the soft waves shifting slightly when she turned her head.

And her eyes— her makeup was heavier than usual. A sharp contrast to the way she normally looked, with nothing more than a swipe of gloss and the barest trace of mascara. The smokey liner and dark shadow made her blue eyes pop, the shimmer catching the light whenever she shifted.

Finnick felt something deep in his chest tighten.

She looked—

He tore his gaze away, taking another slow sip of his drink.

Don’t do this.

He had been fighting against it for months— years, if he was honest with himself. But the vast distance, both emotional and proximal, had made it worse.

And then came Cato’s death.

There had been so many things he had wanted to say to her after the Games. So many things he had almost said. But he hadn’t. He couldn’t. Because whatever complicated, unspoken thing had been growing between them all these years— it couldn’t exist. Not in the way she might have wanted it to. Not in the way he wanted it to.

Finnick forced his shoulders to relax, forced himself to look away. Until he heard: "God, this is miserable."

Johanna’s voice cut through the haze of his thoughts, and Finnick turned his head just as she stopped beside him. She wore a dress the color of dark wine, a deep V plunging down to her stomach, sheer fabric clinging to her frame like a second skin. Her short brown hair was slicked back, emphasizing the sharp angles of her face.

Finnick huffed a quiet laugh. "Tell me how you really feel."

Johanna smirked, lifting her glass to her lips. "Don’t have to. You already know." She took a sip, then flicked her gaze over to him. "Surprised you’re not charming the pants off some poor Capitolite right now."

Finnick tilted his glass idly. "Took a break."

Unconvinced, Johanna hummed before her gaze followed where his had been moments before. Finnick didn’t have to look to know what— or rather, who— she was looking at. She clicked her tongue. "Huh."

Finnick didn’t react.

Johanna let the silence stretch before she spoke again, voice drier this time. "Can’t believe she actually showed up."

Finnick took another drink, saying nothing.

Johanna smirked, glancing back at him. "What?" Her voice was all faux innocence. "She spent the last hours of the viewing sulking in the shadows. Thought she’d at least keep up the act."

Finnick remained quiet, but his jaw twitched.

Johanna studied him for a moment before letting out a breathy chuckle. "Ah. You’re really not gonna take the bait, huh?" She swirled her drink lazily in her glass before taking a sip. "Fine. But you should probably work on your face, lover boy."

Finnick didn’t move. Didn’t acknowledge the teasing lilt in her voice.

Johanna smirked against the rim of her glass, watching him for another beat before shaking her head slightly. "Poor thing," she mused, voice dipped in something that almost sounded like pity. “She got her hopes up about that baby brother of hers.”

Finnick finally turned his head, meeting Johanna’s gaze. "I wasn’t aware that caring was exclusive." His voice was soft. Flat.

Her smirk still lingered, but there was something sharper in her expression now. A quiet understanding. She lifted her glass in a mock toast before taking another sip of her drink. Finnick took another slow sip of his own, gaze slipping back to Ophelia. 

Johanna had nearly polished off her drink when she noticed the new Head Gamemaker. Plutarch Heavensbee across the courtyard, flanked by a handful of high-ranking Capitol officials, his usual jovial expression fixed in place. But it wasn’t the manufactured laughter or the grand gestures that caught Johanna’s attention— it was the way his gaze had settled on Finnick.

Her grip on her glass tightened slightly.

She turned her head just enough to glance at Finnick beside her. His profile was carefully unreadable, but she knew him too well. Knew the subtle way his shoulders had tensed, the way his fingers had flexed ever so slightly around the delicate stem of his glass.

She clicked her tongue. "So," she mused, voice light, "do you have an arrangement with the new Head Gamemaker, or…?"

Finnick finally turned his head, giving her a slow, measured look.

Johanna arched a brow, unimpressed. "What?" She took another sip of her drink. "It’s a fair question."

Finnick exhaled quietly, shifting his weight before turning his gaze back to Heavensbee.

Johanna studied him for another beat before her expression flickered, her teasing lilt replaced with something quieter. "Look, if he’s pulling the same shit as—" She cut herself off, jaw ticking slightly. "Just say the word."

A twitch of fingers against his glass was the only response from Finnick. He rolled his shoulders slightly before tilting his drink back and downing the rest in one go. Then, finally— "Not sure yet." His voice was even. Smooth.

Johanna wasn’t convinced.

After a moment’s pause, Finnick set his glass down on a passing tray before straightening. "Excuse me."

Johanna huffed out a breath through her nose, watching as he maneuvered through the crowd, slipping past clusters of laughing Capitolites until he reached Heavensbee.

Finnick approached with that same effortless grace he always carried, slipping into the Gamemaker’s orbit without hesitation. "Heavensbee." His voice was low, casual, just another friendly exchange at a Capitol party.

Plutarch turned, his laughter from the previous conversation tapering off, though amusement still lingered on his face. "Ah, Finnick Odair," he greeted warmly, adjusting the buttons of his deep plum-colored jacket. "You’re looking well."

Finnick’s mouth curved into a polite smirk. "It’s the lighting."

Plutarch chuckled, eyes glinting with something unreadable. "No doubt." He exalted for a moment before adding, "I imagine you must be wondering why I’m so interested in you tonight."

Though there was something sharper beneath it, his smirk remained in place. "I was just assuming you needed a dance partner for the evening."

Letting out another chuckle, Heavensbee’s gaze remained steady. Assessing. "Oh, Finnick. You and I both know you’re needed for more than just that."

Finnick’s grip on his belt tightened slightly.

Heavensbee lifted his own glass, taking a slow sip, his expression remaining lighthearted despite the weight of his words.

Finnick exhaled quietly through his nose before responding. "And what exactly am I needed for?"

Plutarch’s gaze flickered, something unreadable passing through his eyes before he shifted his weight slightly. "All in good time, my boy. All in good time."

Finnick studied him, scanning his expression, searching for cracks in the polished Capitol exterior. 

Then came a flicker. A small, fleeting distortion of light. His gaze dropped to Heavensbee’s wrist. His watch. For the briefest moment, the surface of the watch face flickered, the numbers vanishing— replaced by something else.

A Mockingjay.

Finnick stilled. His eyes flicked back up to Plutarch’s, his smirk dropping slightly.

Heavensbee held his gaze, and Finnick saw it then— the truth beneath the Capitol mask. The careful calculation. The patience.

Finnick exhaled, voice lower now. "What exactly do your needs for me entail?"

Plutarch watched him for a beat before taking another slow sip of his drink. "Elaborating on that might require a more private setting."

Not a surprise. The Head Gamemaker wouldn’t openly share any plans that didn’t align with the Capitol’s own. So Finnick didn’t react, not outwardly.

Plutarch set his glass down on a passing tray before clasping his hands together. "What I can ask you now, however," he said, voice casual, "is whether I can count on you when the time comes."

Finnick’s gaze flicked briefly to the watch again before returning to Heavensbee’s face. He exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders back before smirking faintly. "I wouldn’t see why not."

Plutarch smiled. "Good." He gave Finnick a small nod before stepping away, seamlessly slipping back into the throng of Capitol elites.

And Finnick remained where he stood, his fingers flexing once before he reached for another drink.

December, 74 ADD

December settled heavily over District 2, burying its brutal stone streets beneath layers of ice and snow. Ophelia spent most mornings outside, chipping away at the frost that clung to her sidewalk and porch steps with a rusted metal shovel, the cold biting through the wool of her gloves.

It wasn’t for her. She could handle the ice, the slick surfaces, the winter winds that cut through the district like knives. She had survived far worse. It was for Concrete.

The old mutt had been moving slower than normal. Perhaps it was his age slowly chipping away at his limbs, or perhaps it was the ice on the ground. He hated the snow— he always had. He hated the way it clumped in his fur, hated the way his paws slipped on the ice. And so every morning, before the frost had fully settled, Ophelia scraped and shoveled, uncovering enough of the concrete path for him to walk without trouble.

Concrete never thanked her. He would simply give her a slow blink, stretch lazily in the doorway, then amble out onto the cleared pavement as if he had expected no less.

She supposed she didn’t need a thank you. It gave her something to do. Something other than sit alone in her house, staring at the blank walls of the Village, listening to the quiet creak of her floorboards and wondering if this was what the rest of her life would feel like.

She spent New Year’s Eve the same way— scraping ice, clearing paths, watching as the world around her sat in the still, frozen quiet of winter.

January, 75 ADD

The following morning came President Snow’s announcement.

Ophelia sat on her couch, Concrete curled in her lap, his body radiating warmth against her stomach. The fire in her hearth had burned low, glowing embers casting faint, flickering light against the walls.

The hologram screen shimmered in front of her, casting a cold blue glow through the room. Snow’s voice— smooth, deliberate, unhurried— filled the air like frost settling over a graveyard.

"Ladies and gentlemen, this is the seventy-fifth year of the Hunger Games, and it was written into the charter of the Games that every twenty-five years, there would be a Quarter Quell."

Ophelia barely blinked, fingers idly stroking through Concrete’s fur.

"Each Quarter Quell is distinguished by Games of a special significance."

She had known this was coming. Everyone had. The Quarter Quells always came with some kind of twist. Some kind of extra cruelty. She had thought she was prepared for whatever it would be.

"And now, on this, the seventy-fifth anniversary of the defeat of the rebellion, we celebrate the third Quarter Quell."

Ophelia exhaled through her nose, slow. Steady.

"On this, the third Quarter Quell Games, the male and female tributes are to be reaped from the existing pool of victors in each district."

Ophelia stilled. The hologram flickered. Somewhere in the distance, a firework went off. Concrete let out a low, lazy sigh against her stomach. 

Ophelia didn’t move. She stared at the screen, the meaning of Snow’s words sinking like a stone in her stomach.

Existing pool of victors.

The reaping.

They were taking Victors back into the arena.

Her breath felt slow— too slow. The air in her chest tight, unsteady, like she had forgotten how to breathe properly. Her thoughts felt distant. As if she were watching them move in slow motion, unable to keep up.

She could go back. She could be reaped. She could step back into the Games, back into the blood and the horror and the fight for survival, back into—

She didn’t know what she was feeling. She didn’t know if she was afraid. She didn’t know if she was angry. Or numb. Or if she was anything at all.

She didn’t know if her parents— her now absent, now distant parents— had even bothered to tune in to hear the announcement. If they had even considered the fact that their only remaining child could be thrown back into an arena to die. If they would even care. If she cared.

Ophelia carefully slid Concrete off of her lap, the old dog letting out a grumpy noise as he settled into the warm indent she left behind. She stood, fingers curling briefly around the sleeve of her sweater before she turned and grabbed her coat from the rack by the door.

And then she walked outside. She didn’t know where she was going. She didn’t know how long she had been walking. Her boots crunched over the snow-covered forest floor, the hem of her coat dragging in the frost. Bare tree branches loomed over her, skeletal against the night sky.

Eventually, she stopped. The frozen lake stretched before her, a vast expanse of ice and silence, its surface dusted with a thin layer of snow. Ophelia stared at it, breath coming in slow clouds. 

Something snapped inside her. She let out a sharp, guttural breath before scooping a handful of rocks from the snow and hurling them at the ice. The first stone skittered across the surface, its sound sharp in the empty night. The second cracked against a frozen ridge, bouncing wildly before landing in the snow.

The third, fourth, fifth—

"Fuck!" Ophelia’s voice tore through the still air, raw and shaking. She grabbed more rocks, threw them harder, her breath coming in short, sharp pants.

"Fuck this!" She hurled another. "Goddamn it!"

Her chest was tight, her vision blurring, her hands trembling with something she couldn’t name.

"Fucking bullshit!"

She threw the last rock with all her strength, watched as it hit the ice, skidded, and spun to a stop.

Silence.

Ophelia’s breath came in ragged bursts, her fists clenched, her body shaking with the weight of everything crashing down on her. She let out a raw, helpless sound before dropping to her knees in the snow.

The cold bit through the fabric of her clothes, seeping into her skin, into her bones, into the hollow space inside of her chest.

She closed her eyes. She didn’t know how long she stayed there. Didn’t know how long she would stay there. But she knew one thing.

She would go back.

The walk to Enobaria’s house was colder than Ophelia expected.

The wind had picked up since she left the frozen lake, cutting through the wool of her coat and biting at the exposed skin of her throat. Snow crunched beneath her boots as she moved through the quiet streets of the Victor’s Village, her breath coming in slow, steady clouds.

By the time she reached Enobaria’s doorstep, her fingers were stiff with cold.

She knocked twice.

A moment passed. Then another.

And then the door swung open.

Enobaria stood in the doorway, wrapped in a dark silk robe, her sharp eyes flicking over Ophelia with quiet scrutiny. She didn’t say anything at first. Just looked— studied. Then she said, “It’s late.”

Ophelia didn’t acknowledge the statement. She brushed past Enobaria without waiting for an invitation, stepping into the house and letting the warmth swallow her whole. She didn’t react to the space around her.

It was tidy— clinical, almost. The furniture was pristine, untouched. The floors were spotless. The air smelled faintly of something sterile, like the inside of the Training Center in the Capitol. It was a house that looked lived in but not lived in. It was nearly identical to her own. Only Enobaria’s looked as though she had never actually been there.

The door clicked shut behind her.

Ophelia could feel Enobaria’s gaze settle heavily on her back, still studying, still assessing.  She paced once across the room. Then twice. Then she stopped. “I’m going back in the arena.”

Silence.

Enobaria’s head tilted slightly, dark eyes flashing with something unreadable. Then, after a pause— “Why?”

“I’m volunteering.”

A sharp, quiet exhale. “I was planning on volunteering.”

Ophelia turned to face her fully. “If anyone is going to win, it’ll be me,” she said evenly. “I’ve been practicing almost every day, even after I won.”

Enobaria let out a breath— short, sharp, edged with something close to irritation. “Practicing,” she echoed, voice dipping into something unimpressed. “You think that means anything? You think that—”

“I have to go,” Ophelia cut her off, voice rising. Her pulse was steady, but there was something heated in her tone, something that burned beneath her skin. “Cato died just last year. If I go back in, I can play up the sob story, get the sponsors, and get the hell out. His death won’t be for nothing.”

Enobaria’s gaze darkened. “You think the Capitol gives a shit about your sob story?”

Ophelia didn’t flinch. “I think they’ll eat up whatever I give them.”

A silence stretched between them.

“Katniss will be in the arena.” Enobaria’s voice was quieter this time, measured. “She’s the only female Victor from 12.” A pause. A beat. Then— “Do you want to avenge him too?”

Ophelia met Enobaria’s gaze, searching for something— what, she didn’t know. Then she snorted, shaking her head.

“If the opportunity arises, maybe I will.” Her voice was even. “But Katniss didn’t kill Cato.” She lifted a shoulder in the ghost of a shrug. “The arena did.”

She exhaled slowly, a cold breath curling from her lips before she added, softer, “Enny, look, I have nothing to lose by going back in.” A pause. A beat. “Just let me do this.”

Enobaria stared at her for a long moment. Then she exhaled, slow and deep. “This about your parents?”

Ophelia blinked once. Then twice. She shook her head. “I don’t give a fuck about what they think.”

It was a clean, smooth lie. But they both knew it was a lie. Enobaria didn’t call her on it. Didn’t press. She just watched, gaze sharp, unreadable.

Ophelia stood there, feeling like the ground beneath her feet had already begun to shift.

Enobaria held Ophelia’s gaze, unreadable, the flickering light from the fireplace casting shadows across her face. She didn’t speak right away, just studied her, measuring something Ophelia couldn’t quite place. Then, after a long pause, she said, “Fine. If I’m not reaped, I’ll give you the chance to volunteer first.”

A rush of something passed through Ophelia’s chest— not quite relief, not quite gratitude, but something close to both. She nodded, exhaling softly. “Thank you.” She hesitated before speaking again. “… Will you spar with me? Make sure I’m not rusty?”

Enobaria raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “You think you need practice to kill a few weaklings?”

Ophelia’s lips twitched in something that wasn’t quite a smile. “I think I need to be better.”

Enobaria considered that for a moment, then let out a breath, nodding once. “Fine. You can take your beatings like the rest of them.”

A short exhale of amusement left Ophelia, but she didn’t argue. She’d take the beatings if it meant she’d be ready.

The first few weeks were brutal.

They met in the forest behind the Victors’ Village, just beyond the frozen lake where Ophelia had screamed herself hoarse after the Quarter Quell announcement.

At first, Enobaria overpowered her with ease, throwing Ophelia to the ground with little effort, blocking every strike she made like it was nothing. It was frustrating. Humiliating, even. Ophelia had spent every year since her Victory training, practicing— but Enobaria made her look like she had never held a blade in her life.

The first time Ophelia landed on her back, winded, Enobaria sneered down at her. “I told you. You think you’re strong, but you’re weak. You hesitate. You think before you act. And that’ll get you killed.”

Ophelia glared up at her. Then, wordlessly, she picked herself up and tried again. And again. And again.

Weeks passed. The snow melted. The forest turned green again. Ophelia lost. Then lost again. Then lost again.

But eventually, she started winning. Not every time, but enough. Enough to feel the shift in Enobaria’s demeanor. Enough to see the way her smirk became a little less condescending, the way her attacks became sharper, faster.

Enough to know Enobaria was finally treating her like a threat.

By May, Ophelia’s knife-throwing accuracy had sharpened. The wild, impulsive throws she had relied on before were now clean, precise. The blades landed exactly where she wanted them to— every time.

So Enobaria switched her training. She handed Ophelia a sword. It was heavier than she was used to, different from the knives she had trained with for years. But Ophelia adapted. Learned how to move with it, how to parry, how to counter.

Enobaria never went easy on her. If Ophelia left an opening, Enobaria exploited it. If she slowed down, Enobaria knocked her on her ass. It was relentless. It was exhausting. And it was working.

Come June, Ophelia shifted her focus again. Speed. Agility. Flexibility.

She woke up at dawn and went to the lake, moving through slow, controlled motions, stretching, shifting, finding balance. Concrete would sunbathe lazily nearby, stretching out in the warmth of the rising sun as Ophelia held her poses, arms steady, body balanced.

She needed to be faster. She needed to be able to move fluidly, easily. She needed to be untouchable.

She knew what the Quarter Quell meant. She knew who she’d be up against. It wouldn’t just be scared kids with barely a week of training. It would be them. The ones who had already survived once. The ones who knew how to win.

If she wanted to get out, she had to be better than all of them. She had to be unstoppable. So she trained, and she didn’t stop until the day of the reaping.

July, 75 ADD

The metallic gold fabric of Ophelia’s dress shimmered under the midday sun, the material clinging to her frame in all the right places with every step she took toward the stage. Golden flowers, delicately woven into her wavy, caramel hair, caught the light, making it appear darker at the roots and lighter where the petals nestled between the strands. Her eyeshadow— brushed in shades of gold and deep bronze— made her blue eyes gleam like ice beneath the stage lights.

Pulchra had outdone herself. She had taken each of District 2’s Victors and made them shine, styling them like warriors heading to the grandest of battles. But no amount of makeup, no amount of gold, could disguise what they truly were.

Lambs dressed as lions.

And yet Ophelia walked forward, head high, gaze steady, as the Peacekeepers led her and the other Victors up the steps to the stage. stepped onto the stage alongside Enobaria, Brutus, and the other District 2 Victors, their polished boots clicking against the wooden steps. Peacekeepers flanked them, though the measure was mostly symbolic— there would be no protests here, no tearful goodbyes. In District 2, tributes— Victors— did not cry. They did not mourn. They volunteered.

She barely noticed the other women standing beside her. Older. Hardened. The ones who had fought their battles long before she was born. There was one girl, younger than the rest, maybe nineteen. Ophelia didn’t remember her name. She had never really tried to. She had always kept close to Enobaria and Brutus, never seeing the point in forming bonds with the others. 

A tap. Then another. Then another.

Ophelia didn’t turn, didn’t react beyond the briefest flicker in her expression. She knew it was Ovid. She knew what he meant. He would not say goodbye. Not in words. But this was his way. Three taps. Silent acknowledgment. Silent support.

Ophelia didn’t react, only focused ahead as Valentina— now sporting lavender hair, glittery pink heart-shaped lips, and a ruffled yellow dress that looked like it belonged at a Capitol ball— approached the microphone.

“Welcome, welcome, welcome!” she chirped, beaming at the silent crowd. “And what a very special day this is! The Reaping for the Third Quarter Quell!”

The audience remained eerily quiet. No applause. No cheers. Nothing.

It was strange. District 2 had always been proud of its tributes, its Victors. But this wasn’t a celebration. This wasn’t the eager volunteering of young Careers, hungry for glory. This was something different.

Valentina’s grin faltered briefly before she recovered, reaching into the first bowl. With a flourish, she plucked out a slip of paper, unfolded it, and read, “Joan Dottir.”

The name barely had time to settle in the air before Ophelia spoke: “I volunteer as tribute.”

Flat. Emotionless. It wasn’t a decision. It wasn’t bravery. It was just inevitable. She had trained for this. Prepared for it. And now it was happening.

As she stepped forward, she caught sight of her parents in the crowd. Their faces, for the first time in years, held something other than indifference. Were they sad? Afraid? Remorseful for the distance they had put between them?

She didn’t know. Didn’t care to know.

Valentina clapped her hands. “Ah, we have our first volunteer! Come, come, stand beside me, dear.”

Ophelia obeyed, taking her place beside the escort as Valentina turned back to the bowl, plucking out another name.

“Troy Flint.”

There was a brief pause before Brutus stepped forward, his voice booming. “I volunteer.”

A ripple of tension moved through the stage. Two other male Victors stepped forward as well, voices overlapping.

Valentina pursed her lips, raising a manicured hand. “Now, now! Let’s not all rush at once.”

She turned, evaluating them, before settling her gaze on Brutus— the strongest, the most intimidating. The obvious choice.

“The first volunteer shall stand,” she declared, gesturing him over. Brutus strode over to stand at Ophelia’s side, his broad stature a sharp contrast to her slimmer, curvier frame.

Valentina smiled wide, sweeping an arm toward them. “Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you, District 2’s tributes for the 75th Hunger Games!”

The cameras zoomed in, capturing every detail.

Ophelia felt Brutus take her hand, and instinctively, she squeezed back. They raised their joined hands in unison, smiling, cheering, playing their parts. For the Capitol. For the audience. For the show.

But beneath the dazzling lights, beneath the painted smiles, Ophelia felt nothing. Nothing but numbness.

As the Peacekeepers guided them off the stage, leading them toward the train station, Ophelia only had one thought.

Cato.

The train moved swiftly through the snowy wilderness as it carried them toward the Capitol. Ophelia sat on the plush velvet couch in the lounge car, her gold dress exchanged for something softer— loose-fitting black pants, a cashmere sweater. The flowers in her hair had been picked out, replaced with a hair tie pulling her caramel waves up into a messy lopsided bun. Brutus sat beside her. Between them sat a half-empty bottle of whiskey, two glasses in hand.

Neither had spoken since boarding. They hadn’t needed to.

Ophelia tilted her glass, watching the amber liquid swirl before bringing it to her lips. The warmth spread down her throat, pooling in her stomach like molten steel.

Brutus broke the silence first, his voice rough but steady, “We’re allying with whoever the District 1 tributes are.”

Ophelia, still holding her glass to her lips, nodded before taking the last sip. “No brainer.”

District 1 and District 2. It had always been that way. A lifetime of training, drilled into them since childhood. Careers stuck together. At least at first.

Brutus grunted in agreement before grabbing the bottle and refilling both their glasses. The whiskey splashed against the sides of her glass, tiny ripples forming before settling.

He leaned back, rolling his shoulders. “We’ll stick together, too.” A pause. “But once we get down to the final few…” He exhaled, running a hand over his bald head. “We’ll have to part ways.”

Ophelia, mid-sip, lowered her glass slightly and turned to him. “You would want to split up?”

Brutus met her gaze, his expression unreadable. “I wouldn’t want to,” he said, voice steady. “But if it comes down to just us, I can’t make that decision.”

She didn’t respond, waiting.

He let out a slow breath, glancing at the glass in his hand. “I wouldn’t want to make the call between my life or yours.” He shook his head slightly. “I’d rather leave it up to someone else.”

A seed of doubt planted itself in her chest, curling around her ribs. Brutus was the closest thing she had to an ally in this. She understood what he meant, though.

The Capitol didn’t just demand their bodies. It demanded their choices. Their betrayals. If they let someone else decide their fates, then neither of them would have to.

Smart. Cowardly.

She swallowed, let the whiskey burn it all down. Finally, she nodded, raising her glass toward him. “Hope it doesn’t come down to that.”

Brutus gave a small, grim smile before clinking his glass against hers. “Yeah.”

They drank. The train kept moving.

The moment Ophelia stepped off the train, the noise hit her like a tidal wave. The Capitolites were everywhere, a writhing mass of silk, feathers, and garish colors, their jeweled fingers gripping at the air as they reached toward her and Brutus, their voices shrill with excitement.

One voice called out, "District 2! Over here! Look this way!"

Another, "Brutus! Ophelia! How does it feel to be back?"

"Such a vision,” a third said, “Ophelia, darling!”

She barely had a second to react before someone brushed against her shoulder, nearly knocking her off balance. Another camera flash, another shriek.

A firm hand closed around her wrist, silent, steady, solid. Brutus didn’t say anything, didn’t so much as look at her, just tightened his grip and pulled her forward, guiding her through the chaos with effortless certainty.

Ophelia exhaled through her nose, a flicker of gratitude settling in her chest. At least she could count on him. At least, for now, she had someone keeping her in one piece.

Pulchra and Valentina, both already a few paces ahead, glanced back. Pulchra’s chartreuse curls bounced as she gasped, clapping her gloved hands together. “Come, come! The Tribute Center is waiting!”

Valentina, all ruffles and glittery lipstick, beamed. “And the stylists, and the suites, and the makeover team. Oh, Ophelia, you’re going to love what we have planned!”

Ophelia just hummed under her breath, still processing the overwhelming Capitol crowd as they moved forward.

The Tribute Center loomed before them, its sleek marble walls practically glowing under the artificial Capitol sunlight. They entered through gilded doors, the grandeur of the building swallowing them whole.

Ophelia tried not to react, but her eyes flickered across the lobby’s new design. The ceiling had been redone, now a vast dome of shifting constellations made of tiny glimmering lights. The floors gleamed in pristine white, the walls adorned with holographic murals of past Games, flickering between different images— the Cornucopia, the bloodbath, the crowning of each year’s Victor.

It was shinier, more extravagant than before. She hadn’t thought that was possible. She should have known better.

The four of them stepped into the elevator, the doors sliding shut with a soft hiss. Ophelia leaned against the mirrored wall, watching the floors flash past as they ascended to their suite.

A year ago, this elevator had carried Cato, Clove, and her to the same floor. Now, it was just her and Brutus.

The elevator stopped. The doors opened. Pulchra led the way into their apartment. It was exactly the same as last year— lavish, sprawling, polished to perfection. Ophelia barely paid attention as she made her way toward her room.

When she stepped inside, it was as if time had folded in on itself. The clothes she had left behind after the 74th Games were still there— steamed, cleaned, hung neatly in the wardrobe. They smelled faintly of roses, a scent she never cared for. In the bathroom, her old bottles of body wash, the ones that smelled like strawberries, were still lined up in the vanity drawer.

It was as if she had never left. As if the past year hadn’t happened at all. But something had changed.

She wasn’t a daughter anymore. Not to the people who had raised her. Not after Cato’s body had hit the ground, broken and lifeless, at the hands of the Capitol’s mutts. Her parents had made that clear when they turned away, when they abandoned her in a house too big for one person. She wasn’t even a sister anymore. She wasn’t anything except for a Victor. And soon, she might not even be that.

Ophelia caught her own reflection in the mirror. She held her own gaze for a moment longer before she turned away and flicked off the light.

“Cashmere and Gloss,” Haymitch began, gesturing to the screen mounted on the living room wall. “Brother and sister. District 1. They won back-to-back Games. Capitol favorites. Lots of sponsors. They will be lethal.”

Katniss studied their faces. High cheekbones, sharp jaws, identical smirks. They exuded confidence— the kind that came with knowing the odds had always been in their favor. Of course they would be dangerous. No surprise there. But then again, she thought about Glimmer’s poor aim with the bow and arrow. Maybe there was some chance they weren’t as perfectly trained as they appeared.

Haymitch wasn’t finished. He gestured again, and two more faces replaced the siblings on the screen.

“And the other half of the Career pack,” he said. “Brutus and Ophelia.”

The first, Brutus, was impossible to mistake. Heavy-set, thick-necked, a slab of a man who looked as though he had been carved from stone. Everything about him screamed aggression. But it was the second figure, the woman standing beside him, that Haymitch lingered on. He turned his head slightly, looking between her and Peeta. “Look familiar to either of you?”

Katniss frowned, shaking her head. The name didn’t ring any bells. The face didn’t either. Was she missing something?

Haymitch didn’t make them guess.

“Sister of last year’s male tribute,” he said, nodding toward the screen where Cato’s golden-haired, sneering face had once been. “Mentored Clove. Was mentored by a Victor who filed her teeth down to rip out people’s throats.”

Oh.

There it was.

Katniss’s breath caught as memories slotted into place. The blonde woman on the platform after last year’s Games. The one standing in front of Cato’s face on the screen during the Victory Tour. She had been there. Had watched the moment Katniss and Peeta had been crowned. Katniss had seen her, but she hadn’t truly looked.

Her mind had been too clouded, too heavy with the weight of Snow’s threats and the rehearsed speeches to notice anything beyond what she had to say. The faces of the fallen tributes’ families had blurred together in the whirlwind of the tour— not because she hadn’t cared, but because she had been too terrified to absorb anything else.

But Ophelia— she had seen Ophelia before.

Bits and pieces of her Games surfaced now, filtered through what little attention Katniss had paid at the time. It hadn’t been a flashy year, not one that was overly glamorized like some of the others. The Capitol had fixated elsewhere— on the horror of the Titus situation, on anything to keep the reminder of the Dark Days buried beneath glitz and spectacle.

But Ophelia had been liked. More than liked. Even if Katniss hadn’t been paying close attention, Ophelia had been there— her interviews replayed, pictures of her scattered across Capitol screens, laughing, drinking, dancing on tabletops after one too many glasses of something bright and sparkling. Always seen with the siblings from District 1. Always seen with the other Careers. And Katniss knew exactly what that meant.

She thought of last year. Of Cato’s bloodlust, his relentless pursuit with his allies. Of Clove, and the way she had held that knife to Katniss’s throat, the venom in her voice when she mocked Rue’s death. If Ophelia was anything like them, then they were already doomed.

Then she thought of Prim. Of why she had stepped onto that stage in the first place. She had volunteered to protect her sister, because Prim was all that she had left. She couldn’t imagine standing in the Justice Building, watching Prim’s face on a screen while she fought for her life. And now here was Ophelia— Cato’s sister, stepping into the arena willingly.

Had she volunteered for him? For revenge? To finish what her brother had started? If Ophelia came face to face with her, would she hesitate? Would she even blink? Or would she try to carve Katniss apart the way Cato and Clove had?

Haymitch moved on, but Katniss barely heard him.

“Wiress and Beetee,” he said. “Not fighters, but brilliant. And weird. Real tech-savvy.”

Chapter Text

July, 75 ADD

OPHELIA SAT SILENT as Pulchra’s team worked on her in the room of the Remake Center, their hands moving with mechanical precision. The process was familiar to her. She didn’t flinch at each step they took to perfect her appearance.

Exfoliation.

They scrubbed her skin raw, slathered her in balms that smelled like crushed jasmine and sugar, then rinsed her clean in scalding water.

Waxing.

She barely flinched as they ripped strips from her legs, arms, brows—years of this had dulled her to the sting.

Tweezing.

One of the assistants, a willowy woman with shimmering silver eyelids, tilted Ophelia’s chin and worked in silence, plucking stray hairs from her brows with meticulous focus.

A wash.

Her caramel hair was lathered in something floral before being rinsed, wrapped in a heated towel, then released into sleek, glossy waves, blown out to perfection. She sat through it all without a word, watching herself in the mirror, feeling strangely detached from the reflection staring back.

Then came the makeup.

Golden eyeshadow, feathered out like the sunset against her lids. Gold glitter pressed into her brows, catching the light with every shift of her head. Highlight dusted onto her cheekbones, her cupid’s bow, her collarbones. Metallic nude lipstick, swiped over the full shape of her lips with steady hands. She looked otherworldly. Like some kind of gilded thing. Not quite human, not quite Capitol, but something in between.

Pulchra and her assistants stepped back, murmuring to each other in delight. “Perfection,” Pulchra cooed, clapping her hands together. “Now, let’s get you into your outfit.”

Ophelia exhaled through her nose and stood, allowing herself to be guided toward the dressing area. The golden dress was already waiting for her.

Chainmail. The moment she saw it, she knew. It was deliberate. An echo of last year. An homage. Cato had worn something similar for the Tribute Parade— an armored look, fitting for a Career tribute, fitting for the Capitol’s golden boy. Now, it was her turn.

Ophelia didn’t say anything as they helped her into the dress, fastening the delicate chains across her back, adjusting the weight of the metal so it sat correctly over her frame.

It was heavier than she expected. And cold. Even as it warmed against her skin, she could feel the way it scraped, the way the metal bit at the spots where her skin had been freshly exfoliated and waxed. The pasties underneath felt loose, barely covering what needed to be covered. And the gaps in the chainmail—

She could see them, could already feel the Capitol’s eyes lingering on the places where the dress didn’t quite conceal. She clenched her jaw. She had signed up for this; it was too late to regret it now.

Pulchra’s hands landed gently on her shoulders, turning her toward the mirror.

“Look at you,” Pulchra sighed dreamily. “Golden.”

Ophelia took in her reflection. The hair, the makeup, the dress— she had to admit, she looked beautiful. She couldn’t remember the last time she had liked what she saw. But there was something else, too. Something bitter curling at the edges of her thoughts.

Would she spend the entire preparation, the entire Games, wrapped in the memory of her brother? Forced to relive it, forced to rehash the same loss, the same grief, until it consumed her completely?

She swallowed.

No.

She wouldn’t let it.

She forced herself to smile, just a little, and met Pulchra’s gaze in the mirror.

Pulchra beamed, delighted. “Come, come! The Parade awaits.” Ophelia let herself be led out into the Alley, where the chariots were waiting.

Brutus was already there, standing near their assigned chariot, arms crossed. His outfit was similar— gold, armor-like, designed to match hers. He turned his head slightly when she came to stand beside him, looking her up and down with an expression that was more amused than impressed. He gestured vaguely toward her face.

"Glitter in your eyebrows?" he said. "That’s a choice."

Ophelia snorted, laughing despite herself. "Yeah, I can’t really make any sudden movements with my face or the glitter will fall into my eyes." She lifted a hand and hesitated, resisting the urge to touch her brow. "Which, I’m realizing, is a real design flaw. Might get blinded mid-parade."

Brutus chuckled, shaking his head as he adjusted his gloves.

Ophelia shifted her weight slightly, her hands fidgeting at the straps of her dress. The chainmail was heavier than she expected, the links shifting against her bare skin, the gaps barely covering anything. She felt exposed, but she supposed that was the point.

Behind her, one of the massive, muscled horses pulling their chariot let out a sudden snort, stomping its hoof against the stone floor.

Ophelia jolted, a startled noise leaving her throat as she turned sharply, stepping closer to Brutus as if he might shield her. "Oh, my gosh, no thank you," she muttered under her breath, eyeing the horse warily.

Brutus let out a short, knowing laugh. "Still scared of horses?"

Ophelia shot him a look. "I feel like that should be more normal. Have you seen how big they are? That thing could kill me with a raise of a hoof."

Brutus smirked, but before he could say anything, another pair of figures approached them— Gloss and Cashmere. 

Giving Ophelia a once-over, Gloss's lips curled at the corners as he nodded toward her dress. "You look comfortable," he said, voice as smooth as ever.

Ophelia exhaled a short laugh, shaking her head. "I’m really not, but at least I look like I’m not miserable under all this metal. So that’s something."

Cashmere sighed, adjusting the bodice of her dress with carefully manicured fingers. "I don’t know how you’re even standing in that thing. My corset is so stiff I can barely breathe."

"Sounds like we’re all just suffering in style," Ophelia mused, allowing herself to smile.

Finnick stood a few chariots over, dressed in nothing but the shimmering net draped over his pelvis, his usual confidence effortlessly intact. He absentmindedly handed another sugar cube to Mags, watching as she pressed it to the soft lips of their horse, her wrinkled hands steady and patient.

Then his gaze drifted.

It wasn’t intentional— at least, that’s what he told himself. But his eyes landed on Ophelia, standing with the other Careers.

He took her in before he could stop himself.

The chainmail dress— metal glinting under the too-bright overhead lights, the way it clung to her body, shifting like liquid gold over the curves of her hips, her waist, the bare skin peeking through the tiny, intricate gaps. He could see the length of her legs through the slits in the metal, the way her collarbone dipped into the curve of her cleavage, just barely visible beneath the cold, harsh armor.

Her hair had been styled into sleek, blown-out waves, cascading down her back in soft caramel ribbons. Her makeup— despite the ridiculous Capitol touch of glitter in her eyebrows— highlighted every feature. The gold dusting across her eyelids made her irises stand out, the glow of the lights catching on her cheekbones. She was beautiful in a way that wasn’t meant for him.

Finnick forced his jaw to tighten.

This was what the Capitol wanted, wasn’t it? For her to be seen. To be consumed. To be admired and objectified and reduced to something palatable for entertainment. A Career Victor made into a spectacle. Just like him. It didn’t matter that he had always found Ophelia beautiful. That he had always been drawn to her, even when he told himself he shouldn’t be. Even when he had spent years denying that she meant anything at all.

Ophelia was only ever a fleeting thought. That was what he told himself.

But now, looking at her, watching the way she laughed at something Brutus said, the way she casually brushed her hair over her shoulder, the way she looked comfortable with them— with the Careers— Finnick felt something tighten in his chest.

He reminded himself of the truth: Ophelia was a Career. She had volunteered for this. She had been raised in District 2, trained to kill, conditioned to see the Games as an honor. She was aligned with the Capitol, not the rebellion. She was not a part of his world, and he had to separate himself from her. He had spent too long fighting against whatever feelings he had for her. And now, there was no room left to fight. There was only the rebellion.

His life was not his own. And Ophelia was not his to want. Those were two simple facts that he needed to get through his head.

His hands flexed at his sides, his jaw clenching, before he forced himself to redirect his attention. He turned his head, scanning the lineup, until his eyes landed on Katniss. The proclaimed girl on fire.

Perfect. A distraction.

Finnick exhaled through his nose, rolling his shoulders back before stepping forward, his confidence settling back into place like an unshakable mask.

“Katniss.”

The chariots had come to a halt in the underground tunnel beneath the City Circle. Brutus was already stepping down from the chariot, landing easily on his feet, before turning back toward Ophelia. He reached up, hands outstretched. 

"Come on, princess," he said, his usual gruffness softened just slightly.

Ophelia rolled her eyes but stepped forward, gripping his forearms as he lifted her down by the waist. The metal of the chainmail dress pressed against her ribs, cool and unrelenting, but Brutus made the descent easy. He set her down carefully, like he had done this a hundred times before.

"Thanks, Brute," she murmured, her voice light but her expression unreadable.

Brutus grunted in response, a slight smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth before he clapped her once on the shoulder.

Valentina and Pulchra fell into step beside them as they walked deeper into the tunnel, the last of the tributes being ushered inside by their mentors.

"You two were stunning," Valentina gushed, her heels clicking against the polished floor. "The best pair by far. Did you see the way the cameras lingered on you? On the armor?"

Pulchra nodded, smiling in satisfaction. "I knew it would be perfect.”

Ophelia didn’t respond.

She should have felt some kind of satisfaction in their approval, in the way they praised her. She should have been relieved that the Capitol was eating up every calculated move, every piece of her appearance. Instead, she just felt tired.

She kept walking, letting the conversation fade into the background when she saw him.

Finnick was walking in the opposite direction, Mags at his side, their chariot team having just returned as well. He still carried that same effortless confidence, the netting draped across his pelvis barely hiding what was underneath. But his stride faltered— just slightly— as his sea-green eyes landed on her.

For a moment, they just looked at each other.

It was only a second, a heartbeat, but it felt longer.

Ophelia could feel the unspoken thoughts hanging between them, the realization that neither of them had wanted to acknowledge.

They might have to fight each other.

The knowledge settled like a weight in her stomach.

She had trained for this her entire life. She had killed before. She knew how to calculate threats, how to pick off the weak, how to ensure victory at all costs. But Finnick— Finnick was different. She didn’t know what she would do if it came down to him. If she saw him with a weapon drawn, if she saw him bleeding out, if she saw him die.

What would she do? Would she fight back? Would she freeze? Would she run in the opposite direction? Would she let him make the first move, or would she strike first? 

For once, she didn’t know. No amount of training in the Academy could have prepared her for that.

Finnick’s eyes flickered, moving from her to Brutus, then back again. He was thinking the same thing: Ophelia wasn’t Brutus. Brutus would kill him without a second thought. But Ophelia— she was different.

Finnick could fight Brutus. He could kill him if it came down to it. He could outthink him, outmaneuver him. But Ophelia? Could he go against her? Could he be the one responsible for her death? Could he live with that knowledge, that blood on his hands if it meant that the rebellion would continue on?

They looked away from each other at the same time.

Finnick kept walking, moving past her without a word. Ophelia did the same, swallowing down the tangled mess of thoughts as she stepped onto the elevator with Brutus, Valentina, and Pulchra.

The doors slid shut, sealing them in. Neither she nor Finnick looked back.

No matter how many times she had washed, Ophelia swore she could feel the grit of glitter against her fingertips. She sat cross-legged in bed, the satin of her Capitol-provided pajamas smooth against her skin, her hair brushed out into loose waves that cascaded over her shoulders. 

She had scrubbed off every trace of makeup, leaving her face bare, but her skin still felt tight from the glitter Pulchra had pressed into her brows. Maybe it had cut into her skin like the chainmetal had. She wasn’t sure that she cared anymore. Not that it would matter in a few days.

The volume on the television was low, but she could still hear the voices of Caesar and Claudius as they recapped the Tribute Parade. The screen flashed with images of each district’s tributes, their chariots rolling through the avenue of the City Circle. Caesar’s laughter rang through the speakers, his voice boisterous and artificial.

"Ah, and here we have District 2!" Caesar announced enthusiastically, as the image of Ophelia and Brutus riding through the parade filled the screen. The crowd’s cheers were deafening, their faces a blur of adoration and anticipation.

"Ophelia Hadley," Claudius added, his tone thoughtful. "Back to back siblings in the arena. Quite the turn of events, we haven’t seen that since the Davenports."

"Oh, yes,” Caesar agreed. “Look at that dress! An homage to her brother, Cato. You can see the resemblance, can’t you? It’s those eyes of theirs!"

Ophelia felt her breath hitch. She had known it was coming. Of course she had known. Still, the mention of Cato’s name sent a sharp, ice-cold jolt down her spine.

On the screen, a clip of Cato filled the frame— not from the Tribute Parade last year, not from his interviews. From the end. His final moments.

Cato, bloodied, beaten, screaming as the mutts tore into him. His armor shredded. His face contorted in agony. His body barely recognizable. The audience cheered.

Ophelia stared. Her stomach twisted. Her mind went blank.

Somewhere in the Capitol, a crowd of glittering, drunk onlookers was probably applauding. Laughing. Talking about how thrilling it had been.

She couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.

Then, in a single, abrupt motion, she grabbed the remote and shut the television off.

Silence.

She threw the remote across the room. It slammed against the wall, hitting the floor with a sharp, plastic crack.

Ophelia sat frozen, staring blankly ahead. The room was suddenly too quiet, the weight of it pressing down on her. The ghost of Cato’s screams still rang in her ears, lingering in the back of her mind like an echo from a nightmare.

Slowly, she raised her hands to her face and rubbed hard, as if she could scrub the memory away, as if she could push down the sharp, unbearable ache crawling up her throat.

Her hands trembled against her skin.

A sob threatened to break free, but she swallowed it down.

No.

No, she wouldn’t cry.

Not now. Not for them to see.

She forced her breathing to slow, inhaling deep through her nose, exhaling just as slowly. It was the same technique she had learned when training for the Games all those years ago. Control the breath. Control the body. Control the mind. 

Control. Control. Control.

Finally, she exhaled one last time and sank down into the bed, reaching over to switch off the lamp. Darkness swallowed the room. Still, she didn’t close her eyes. Because when she did, she knew what she would see.

Katniss had hated the training room last year. Not much had changed even now; the air still smelled of sweat and metal, the air still filled with noises of slamming weapons against dummies, shouts and grunts, limbs moving through obstacle courses. It had stayed the same, almost entirely. 

Only now, though, it wasn’t filled with teenagers. It was filled with adults. Some, if not all, were out of practice, older and slower. That was an advantage. That was the only advantage Katniss had on them. All of them, of course, other than the Careers who had likely not given up their training. Careers like Ophelia, sparring in the center of the room in the leveled stair station, showing just how out of luck a teenager like Katniss was.

Katniss barely noticed her at first, too used to the blur of black training uniforms and swift, brutal movement to pay it much mind. But then Ophelia struck— fast, unrelenting, not giving her opponent even a second to recover.

The trainer was on the defensive. He dodged, blocking as best he could, but Ophelia didn’t let up. Not even for a second. She moved with practiced precision, her caramel hair pulled back in a low ponytail, a stark contrast to the sheer aggression behind every strike. She dodged swiftly, twisting her body just enough to evade the trainer’s counterattacks before slamming her sparring stick against him with brutal force.

Cato had been like this. Clove, too. No hesitation, no wasted movement, just sheer, relentless violence. It was the kind of thing that made Katniss decide, right then and there, that if it ever came down to it, she was going to run. She wasn’t stupid enough to try to fight someone like Ophelia head-on.

The match ended abruptly. With one final, decisive strike, Ophelia knocked the trainer off balance, sending him stumbling back. A second later, she straightened, exhaling sharply before stepping down from the ring.

Katniss forced herself to move. To keep walking. To not let Ophelia catch her watching.

Ophelia ran a hand over her forearm as she made her way toward the weapons station, her skin still buzzing with adrenaline from the fight. She wandered through the room, weaving past tributes testing out various weapons.

She stopped at the target practice station, eyes scanning over the selection of weapons before settling on a row of knives. She bent over, grabbing a few from the holder, fingers grazing over the cool metal as she gauged their weight.

The sound of footsteps behind her barely registered.

She didn’t look up. Didn’t have to. It was probably Gloss or Cashmere; the siblings’ weaponry of choice was also knives. She smiled. “It’s about time you found me.”

The footsteps slowed.

“Didn’t know I was looking for you.”

The voice wasn’t Gloss.

Ophelia’s stomach dropped. She straightened so fast she nearly dropped the knife. Turning, she found Finnick standing behind her, arms loosely crossed, watching her with that insufferable half-smirk that made it impossible to tell whether he was amused or just waiting to see what she’d do next.

Her mouth opened before she could think better of it. “I thought you were—”

“Disappointed?” Finnick cut in, teasing, his grin widening just slightly.

Ophelia let out a soft, embarrassed laugh, shaking her head as she fidgeted with the knife in her hand. “Surprised.”

Finnick tilted his head, unconvinced. “Mm. Sure.”

Ophelia gave him a look— half exasperated, half amused— before turning her attention back to the targets. Without another word, she positioned herself, pressing the start button on the simulation panel.

The moment the targets appeared, she moved. Knives left her hands in rapid succession, each one hitting its mark with deadly precision. Holographic figures flickered and vanished one by one, unable to even react before her next knife struck.

She didn’t hesitate. Didn’t stop to calculate. She just moved. And she never missed.

For a long time, Finnick had been able to keep Ophelia in a box. Something fleeting, something half-formed, something he had long since convinced himself had never been real. But watching her now— watching the ease with which she handled a weapon, the unwavering focus in her face— made it hard to pretend she was only what he had allowed himself to think of her as. She was dangerous. And he couldn’t decide if that was more alarming or more alluring.

The final two knives left her hands, striking the last targets cleanly. The simulation shut down. Ophelia exhaled, rolling her shoulders before turning back toward Finnick. 

And then she saw his face. 

She had seen many looks thrown her way before. Looks of admiration, of appreciation, of annoyance or disdain. But the way Finnick was looking at her now— quiet, assessing, something unreadable in the lines of his face— this was different.

This wasn’t him looking at her like she was something to admire. This was him looking at her like he understood exactly what she was capable of. She wished he wouldn’t look at her like that.

She was still catching her breath, but she felt restless— like she should be doing something. Moving. Hitting something. Running.

Instead, she stood there, awkward in the silence, suddenly all too aware of Finnick’s eyes still on her.

Without thinking, she reached up and tucked a few stray hairs that had fallen loose from her ponytail behind her ears. She shifted on her feet, glancing toward the target station before speaking, forcing her voice into something casual.

“Sorry, did you want a turn?” she asked, glancing back at him.

The words were simple enough, but they felt clumsy on her tongue. She instantly regretted how they came out— too abrupt, too transparent. Like she was too eager to move past the moment she didn’t know how to sit with.

Finnick didn’t respond right away. For a brief moment, he only stared at her, his eyes catching on the faint flush on her cheeks from exertion, the slight pink at the tips of her ears, the way she still seemed to have her guard up despite the soft tone in her voice. 

But then he gave a slight shrug, his expression smoothing into something easy. “If you don’t mind.”

Ophelia nodded once, quickly, too quickly. She lingered for another beat— unsure why— before finally sidestepping out of the way. She felt the brush of his shoulder as he passed her. And it was stupid. Stupid how that fleeting contact— the faintest graze of their skin, nothing at all between them— felt like she was overheating all over again.

Ophelia forced herself to watch his hands instead, staring at the steady, fluid way they closed around the long wooden shaft of a spear. His grip was familiar— assured, effortless— just like everything else he did. She watched as he tested the weight of it, rolling it in his palm once before flipping it with an easy familiarity. The spearhead caught the overhead lights for a moment, glinting sharply.

And then he spoke, so softly that she almost didn’t catch it, “I’m sorry about Cato.”

The words shouldn’t have surprised her. Shouldn’t have stolen the breath from her chest so suddenly. But they did. And for a moment, she was still.

Her throat tightened. Her eyes burned faintly, and she had to blink rapidly, fighting it off, refusing to let anything slip through the cracks.

It took her several seconds to even find her voice. When she did, it came out quieter than she intended, almost like she was admitting something, “You’re the only person who’s said that to me.” Her eyes flickered to his face, briefly, before shifting away. 

And she hated herself for adding that, for letting the words fall into the space between them. Because it was true.

Gloss and Cashmere had sent her the letter, but letters didn’t speak. Words on a page didn’t linger in the air, didn’t sink into her chest and make her feel like she was going to splinter apart. The words from the letter were already starting to fade in her memory, but this— this would stick.

And Brutus and Enobaria— they had shown her sympathy in their own unsentimental way. Brutus had spared her from questions. Enobaria had put a hand on her shoulder when she was shaking before walking away without a word.

But no one had said it. Not like this.

And maybe that was why her chest ached, why the lump in her throat only grew heavier the longer Finnick’s eyes stayed on her.

Finnick’s face was unreadable again, but she saw the briefest flicker of something in his eyes— a glimmer of thoughtfulness, of something almost tentative. He didn’t know if her words meant her fellow Victor, too. If it applied to Brutus and Enobaria, to Gloss and Cashmere. 

But then what of her parents?

For a moment, he wondered if he should say something. If he should ask. If he should bring up the distant look she sometimes got when she stared at nothing in particular— the kind of look that made him wonder if she still had a family waiting for her, or if there was no one left to come home to.

But the thought sat heavy on his tongue. And he didn’t ask. Because the truth was, he didn’t know her outside of the Games. Not really.

He had seen her at Capitol parties— dancing loosely, laughing too loud, drinking too much, wild in a way that he knew wasn’t real. But he didn’t know her, not in the ways that mattered. And for some reason, that realization made him feel like he had missed something. Like he had overlooked something important.

But he didn’t speak. Didn’t pry. Instead, he only glanced at the targets, his voice softer now. “Do you want to start the simulation for me?”

Ophelia felt the tension in her chest loosen— just slightly. She nodded once, quickly, grateful for the shift. “Yeah.” Her voice was light again, though she didn’t miss the slight crack around the edges.

She moved to the console, keeping her eyes down, her hands steady. She pressed the button, activating the simulation. The familiar pixelated figures began to shimmer into existence.

When she turned back, Finnick was adjusting his grip on the spear, rolling his shoulders slightly as he moved into position. She lingered for half a second too long, her eyes tracing the way the training uniform fit him. She wasn’t looking for anything in particular— just… looking.

She caught herself doing it. Tearing her gaze away quickly, she cleared her throat.

Finnick didn’t seem to notice. Or if he did, he didn’t let it show.

Instead, he focused on the targets, his eyes narrowing faintly as he drew his arm back, muscles coiling in preparation. And Ophelia, despite herself, didn’t look away.

The waiting room was oppressively quiet. A few tributes whispered among themselves, but most sat in tense silence, fidgeting, stretching, or simply staring at the floor. Ophelia tugged at the laces of her left shoe, pulling them tighter and tighter until her foot almost went numb. The black fabric of her long-sleeved shirt clung to her skin. It felt heavier than it should.

Brutus shifted beside her, glancing down as she double-knotted her shoe with a sharp tug. “You tying those things or trying to cut off circulation?” he muttered.

Ophelia didn’t look up. She simply ignored him, moving onto the next shoe and pulling the laces just as tightly.

Brutus huffed through his nose and rolled his shoulders, cracking his neck just as the intercom called out his name. He exhaled sharply through his nose and pushed himself to his feet with a grunt, his boots heavy on the tile. 

As he passed by Ophelia, he clapped her once on the back, firm but brief. A wordless gesture— almost fond, but practical. The kind of touch meant to ground, not comfort. 

She didn’t flinch. Didn’t look up. She only tugged her second knot tighter and watched from the corner of her eye as he walked toward the gymnasium, his broad frame filling the doorway before he disappeared through it.

The door slid shut behind him.

Ophelia straightened in her seat, lowering her foot back to the floor.

For a moment, she only sat there, absently flexing her fingers before smoothing her palms over her thighs. Her eyes drifted toward her hands, noting the faint red indentations from where she had been gripping the laces too tightly.

She dragged her thumbnail along her knuckle, as if tracing the faint lines there. Then, without thinking, she lifted her eyes and glanced across the room.

Finnick was sitting with Mags a few benches away. He was speaking softly to the older woman, his head inclined slightly toward her. His lips moved, forming quiet words meant only for her.

But his eyes flickered toward Ophelia. Just for a second. It was brief, fleeting— his gaze meeting hers through the gaps between the others. His eyes caught hers, lingering there, sharp and assessing.

She didn’t look away. Not at first. For a moment, she only stared back. And then, before she could think better of it, she dropped her gaze.

Her eyes fell back to her hands, focusing on the small patch of dry skin near the edge of her thumbnail. Without thinking, she began picking at it, her nail catching at the skin. The faint sting it caused was dull, barely enough to notice.

Finnick didn’t look away. He watched her from where he sat, his eyes lingering on the slight tension in her posture— the way her hand fidgeted against her thumb, the slight crease in her brow.

She didn’t look at him again. And he didn’t stop watching her until fifteen minutes later, on the dot, her name was called.

Ophelia stepped inside the gymnasium, her footsteps echoing faintly against the polished floor. High above, the panel of Gamemakers watched from their elevated box. She didn’t hesitate, even with the audience.

Without acknowledging them, without waiting for an introduction or pleasantries, she strode toward the knife-throwing station. 

The familiar weight of the blades in her hands steadied her, grounded her. She pressed the activation button on the simulation, the machine humming to life. Orange holographic targets flickered into existence, shifting and moving unpredictably across the space. Some were stationary, others darted from side to side, mimicking real opponents.

Ophelia didn’t waste time. Her arm moved in smooth, fluid motions, each knife slicing through the air with deadly precision.

One. Right between the eyes. The target pixelated and disappeared.

Two. Three. Straight through the throat, then the chest.

She kept going, faster and faster, adjusting to the shifting holograms, never hesitating, never missing. The room blurred around her, the distant figures of the Gamemakers forgotten. It was just her and the knives, just her and the targets, just her and the quiet, deadly rhythm she had perfected over years of training.

At the last second, two targets appeared at once— one lunging toward her.

Ophelia barely blinked. She flicked her wrist, releasing two knives at once. Both hit their marks. The simulation ended. The targets flickered out of existence, leaving only silence. She exhaled slowly, rolling out her wrists before turning toward the box above. She didn’t say anything.

Heavensbee leaned forward slightly, murmuring something to the other Gamemakers. Then, after a moment, his voice rang out: “That will be all.”

She didn’t nod. She didn’t acknowledge them. She simply set her last knife down into the holder and walked out.

The television screen flickered over the apartment’s sitting area.

Ophelia sat cross-legged on the couch, her elbow propped against the armrest, fingers absently pressed against her temple. Brutus leaned forward on the chair beside her, his forearms braced against his knees, eyes locked on the screen. The results were beginning to appear, one by one.

Gloss Davenport— 10.

Cashmere Davenport— 10.

Brutus let out a short grunt. “No surprises there,” he muttered.

Ophelia didn’t react, just rubbed at a loose thread on the seam of her leggings as the next name flashed.

Brutus Kumar— 11.

Brutus let out a sharp exhale, smug satisfaction barely concealed in his expression. “Damn right,” he muttered under his breath.

Then came her name. Her score.

Ophelia Hadley— 9.

She barely blinked.

No surprise, no disappointment. Not even a flicker of reaction.

Just a faint hum of acknowledgment in the back of her throat before she exhaled softly through her nose and let her eyes drift back down to the edge of the couch.

She wasn’t worried. A nine was good. Respectable. Strong enough to keep sponsors interested, but not so threatening as to immediately make her the top target. It was a number she was comfortable with— familiar. She had earned the same score the year of her own Games.

And besides, she knew why the Gamemakers had given her a lower score. She wasn’t as physically imposing as the other Careers. She wasn’t built like Gloss or Brutus— wasn’t defined by slabs of muscle or sheer, bone-crushing force. She was fast. Lethal. Calculated. But not the kind of blunt, heavy-handed strength that made for good, violent entertainment.

No doubt, the Capitol’s audience would chalk it up to her being the runt of the Career pack. The smaller one. The unassuming one. 

Fine.

Let them.

She didn’t need to be the strongest one in the room. She only needed to be fast enough. Precise enough. Ruthless enough.

And she was.

The scores continued to roll out.

Finnick Odair.

She briefly traced the edge of her thumbnail against her lips, watching his face linger on the screen, his sea-green eyes looking almost lifeless in the still image. The number flickered beside his name.

8.

Ophelia wasn’t surprised.

She knew Finnick was strong— fast in the water, devastating with a trident in his hand. He was a threat. But not like her. Not like Brutus or the others. His strength didn’t come from brutality, but precision.

The Gamemakers saw the difference. She did too.

When Mags’ face flashed onto the screen next, Ophelia exhaled softly through her nose. The score appeared beside her name.

Mags Flanagan— 5.

Her gaze lingered on the number for half a second longer than the others. It wasn’t cruelty. Just practicality. Mags was weaker. Slower. She was old, frail. An easy target. The Gamemakers had given her a 5 out of pity, not because they were impressed.

Next, more faces. More scores. The numbers scrolled by in a slow, steady rhythm. Finally came time for the final scores. District 12.

Her breath hitched.

Peeta Mellark— 12.

Ophelia’s eyes widened slightly.

Her chest went still, her lips parting faintly before she even realized it. She stared at the 12, her mind going blank for half a beat.

And then the image of Katniss Everdeen filled the frame. The girl’s gray eyes stared back from the still image— the same eyes Ophelia had seen on the screen a year ago. The same eyes Cato had seen when she sent an arrow through his hand and forced him to fall. 

Katniss Everdeen— 12.

Her stomach tightened. She didn’t blink.

The glass in Brutus’s hand halted halfway to his mouth. For a moment, he only stared. His lips parted slightly. His eyes narrowed, locking on the screen. And then he slowly lowered the glass. “They need to be killed first.” His voice was low, flat. His eyes were hard, unblinking, his knuckles tightening faintly around the glass.

Ophelia didn’t respond. She didn’t move. She only stared at the television, her eyes locked on the screen, watching Katniss and Peeta’s faces linger there, frozen in their still images.

Her pulse thudded faintly in her ears. 

She saw it again— the image of Cato fighting them on top of the Cornucopia, his face twisted with wild-eyed fury, blood streaked across his skin. She remembered the way Katniss had turned on him, the arrow trembling on her bowstring.

She remembered the sharp, awful sound of it whistling through the air. Remembered the way it struck Cato’s hand. The way he had roared in pain. The way he had slipped. She remembered the look in his eyes— the split-second of wide, startled disbelief when Peeta punched him off the edge, sending him plummeting into the maw of the mutts.

Ophelia’s throat tightened. Her vision blurred slightly, the image on the screen almost static in her mind. Her ears rang faintly. The memory stuck there— sharp and sickeningly clear.

Without a word, she slowly stood. Brutus barely glanced at her, still locked on the screen, his eyes narrowed and flat with calculation. Ophelia turned away. Her legs felt distant, almost separate from her as she moved down the hall. She walked into her room and closed the door behind her.

Ophelia stared out at the window in silence. She lay curled on her side, her cheek half-buried in the pillow, her hair spilling loosely over the sheets.

Her eyes were half-lidded but not tired. Her body was still, her hands were pressed loosely beneath her pillow, fingers slightly curled, her legs faintly drawn up beneath the blankets.

Her eyes were dry and bleary, but no matter how long she lay there, she didn’t blink. She had tried. She had tried closing her eyes. Had tried pulling the blankets higher, tightening them around her shoulders. Had even turned onto her back at one point, hoping that maybe shifting her position would ease the ache behind her eyes.

But she hadn’t lasted long before rolling onto her side again, resuming her vigil by the window.

Her eyes burned faintly from the lack of blinking, but she kept them open. She didn’t want to see the insides of her eyelids. Didn’t want to see the flickering remnants of old memories— the same ones that had been haunting her on and off for the past year.

So she stayed like that. Staring. Silent. Breathing evenly in the steady, shallow pattern of someone who should have already been asleep, only she was wide awake.

Her gaze fixed on the window, watching the faint orange glimmer of the Capitol skyline flickering in the distance. 

For a fleeting moment, her eyes softened slightly.

She thought of home. She could see it clearly in her mind— the stone pathway winding toward the door of her home in the Village. The tall iron gate, the overgrown grass along the edges. She could see the sunlit stone patio and the wide front steps where Concrete would lie down in the mornings.

She pictured him exactly as she had left him— nearly blind in both eyes, his shaggy coat speckled heavily with white around the muzzle. His joints stiff and slow, but still wagging his tail sluggishly when he heard her voice.

She could see him shuffling into the kitchen, nails clicking faintly against the stone floor, ears drooping slightly as he waited by his bowl.

Her throat tightened slightly.

She hoped Enobaria had found the note.

The one she had left scrawled on the counter before the reaping, preparing to leave for the train after.

She had written it quickly, with only half her attention, but she knew the words by heart. She could see them as clearly as if they were still written in her own looping handwriting: "Two pieces of sausage, three strips of bacon. Water bowl needs to be topped off twice a day. He’s slow. Please give him time to make it down the steps."

The words had been simple. Straightforward. No frills, no flourish.

Just directions. Because she knew Enobaria would understand them. She trusted her to follow them.

Still, she wondered faintly if Enobaria had read them. Wondered if she had found the scrap of paper on the counter and shook her head faintly with her usual huff of irritation before doing it anyway. Ophelia hoped so. She hoped Concrete was curled up somewhere on the sunlit patio, with his bowl full of sausage and bacon, his breathing slow and content. Her chest gave a faint, involuntary pang.

And then, unbidden, the thought drifted in. 

Her parents. 

For a split second, she wondered if they were thinking about her. If they had watched the parade. If they had seen her on the television, dressed in the golden chainmail, glittering under the blinding lights with the other Victors. If they had felt anything. If they had even recognized her.

Her breath stilled. And then, just as quickly as the thought had surfaced, she shoved it down. Her fingers flexed faintly into the sheets.

She closed her eyes briefly and dragged her hands down her face, scrubbing them over her tired eyes, pushing the thought back into the deep, buried place where she kept it.

She didn’t care. She didn’t. Her parents were gone, they had made sure of that. Left without a word. Vanished before she had even made it home. She had stepped into the empty house and known, instantly, that they weren’t coming back.

The chairs were missing from the kitchen table. The old photos that had once hung along the narrow hallway were gone, only the faded outlines left behind. There hadn’t even been a note. Nothing but the eerie, hollow silence of a house she had once called home.

She could still remember the sharp, clean scent of the empty house— the faint trace of lemon polish still lingering in the air, as if they had taken the time to clean before walking out the door forever. It had been deliberate. Cold. 

And she knew why. Because she had come home alone. Her parents had left before they had to look her in the face. Before they had to see the empty space beside her and remember what had once filled it.

She ground the heels of her palms briefly against her closed eyes. Her breath was slow and steady as she dragged her hands down her face and let them fall back to the sheets.

And then, slowly, her eyes flickered back open. She stared at the moonlight stretching across the floorboards.

And for the first time since arriving to the Capitol, she allowed herself to wonder.

Why the hell had she volunteered for this?

She hadn’t asked herself that question since the day of the reaping. Not once. She had simply stepped forward. Volunteered without a flicker of hesitation. And she hadn’t asked herself why.

Not even once.

She stared at the window, her eyes distant and unfocused, her fingers faintly curled into the blanket. She barely breathed. And somewhere, deep in the back of her mind, she felt the faint, gnawing sensation of something too big to name. Something she didn’t want to acknowledge. Something she wasn’t ready to.

So she didn’t. She simply turned over onto her other side, facing the wall instead of the window, and stared into the dark. Sleep never came.

“The bread will come in as coded messages."

Heavensbee stood in the center of the gathered group on the rooftop of the Tribute Center, gesturing with his hands as he outlined the final pieces of the plan.

“District numbers will indicate the time of arrival for the hovercraft. You all need to be in the right place at the right time. If you miss it, that’s it.”

Beetee adjusted his glasses, looking down at the small diagram he’d drawn in the dust on the rooftop’s surface. “And the wire?”

Heavensbee nodded. “We’ll ensure a coil is placed in the Cornucopia at the start of the Games. It’ll be up to you to get it.”

Johanna scoffed, arms crossed, unimpressed. “Oh, great. How reassuring.” She shot Beetee a dry look. “You’re sure this is gonna work?”

Plutarch ignored them both and continued. “Beetee, once you secure the wire, you’ll run it from the tree to the beach. When the lightning strikes at twelve, it will send a surge powerful enough to short out the arena.”

“The voltage will be significant," Beetee commented. "It should knock out the force field entirely.”

Finnick nodded absently, but his thoughts drifted.

To her. To Ophelia.

Would she listen if he told her the truth? If he pulled her aside, away from the Careers, away from Brutus and Gloss and Cashmere— would she believe him? Would she help? Or would she stay loyal to her alliance, to the Capitol, to the same system that had killed her brother? He didn’t know.

Plutarch’s voice brought him back. "Katniss and Peeta are the priorities," he reiterated, gaze sweeping over them all, hammering it in. "Their trackers need to be cut out first—before the wire is used. Once we’re certain they’re out, the rest of you will cut yours and make for the pickup point."

Finnick’s jaw tightened. He already knew this, but hearing it again, in clear, cold terms, made it real.

Johanna scoffed, shaking her head, but didn’t say anything.

One by one, as the meeting concluded, the tributes dispersed. Johanna stalked off first with Blight. Beetee and Wiress lingered just long enough to exchange quiet words before making their exit. Finnick stayed back. So did Haymitch and Heavensbee.

Finnick took a slow breath before stepping forward. "We should tell the others," he said, keeping his voice casual. Controlled. "The other districts."

Haymitch gave him a sharp look, already annoyed. "And what, exactly, makes you think that’s a good idea?"

Heavensbee exhaled, exchanging a glance with Haymitch before folding his hands behind his back. "It’s too risky," he said plainly. "The more people who know, the greater the chance it gets out before we’re ready."

Finnick kept his expression neutral, but he pressed on. "We’re already trusting District 3. Why not 1? Or 2?" His tone was even, but his words were carefully chosen.

A calculated suggestion. An allusion.

Haymitch didn’t hesitate. "Because they’re the two closest to the Capitol," he said flatly. "They can’t be trusted."

Finnick felt his jaw tighten, but he didn’t react right away.

Heavensbee, standing with his hands still clasped behind his back, nodded in agreement. "District 2 is the Capitol’s greatest stronghold outside the city itself. Their Peacekeepers, their weapons, it’s their most loyal district. And District 1 is little better." His gaze flickered to Finnick. "You of all people should know that, Odair."

Finnick did know that. He also knew Ophelia.

Or at least, he thought he did. She wasn’t like Brutus or Gloss or Cashmere, with their unquestioning loyalty.

Was she?

Heavensbee continued, voice level. "You’re suggesting we hand them information that could unravel this plan before it’s even begun."

Finnick knew he had to tread carefully. He shook his head, feigning indifference. "Just a thought," he said, shrugging. "No harm in weighing all the options, right?"

Haymitch’s eyes narrowed slightly. He wasn’t buying it. "Why are you so interested in 1 and 2, Finnick?"

Finnick hesitated just long enough for Haymitch to notice. He covered it quickly, letting out a short breath, shifting his weight. "I’m not. I just think we’re underestimating who we could have on our side."

Heavensbee studied him for a moment. Finnick held his gaze.

With a snort, Haymitch grumbled, "Yeah, well. Let me know how that works out for you when they’ve got a knife at your throat." He shook his head. "C’mon, Odair. You’re smarter than this."

Finnick let the comment roll off him, giving a small, easy smirk— one he didn’t feel. "Just playing devil’s advocate."

Heavensbee still looked at him like he didn’t quite believe him. But after a moment, he only said, "We stick to the plan."

Finnick didn’t push further.

Instead, he turned, his eyes flickering briefly over the Capitol skyline before he stepped back toward Mags. She didn’t say anything, just placed a hand lightly on his forearm. A silent reassurance.

He pressed his lips together, exhaling through his nose as they left the rooftop. He’d been foolish to bring it up. He knew what side Ophelia should be on. But for some damn reason, he couldn’t shake the thought that she didn’t belong on the other one.

Twist. Twist. Twist.

The thin gold bangles clinked softly against each other as Ophelia slowly rotated them around her wrist. Her fingertips brushed along the cool, smooth metal with a restless precision, twisting the bracelets in slow, rhythmic circles.

Twist. Twist. Twist.

Her thumb grazed the edge of the smallest one, gently nudging it until it slipped beneath the larger, thicker cuff just below it. And then she slowly rotated them again, her fingers moving over the warm skin of her wrist.

It was mindless. Repetitive. 

Her eyes were downcast, fixed on the glimmering bands as they caught the light each time they shifted. The faint, tinny sound of metal brushing metal was barely audible over the low hum of activity backstage— the muffled voices of stylists making last-minute adjustments, the occasional burst of distant laughter from a Capitol technician, the steady shuffle of Tribute heels against the sleek marble floors.

But it was all muted.

Ophelia barely heard any of it.

Twist. Twist. Twist.

She stood near the side of the stage, just out of sight from the bright, sweeping lights illuminating the platform where Caesar Flickerman was already interviewing Brutus. She was next. 

The waiting was always the worst part.

Twist. Twist. Twist.

Ophelia slowly drew in a breath, smoothing her hands down the front of her dress in an idle gesture, feeling the faint texture of the white toga fabric beneath her palms.

The soft linen clung lightly to her frame, delicately draped around her body in flawless, flowing folds. Pulchta and her team had been nothing short of meticulous— tucking and pleating the fabric with precision so that it fell in a way that gave the illusion of effortless elegance. The golden cord cinched tightly around her waist accentuated the curve of her figure, the hem brushing lightly against her ankles with every step she took.

The delicate gold leaf crown sat atop her head, tucked just behind the intricate braid holding back the front sections of her caramel-blonde hair. The rest of it spilled down her back in a cascade of sleek, glossy curls— soft waves that shifted subtly every time she moved.

Her makeup was subtle, natural— faint enough to make her skin appear luminous and even, but not heavy. Her icy blue eyes were lightly defined, her lips painted with a sheer gloss and accenting the full shape. Her cheekbones were highlighted with just the slightest sheen, making them catch the light when she turned her face.

And across her bare shoulders, her stylists had delicately pressed flecks of gold foil into her skin— tiny, irregular fragments that glimmered faintly every time she shifted, like sunlight catching the surface of rippling water.

She looked regal. Elegant. Serene.

But beneath it all, she was fidgeting. Unraveling.

Her eyes remained lowered, her breath steady but shallow. She was so focused on the repetitive motion, on the cold press of the metal against her fingers, that she didn’t register the faint shift of footsteps behind her.

Not until a voice sounded lowly over her shoulder.

"I've caught you alone again."

Ophelia flinched— just barely, just enough for it to be noticeable. She turned slightly, looking over her shoulder to find Finnick standing behind her. She stared at him for a long second. The way the dim lighting cast sharp shadows along his jaw, the way his green eyes held something unreadable beneath the usual charm. 

The white, flowy top he wore clung loosely to his torso, the light fabric cut into a wide, plunging V that revealed the lean, chiseled ridges of his abdomen. The open front exposed the full expanse of his chest, down to where the fabric pooled around his waist. His pants were loose and dark, wide-legged and flowing, made of a thin, breezy material that hung effortlessly over his frame.

He looked like he had just walked in from the coastline. Like he could’ve just crawled out of the sea itself. And he was staring at her.

Ophelia let out a quiet exhale, willing her pulse to slow, before forcing a small smile. “Yeah. I hope this is the last time we run into each other, though. No offense.”

The words weren’t meant to sting, but they did. Because there was no mistaking what she meant. There was only one way to ensure they never saw each other again.

Finnick held her gaze for a beat too long before replying, voice light but carefully measured. “No offense taken.” A pause. “I wouldn’t want to run into you either.”

Something flickered across his face, too quick for her to name.

Ophelia raised a brow, tilting her head slightly. “Well, ouch.” She pressed a hand to her chest, mock-offended. “I’d at least like to think I’m a charming opponent.”

Finnick’s lips twitched. “Oh, you’re charming.” His voice dropped slightly, almost thoughtful. “That’s the problem.”

Ophelia faltered.

For a moment, she wasn’t sure how to respond. There was something about the way he said it— offhanded, yet pointed— that made her stomach twist. She pushed past it, forcing a light laugh as she brushed a loose curl behind her ear. “Damn. You really know how to compliment a girl.”

Finnick hummed in amusement, but the usual warmth of his flirtation wasn’t quite there. It was subtle. But Ophelia noticed. Something about him was off. She tried to shake it, offering an easy smile. “At least if I die, I can say Finnick Odair found me charming.”

His expression didn’t change, but the air between them did. Just slightly. He looked at her for a long moment before finally murmuring, “Let’s hope you don’t have to say that.”

Ophelia’s breath caught.

It wasn’t what he said— it was how he said it. Because for a second, just a second, it didn’t sound like a throwaway comment. It sounded like something else entirely.

Like he knew something she didn’t. Like he didn’t want her to die. And she didn’t know what to do with that.

For a moment, Ophelia didn’t know what to say. Finnick was watching her again, and even though his posture was relaxed, even though his expression was as unreadable as ever, she could feel the weight of it. Like he was looking at her through a pane of glass— something thin and delicate, something that would shatter if pressed too hard.

She swallowed. “Where’s Mags?”

Finnick’s gaze didn’t waver. “Still getting prepped by the stylists.” His voice was casual, but his tone was slightly distant. 

There was a quiet strain beneath his words, something almost imperceptible.

Ophelia nodded, shifting awkwardly before glancing off to the side. She felt like she had to move, do something, because standing here with Finnick— after what he’d just said, after the way he’d just looked at her— felt like standing too close to a flame. She rubbed at her arm absentmindedly, eyes flickering toward the velvet curtains separating the backstage area from the main stage. She could hear Caesar’s voice, the distant murmur of the crowd. Her own name would be called soon.

“You have an eyelash.”

Ophelia blinked, startled out of her thoughts. She turned back to Finnick just as he lifted a hand slightly between them, his fingers hovering near her face. He didn’t move any closer, didn’t reach for her— not yet. Instead, he tilted his head, green eyes catching hers. “May I?” His voice was quiet, softer than before.

She hesitated, caught off guard, before finally nodding. She stayed still as Finnick closed the small space between them, his fingers barely grazing her cheek as he carefully brushed away the stray eyelash.

He lingered.

Close enough that she could see the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw, the sharp cut of his cheekbones. Close enough that she could smell the salt on his skin, the remnants of ocean and warmth, mingling with the faint musk of Capitol cologne. But more than that, she could smell herself— the strawberry body wash she always used, the soft rose perfume her stylists had misted onto her skin.

And Finnick could smell it, too.

She saw it in the way his brows furrowed slightly, in the way his throat bobbed as his gaze flickered across her face. He could see the flecks of gold in her eyes, the small mole on the bridge of her nose, the faint, barely visible scar at her hairline from a close call in the Academy, peeking out beneath the styled waves of her caramel-blonde hair.

For a brief, fleeting second, it felt like neither of them were breathing.

And then—

“Ophelia, you’re up soon,” Brutus’s voice cut through the moment like a blade.

They stepped away from each other instantly.

Ophelia cleared her throat, shaking her head slightly before brushing her hair back behind her shoulders. Her fingers felt unsteady, her skin felt too warm, and she hated that she didn’t know why.

Finnick exhaled, sharp and quiet, running a hand over his mouth as if wiping something away— composing himself. When she glanced at him again, the mask was back. The charm, the ease. The flame had been smothered.

“Good luck,” he said, voice smooth as ever.

Ophelia didn’t know if he meant the interview. She didn’t know if she wanted to.

The stage lights were blinding as she stepped onto the marble floor, but Ophelia didn’t falter.

She walked out with a measured step, a modest smile curving her lips as she lifted her hand to wave at the roaring crowd. The golden leaf crown atop her head gleamed under the overhead lights, the sheer fabric of her white toga dress flowing around her as she approached Caesar at the center of the stage.

He opened his arms as she reached him, and Ophelia let him embrace her, playing the part she had to play. His cologne clung to his suit, overly fragrant, artificial, Capitol-made.

“Ophelia, my dear, it’s always a pleasure,” Caesar greeted, his voice warm, effervescent, perfectly practiced.

She smiled. “Thank you, Caesar.”

The audience quieted slightly as Caesar leaned in to speak. “I want to start by offering my condolences.” His voice dipped into something softer, gentler. “Cato was a force to be reckoned with. We all remember him well.”

Ophelia’s throat tightened. She had expected this. She had prepared for this. And yet, the words still hit her like a blunt force to the ribs.

Her mind raced, warring with itself. She could crumble, dissolve into grief, let herself cry for the cameras. The Capitol would eat it up. But that would make her weak. It would make her fragile. And she couldn’t afford that. Not here.

Still, if she brushed it off too coldly, it would make her heartless. And that? That was just as dangerous. So, she settled for something in between. A delicate balance.

Ophelia exhaled slowly, lowering her lashes. “Oh, thank you, Caesar,” she said, her voice soft, steady. She let it waver just slightly— just enough. “It’s been… well, you know. It’s never easy to say goodbye.”

The audience murmured in sympathy.

She swallowed, lifting her gaze again, a small, sad smile tugging at her lips. “But Cato was brave. He knew what the risks were. And he knew that he was loved.”

She paused, feeling the lump form in her throat, letting it stay there, letting it build.

“And that’s why it’s so hard to say goodbye now,” she continued, her voice growing just slightly thicker, her lower lip trembling. “To everyone. To you all.” Her eyes flickered across the audience before settling back on Caesar. “Because you’ve loved us all so well.”

The crowd erupted into applause.

Ophelia lowered her gaze again, biting the inside of her cheek as Caesar reached over to squeeze her hand, pulling her into a side hug. She let herself lean into it, just for a moment, her body warm under the heat of the lights, under the weight of so many eyes watching her, devouring her.

And she hated herself for it.

She hated that she had to perform. That she had to suck up to the very people who had sent her brother to his death, that she had to pretend for the sake of a few sponsors.

But what else could she do? She had to live. She had to survive.

The risers were suffocating.

Ophelia stood between Brutus and Gloss, her arms folded behind her back, fingers loosely intertwined. The lights overhead were bright, searing, and the heat of so many bodies standing shoulder to shoulder made the air feel thick, stifling. But she held her posture steady, her expression smooth, gaze fixed somewhere in the audience.

The stage had been set. Each of them was lined up, standing before the Capitol, before the entire country, smiling and waving like this wasn’t a death march. She could hear the cheers, the applause, but she wasn’t really listening— not until Finnick stepped up beside Caesar, all effortless charm and easy, practiced grace.

“And now,” Caesar said, turning to him with a broad grin, “Finnick, I understand that you have a message for a special somebody. Can we hear it?”

The audience cooed, some women in the front row pressing their hands to their chests as if they might swoon right then and there.

Ophelia forced herself not to react. She knew what this was. It was a tactic. A performance. Just another piece of the game he played so well.

Still, something in her stomach twisted, something irrational, stupid.

Jealousy.

She hated herself for it.

Finnick exhaled, his lips curving into a small, wistful smile— just the right amount of heartbreak in his eyes, just enough vulnerability to make the Capitol eat out of the palm of his hand. “My love,” he began, voice smooth as silk, “you have my heart for all eternity.”

The crowd melted.

“And…” he continued, his expression softening, gaze flickering downward for just a second, “if I die in that arena, my last thought will be of your lips.”

The audience erupted. Women gasped, sighing dreamily, clutching at their dresses. Some even wept.

Ophelia barely resisted the urge to roll her eyes. She tilted her head slightly, catching Gloss’s gaze. His lips were already twitching, barely containing his amusement. He waggled his brows at her. Ophelia bit back a smirk.

Gloss leaned in slightly, murmuring under his breath, “Think he practices in the mirror, or…?”

Ophelia exhaled sharply, a quiet, amused breath through her nose. “Oh, totally. But I’d bet money that he gets someone else to run lines with him.”

Gloss pressed his lips together to keep from laughing, but his shoulders shook slightly with silent mirth. Brutus huffed beside them, unimpressed, arms crossed over his chest.

Ophelia wasn’t laughing anymore. Because Finnick was stepping away from Caesar, making his way toward the risers, toward them. And for whatever reason, she looked at him. Just for a second. A flicker of a glance.

But he was already looking at her. The light caught the green of his eyes, the sharp angles of his face, the slight shift in his expression— so subtle, barely there, but she caught it. She quickly turned away, looking down, smoothing her fingers over the fabric of her dress.

She could still feel him watching her as the interviews continued. But she had stopped listening. The interviews blurred together, voices bleeding into one another, names and faces shifting past like a parade of ghosts. She knew she should be paying attention— analyzing, reading into every subtle twitch and every carefully chosen word—but it was all just noise.

Until Johanna Mason’s voice cut through it.

Loud. Sharp. Furious.

"The deal was that if I win the Hunger Games, I get to spend the rest of my life in peace. And now, you want to kill me again." Johanna’s jaw was tight, her eyes blazing, her hands clenched into before cupping one to the side of her mouth. "Well, you know what? Fuck that! And fuck anybody who had anything to do with it!"

The audience gasped. Some of the Capitol elites pressed their hands to their pearls.

Ophelia pressed her lips to the side, just barely restraining a laugh. Brutus shifted beside her. A glance downward. A silent warning. She only shrugged one shoulder slightly in response. She wasn’t laughing. But Johanna was the only one here with the guts to say what everyone else was thinking.

The interviews carried on. Then, finally, came the final one.

Peeta Mellark.

Ophelia wasn’t really expecting anything, not beyond the usual district pride speech. But then—

"But Peeta… the wedding. The marriage. Never to be." Caesar's voice was always theatric. His face a mask of tragedy, of sympathy, the perfect showman.

"Well, actually," Peeta said, glancing toward Katniss, "we got married in secret."

The audience gasped. Ophelia’s eyebrows lifted slightly.

"A secret wedding?" Caesar repeated, eyebrows shooting up. "Alright, do tell."

Peeta swallowed, and for the first time, Ophelia noted how nervous he looked. "You know, Katniss and I, we’ve been… we’ve been luckier than most." A beat. A heavy pause. "And I wouldn’t have any regrets at all. If it weren’t—"

Caesar leaned forward, his interest genuine. "If it weren’t for what? What?"

Peeta exhaled, gaze flickering toward Katniss again before he turned back to the crowd. "If it weren’t for the baby."

The world exploded. Shouts. Screams. An uproar.

"Baby?!"

"Cancel the Games!"

"This is barbaric!"

The crowd surged with emotion, an overwhelming wave of outrage and distress.

Ophelia’s head snapped toward Gloss for his reaction.

Meanwhile, Caesar was trying— struggling— to regain control. "Calm down!" He held up his hands, voice raised over the din. "This is news to all of us. Let’s, um… everybody calm down. It’s a great night. This is news to all of us. We’re going to find out what we do about this."

The tributes stood in silence for only a moment before there were movements. One by one, the tributes joined hands on the lower-level riser. Then the upper level tributes followed suit. District 6, 5, and 4. Then came District 3. Beetee reached his hand over toward Brutus. Brutus hesitated, a split second of conflict, but then his large hand grasped Beetee’s smaller one.

Ophelia felt the shift before she saw it. Brutus turned to her next, offering his hand. She didn’t hesitate. Her fingers curled around his. Her other hand reached for Gloss. Their fingers intertwined.

One by one, their hands rose into the air in solidarity.

Caesar turned to look at them, his usual exuberance faltering. His expression flickered.

Then came the darkness. The stage lights went out. The screens cut.

Ophelia had no idea what would come from this. She had no idea what would happen now. For once, she felt that the power was beginning to shift away from their favor.

The bottle of wine was cool against Ophelia’s fingers, condensation slipping down the dark glass. She took another lazy sip, stretching out along the couch in the District 2 apartment, her head resting against one of the throw pillows the Capitol designers had chosen— soft, embroidered, expensive. 

Brutus emerged from the kitchen, his large frame silhouetted against the golden glow of the apartment’s overhead lights. A fresh bottle of scotch dangled from his grip, and he carried a glass in the other.

Ophelia tipped her head back to watch him approach, the room tilting ever so slightly as she did. Not enough to be gone, but enough for a loose, content warmth to spread through her limbs. Brutus sat down beside her with a quiet exhale, and she shifted instinctively, resting her bare feet in his lap.

"Any word on tomorrow?" she asked, her voice soft but not slurred. Just a little loose around the edges.

Brutus twisted the cap off the scotch and poured himself a glass, his expression unreadable. "Valentina says the Games are still on." Ophelia made a quiet noise, taking another sip of her wine. "Hope you weren’t getting your hopes up."

She laughed, light and unbothered, and took another long swallow. "Nah," she murmured, shifting deeper into the couch. "M'not worried 'bout it. But I am tipsy."

Brutus let out a low chuckle, shaking his head as he took a sip of his own drink. "Well, let’s just hope you’re not hungover in the arena."

Ophelia waved a hand dismissively. "Pfft, I’ll be fine." And to prove her point, she tipped the bottle back again, taking another generous chug.

Brutus made a noise of disapproval, leaning over and plucking the bottle from her hands before she could protest. "Alright, that’s enough," he muttered, setting it down on the coffee table out of her reach.

Throwing an arm over her eyes, Ophelia groaned dramatically. "M’mad at you."

Brutus snorted, shifting his weight slightly, resting an arm along the back of the couch.

For a few moments, Ophelia was quiet, her breathing slow and steady. Then she let out a sudden gasp. "Oh m’gosh." Her voice was slow, thoughtful, her words bleeding together slightly. "Can you imagine if Katniss gave birth in the arena? Tha’ would be so annoying. A freakin’ baby in the arena. I don’ know how to deliver a baby. I cannot handle tha' responsibillery."

Brutus let out a short laugh, shaking his head as he took another drink. "She’s not showing. She wouldn’t give birth this early."

Ophelia was quiet for a moment, as if she was processing that. "Right. Right."

She let out a small, sleepy sigh, sinking deeper into the couch, the wine making her limbs feel warm and heavy. She draped her arm over her eyes again, her fingers pressing lightly against her forehead as if shielding herself from a too-bright light.

"I woulda looked so sexy if I ever got pregnant," she mumbled suddenly, her voice slow and thoughtful.

Brutus, who had been quietly nursing his scotch, glanced at her, one brow raising. He let out a quiet breath through his nose but said nothing, shaking his head slightly.

Ophelia, sensing his reaction even without looking, pulled her arm away and gawked at him. "I woulda been!" she insisted, pushing herself up slightly. "Like, a teeny itsy little bump." She flattened her palm against her stomach for emphasis. "An’ my boobs woulda gotten super big! Bigger than they are!"

Brutus huffed out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head again as he took another sip of his drink.

Ophelia gasped dramatically before adding, "Oh, my gosh, but my nose. Every pregnant woman’s nose gets big. Ugh. That so would not have been a look."

Brutus smirked slightly, watching her with an amused glint in his eye. He took another slow sip before setting his glass down on the table beside him. "Well," he said, voice gruff but light, "guess you don’t have to worry about that now."

Ophelia laughed at that, a soft, breathy sound, but then— she went quiet. She stared at Brutus for a long moment, her expression unreadable. The weight in the air shifted, her hazy warmth slipping into something heavier, something real. "You think I’m gonna die?"

Brutus stilled. His gaze flickered over her, searching, as if trying to gauge just how serious she was. He could brush it off. Crack another joke. But the truth sat between them, unspoken and undeniable.

Finally, he let out a slow breath, leaning back slightly, resting his forearm against the back of the couch. "Nah," he muttered. "Not you."

Ophelia kept staring at him. She glanced down at the wine bottle on the table before she murmured, "I thought I was ready to die. But now... I don't know if I want to."

Brutus didn’t say anything. His jaw tightened slightly, but he reached forward, grabbing the bottle and handing it back to her without a word.

She took it, brought it to her lips, and chugged.

Ophelia stood perfectly still.

Her arms hung loosely at her sides, her hands lightly curled, fingers faintly twitching at her thighs. She kept her posture even, her shoulders square, but her chest rose and fell in shallow, steady breaths. She could feel her heart thudding faintly in her ribs— too slow to be panic, too fast to be calm.

The tube loomed in front of her, a sleek, sterile column of reinforced glass, smooth and gleaming. The metal platform inside was still lowered, waiting to carry her up. Up into the arena. Up into hell.

But for now, she remained on the ground.

Still. Waiting.

Pulchra stood behind her, silently working through the last of her hair.

Ophelia felt the steady tug at her scalp as Pulchra’s fingers moved with brisk, practiced efficiency, tightening the thick bubble braids that framed either side of her head. She winced faintly with each sharp, insistent pull, feeling the tension building with each band cinched around the coiled sections.

Her caramel blonde hair had been slicked down tightly, parted down the center with no softness, no loose waves—just clean, harsh precision. The braids ran smoothly along the curve of her skull, pulling the strands taut until she could feel the skin at her temples prickling.

Pulchra gave the band around the final section of hair a sharp, decisive tug, securing it in place.

Ophelia barely stopped herself from grimacing. Her scalp ached. She resisted the urge to lift her hand and rub at her temples. She didn’t. She stayed still.

Pulchra’s fingers swept gently along the braid, smoothing any stray hairs into place before moving to the other side and doing the same.

Ophelia stared forward, her eyes unfocused, fixed on the hollow reflection of her face faintly visible against the smooth glass of the tube.

She barely blinked. Her jaw was tight. Her suit was tighter.

The skin-tight wetsuit clung to her like a second skin, slick and black, with subtle panels of charcoal grey that contoured the sides of her torso, the ridges of her waist, the curve of her hips. The material stretched unforgivingly over her body, offering no room for modesty or pretense.

Her skin flushed beneath it. She could feel everything. Every inch of her body was outlined in brutal, stark definition. Her thighs pressed heavily against the material, thick and firm, clearly outlined by the sleek, compressing fabric. The subtle dip of her hipbones was faintly visible where the material curved in slightly at her waist. The wetsuit flattened her chest slightly but still emphasized the roundness of her breasts, the faint shadow of her nipples barely detectable beneath the glossy material. She didn’t like it. 

God. She could even see the faint outline of the mole on her stomach through the fabric—a tiny raised speck beneath the clinging material, clear as day.

She had mentally winced when she first caught sight of it. She almost wished the stylists had ripped it off when they had waxed her body.

Her throat tightened faintly at the thought, a faint, involuntary gagging sensation bubbling in the back of her throat.

No underwear.

The stylists hadn’t given her anything underneath the wetsuit. No protection. No modesty. Just sleek, slick material molded over her bare skin, stretched too tightly against the rounded curve of her ass, highlighting the full swell of her thighs, the soft, faint bump of her lower abdomen.

It left her feeling exposed. Naked, despite being fully covered.

Her skin flushed beneath the suffocating compression.

Pulchra suddenly gripped her shoulders, turning her around firmly. Ophelia blinked once, startled by the abruptness of the movement, before finding herself facing Pulchra directly.

The Capitol stylist gave her a quick once-over. Her amber eyes swept over Ophelia’s figure, taking in the form-fitting wetsuit, the sharply slicked braids, the defined lines of her body beneath the clinging fabric. She lingered for half a second, eyes narrowing slightly as if making a mental note of the presentation.

Then Pulchra’s eyes softened faintly. She smiled. Not her Capitol smile— the bright, artificial beam she reserved for public appearances. It was smaller, warmer. “Good luck in there,” she said softly, her voice quieter than usual, almost genuine.

Ophelia stared at her for a moment. Her throat tightened faintly. For half a second, she didn’t trust herself to speak. But she forced herself to smile— small, faint, but still there. “Thanks.” Her voice barely broke a whisper.

And then, before she could think too hard about it, she turned back toward the tube. Her boots made a faint, hollow sound against the metallic platform as she stepped into place. She exhaled softly, clenching her hands loosely at her sides. The glass tube sealed around her with a soft, mechanical hiss.

For a brief moment, she lingered there, standing still, facing forward. And then, at the last second, she turned her head slightly and glanced back over her shoulder at Pulchra. Their eyes met.

And then Ophelia slowly arched a single brow. She gave a slight, deliberate tilt of her head, gesturing faintly down at her body— the suit, the skin, the entire, unforgiving outline of it.

She opened her mouth slightly and silently mouthed: “Do I look hot?”

Pulchra blinked. She immediately straightened slightly, eyes widening faintly in mock surprise before her lips parted in an exaggerated, dramatic gasp. The Capitol woman’s eyes deliberately flickered down toward Ophelia’s chest, then lower.

She lifted both hands, slowly and deliberately cupped them in front of her chest, giving an exaggerated squeeze in midair before letting them drift lower, hands flaring slightly at the sides in a clear, deliberate gesture toward Ophelia’s hips and backside.

And then— grinning, playful— Pulchra gave her a thumbs up.

Ophelia snorted softly under her breath. Her lips curved faintly into a small, amused smile, winking cheekily as she gave Pulchra a thumbs up right back.

The platform lurched slightly beneath her feet. Her breath caught faintly. And then, slowly— inevitably— she began to rise.

Her stomach dipped slightly at the familiar, weightless sensation as the tube steadily ascended, carrying her upward toward the arena.

Her lips parted faintly. Her fingers twitched at her sides. Pulchra’s face disappeared below her feet.

The last thing Ophelia saw before she breached the surface was the woman’s painted lips parting faintly in a soft, breathless exhale.

Then— light. Blinding light. And she was there.

Chapter Text

July, 75 ADD— Quarter Quell, Day 1

OPHELIA STOOD PERFECTLY STILL. Her boots were balanced on the smooth, round pedestal, barely wide enough to fit both feet comfortably. Her heels hovered faintly near the edge, and she could feel the precariousness of it— the slight, unsettling awareness that the wrong shift of weight could send her toppling into the water below.

She stayed still.

Her arms hung loosely at her sides, fingers faintly curled. The faint breeze carried the sharp tang of saltwater, clinging faintly to her lips. Her hair clung faintly to the base of her neck beneath the bubble braids.

She barely noticed.

Her eyes were fixed straight ahead, sharp and unblinking, scanning the arena.

The Cornucopia sat glinting on a small, circular island of slick black rock, polished and wet from the salt spray. And there was nothing but water surrounding it.

Her eyes narrowed faintly.

The arena was a massive, sprawling salt lake, surrounded by the dark, jagged edges of the rocky shoreline. The water was too still, a deceptive calm. But the faint, brackish sheen along the surface confirmed her suspicion— it was salt, not fresh water.

Her eyes dropped lower, scanning the spokes. Thin, narrow ridges of jagged black rock cut through the lake like fractured veins, creating slick, uneven spokes leading from the tribute pedestals to the Cornucopia island.

Her eyes moved quickly. She counted the paths— twelve, in total. 

She clenched her jaw faintly. Her eyes quickly flickered to the other pedestals, scanning the familiar faces. She spotted Cashmere first— all the way across the arena.

Too far.

Ophelia’s eyes narrowed faintly. Her stomach gave a faint twist of irritation. Cashmere was practically on the opposite side of the lake. If they were going to partner up, it would have to be later. Not now.

Her eyes moved swiftly. She caught sight of Gloss next. He was positioned roughly six pedestals over, not far, standing between the male tribute from 5 and the female from 10. Her eyes barely lingered on them. She focused on Gloss.

His face was hard, stoic, but his eyes were sharp, scanning the terrain with clear calculation. His knuckles flexed slightly at his sides, subtle but telling— readying himself.

But she couldn’t see Brutus. Her eyes swept the remaining pedestals, scanning the tributes rapidly— no sign of him.

Her chest tightened faintly. She exhaled softly through her nose, steadying herself, clenching her fingers briefly before shifting her focus. She didn’t have time to keep searching. Her eyes flickered back toward the Cornucopia.

Strategize.

Ophelia’s jaw clenched faintly, her teeth pressing lightly together. Swimming would be faster, technically. The straightest path. The water would let her cut through directly, faster than maneuvering over the jagged rock. But her stomach tightened faintly at the thought.

She wasn’t fast enough. She was a decent swimmer at best, only skilled from swimming in the lake behind the Village. She knew how to hold her breath, how to kick properly, how to move with minimal splash. But she wasn’t fast. She wasn’t a District 4 swimmer.

She exhaled slowly through her nose, pushing the thought aside.

No.

She wouldn’t swim. She would run. She was fast. She knew how to balance, how to adjust her stride on unstable terrain. Her footwork was sharp, practiced from years of combat drills on loose gravel and uneven platforms. She knew how to move quickly and accurately, when to push forward and when to leap back.

The rock. She would take the rock.

Her fingers twitched slightly at her sides. Her eyes flicked to the giant, glowing countdown suspended above the Cornucopia.

Twenty seconds.

Her chest expanded slightly with a slow inhale.

Fifteen.

She could feel the heat of the sun on the back of her neck, baking into the black material of her wetsuit.

Ten.

Her calves tensed, her boots subtly adjusting on the narrow pedestal, readying herself.

Five.

She exhaled sharply through her nose. Her heart kicked in her chest.

Four.

Her fingers curled slightly, clenching in faint anticipation.

Three.

Her eyes fixed on the Cornucopia.

Two.

Her stomach tightened.

One.

The gong rang out.

She moved instantly. Her boots hit the stone with a sharp, solid impact as she lunged from the pedestal, landing in a low sprinting stance, immediately picking up speed. Her legs pumped, her breath quick and steady, her arms pumping at her sides as she raced over the rocky spoke. Her boots slipped faintly once on the slick stone, but she corrected her balance swiftly, regaining her speed.

The Cornucopia loomed closer.

And then—

The whistle of an arrow cut sharply through the humid air.

Her eyes snapped left.

Katniss was already at the Cornucopia, feet braced, bow drawn back in a smooth, fluid motion.

The string loosed, and Ophelia’s heart jerked sharply as she caught the faint glint of steel streaking toward her.

Without thinking, she dived sharply to the side. The arrow barely missed, slicing through the air where her chest had been seconds before. She hit the water hard, her body barely making a splash as she slipped beneath the surface.

The lake was surprisingly warm, the salt stinging faintly in her eyes, coating her tongue. Her lungs burned slightly, but she stayed under. Her eyes opened faintly, blurred by the salt, but she could still make out the faint dark shapes cutting through the water above her. She could just barely see them. Katniss and Finnick, side by side.

She drifted closer without surfacing, letting herself hover just beneath the waterline. Her ears were muffled by the water, but she caught the faint, distorted sound of Finnick’s voice. His words were faint, distant, but still clear: “Don’t trust 1 and 2.”

Ophelia’s eyes narrowed faintly. She slowly blinked once beneath the water. Her lips barely parted, forming a small, silent exhale. She rolled her eyes faintly, the motion soft and slow beneath the water.

Okay then.

Without surfacing, she slowly kicked against the water, her body sliding smoothly through the water. Her legs and arms moved in steady, fluid strokes, silent and controlled. She slipped away, unseen, her eyes fixed on the direction she knew Brutus had gone.

Ophelia’s head broke the surface with a sharp gasp, her chest heaving faintly from the strain of holding her breath. Her legs kicked forcefully, propelling her forward through the brackish water, arms slicing in steady strokes as she made for the nearest rock spoke.

Her boots scraped against the stone as she clambered onto the slick ridge, her palms briefly catching on the rough, wet surface as she pulled herself up. Her breath was quick but measured, sharp exhales through her nose as she pushed to her feet.

The moment her boots found purchase, she took off running. Her legs pumped, muscles burning faintly from the exertion, the salt clinging to her wetsuit making her skin itch faintly beneath the tight fabric. Her hair was soaked, the bubble braids dripping water down her back, heavy against her spine. She was barely five strides into her sprint before she spotted Brutus.

He was ahead of her, further down the jagged path, charging toward the Cornucopia with his broad shoulders hunched slightly forward, moving with purposeful speed. The faint glare of sunlight glinted off the wet sheen of his shaven head, droplets of water still clinging to the sharp line of his jaw. His movements were efficient, practiced— the steady, relentless momentum of a man who knew how to kill.

Ophelia’s legs burned faintly, but she pushed forward, her boots slapping against the stone as she raced to catch up with him. Her eyes flicked quickly to the Cornucopia island, scanning the shoreline. She spotted Cashmere on the far side, already moving. She was darting around the back edge of the Cornucopia, her movements fluid and nimble, her golden hair dripping wet and clinging in damp tendrils to her neck.

Cashmere’s expression was sharp and focused, her eyes narrowing faintly in concentration as she crouched beside the scattered weapons, sifting quickly through them. She grabbed two slender daggers, flipping them between her fingers with practiced ease, before slipping them into the leather strap across her thigh. Her hands were already reaching for more.

Ophelia’s eyes flicked forward.

A splash.

To her left, Gloss surfaced, gasping faintly as he hauled himself up onto a jagged rock ledge, water streaming from his torso. Her eyes flicked down, spotting the dark streak of blood on his calf. The arrow was still lodged in the muscle, the fletching jutting out at an awkward angle.

Gloss’s jaw was clenched faintly, his teeth bared slightly as he reached down sharply, gripping the shaft. With a swift, vicious yank, he ripped the arrow free. Blood immediately welled from the wound, but he barely reacted, tossing the arrow aside with a sharp, disgusted exhale.

“Bitch,” he muttered under his breath, his voice low and harsh, clearly directed at Katniss.

The word was barely audible over the roar of blood in Ophelia’s ears, but it made her mouth twitch faintly in dry amusement. Her boots slammed against the stone as she reached Brutus’s side.

His head turned slightly, catching her in his peripheral vision. Without slowing, his gravel-rough voice rumbled low and steady. “Weapons,” he grunted shortly, already closing in on the Cornucopia. “Now.”

Ophelia gave a curt nod, her lips parting slightly with a sharp breath, and fell into stride beside him.

The moment they reached the Cornucopia, they split— moving instinctively, without a word.

Brutus veered left, immediately reaching down and snatching up a spear from the pile of scattered weapons. His large hand curled firmly around the shaft, testing the weight briefly before swinging it faintly in a practiced, fluid motion.

To her right, Cashmere had abandoned her initial daggers and was arming Gloss, swiftly handing him a set of sleek throwing knives. “Two more,” she muttered lowly to Gloss, her voice faint but clipped with urgency.

She slapped another pair of knives into his open palm without breaking stride, her hands already reaching for more. Gloss barely acknowledged her, his focus locked on securing the weapons, his expression hard and grim as he tucked the blades into his belt holster.

Ophelia moved quickly. Her hands closed around the familiar weight of a knife belt, yanking it from the pile and securing it around her hips. Her fingers worked swiftly, cinching the leather tightly against her waist. Without pausing, she stooped lower, her fingers closing around a second belt, already half-filled with knives. She snapped it open, slinging it swiftly over her torso, letting it cross diagonally over her chest in between her breasts.

Her fingers curled around the hilt of a final blade, flipping it smoothly in her palm, testing the weight. Her breath came sharp and quick, her chest expanding with faint exertion, but she kept moving. She turned sharply, pivoting away from the weapons pile, her eyes already scanning the shoreline, ready to regroup with the others—

And then she saw Johanna. She was crouched near the edge of the Cornucopia, her back turned, reaching for a coil of wire glinting faintly in the sunlight.

Ophelia’s eyes narrowed faintly. Her chest tightened slightly.

Fuck it.

Without pausing, her fingers flicked smoothly to her hip, drawing a knife in one seamless motion. Her hand moved with practiced fluidity, the blade leaving her palm in a swift, controlled release. The knife sailed cleanly through the air, its edge catching the faint glint of sunlight as it arced toward Johanna’s back. The blade grazed her shoulder, slicing a shallow cut into the exposed skin along her upper arm.

Johanna jerked violently, her entire frame twisting with startled fury. Her dark eyes snapped to Ophelia, sharp and glinting, and her lips curled faintly into a dangerous, wolfish snarl. “Bitch,” she spat, the word dripping venom as she reached down swiftly, fingers closing around the handle of a small hand axe.

Ophelia’s eyes barely had time to widen.

Johanna’s arm whipped back with sharp, lethal precision, the axe leaving her grip with impressive speed.

Ophelia’s heart jolted violently. Without thinking, she whirled sharply to her left, her body twisting low and compact. The axe sailed past her ear, missing by inches, but she barely registered it. Her boots slammed against the stone, and she took off running, legs pumping furiously as she sprinted for the others, her breath sharp and ragged.

Behind her, she could hear Johanna snarl faintly under her breath, already grabbing another axe, but Ophelia didn’t look back. Her boots pounded against the stone, slick with salt and blood, as she caught up with Brutus, Gloss, and Cashmere, her chest heaving faintly but her hands steady on her knives.

Ophelia’s boots pounded over the slick stone, her breath coming in quick bursts, sharp and controlled. The metallic taste of adrenaline coated her tongue though her hands were steady, fingers lightly curled around the hilt of a knife.

The chaos of battle roared around her— the clang of metal, the sharp grunts of impact, the dull thud of bodies hitting the ground.

Her eyes narrowed, scanning the edges of the Cornucopia, searching for movement— for targets.

And then she spotted one.

Seeder.

She was a few paces away, her body low and crouched slightly as she moved along the outer edge of the blood-slicked rock.

Her dark hair clung to her face, matted slightly with sweat and water, her eyes flicking sharply from side to side. She was watching, assessing— looking for an opening. Her hands were empty, but Ophelia knew better than to underestimate her. Seeder was resourceful. She’d survived her Games with barely any weapons, relying on her cunning and sheer force of will. And that made her dangerous.

Ophelia’s fingers tightened faintly around the hilt of her knife, the familiar leather grip pressing into her palm. Her breathing slowed slightly, shallow and steady, her footsteps falling lighter as she shifted into a stalking gait. She moved smoothly, carefully closing the distance, silent and calculated. Her eyes remained locked on Seeder, watching the shift of her shoulders, the subtle movement of her feet.

The moment she saw Seeder’s weight pitch slightly forward, her eyes flicking toward the edge of the Cornucopia’s weapons pile, Ophelia struck. In one fluid motion, she snapped her arm back, the blade leaving her hand with the sharpest flick of her wrist. The knife cut through the air, slicing cleanly over the jagged rock.

It hit true.

Thunk.

The blade buried deep into Seeder’s back, slipping cleanly between her ribs, sinking into the soft tissue beneath her shoulder blade.

Seeder stiffened violently, her body jerking with impact. Her arms splayed out, fingers clawing briefly at the stone, grasping at nothing. Her mouth parted faintly, a ragged gasp escaping as she stumbled.

For a moment, she tried to keep moving, her boots sliding weakly against the stone, but she was already falling. Her knees buckled, legs giving out beneath her, and she crumpled to the ground. Her breath came in shallow, halting gasps, her blood pooling quickly beneath her. Her dark eyes flickered faintly, glassy and unfocused, staring forward at nothing.

And then she was still.

Cannon.

Ophelia didn’t pause. She turned sharply, her boots skidding slightly against the slick stone as she moved forward. She didn’t look back.

A sickening thud echoed to her right, and her head snapped over just in time to see Brutus drive his spear through Woof’s chest. The elderly tribute from District 8 let out a faint, choked gasp, his frail hands clawing weakly at the spear shaft. 

Brutus’s arms flexed sharply, his bicep tightening as he drove the weapon deeper, twisting the blade. Woof slumped forward against the spear, his knees hitting the stone with a dull thud before he went still, his face slack.

Cannon.

Without hesitation, Brutus ripped the spear free, twisting sharply as he pivoted toward his next target. The District 9 girl was trying to scramble away, her legs kicking violently against the stone, eyes wide with panicked terror.

Brutus was on her in three strides. She let out a sharp, choked scream, her voice hoarse with fear, but it was cut off almost instantly. His spear plunged into her chest, his large hand gripping the shaft with brutal efficiency.

Her body arched violently, her hands clawing weakly at the weapon. But he was already ripping it free, her blood splattering faintly against the slick stone. Her body slumped lifelessly, eyes already dull and vacant.

Cannon.

From the corner of her eye, Ophelia saw Cashmere move. Unlike Brutus, she was graceful and efficient, her movements clean and fluid. Her dagger glinted faintly, its razor-sharp edge catching the sunlight as she lunged forward, driving the blade deep into the throat of the District 10 female. The girl let out a wet, choking gasp, blood bubbling over her lips, eyes wide and unseeing as she slumped.

Cannon.

Cashmere ripped the dagger free, already pivoting toward her next target, her expression impassive, golden hair clinging damply to her neck. Her eyes were already locked on Cecilia. The District 8 woman barely had time to turn, her green eyes flashing with fleeting panic before Cashmere was on her. The dagger sank into her abdomen, sliding cleanly between her ribs.

Cecilia’s eyes widened briefly, her lips parting in a strangled gasp. She staggered slightly, blood already seeping from the wound, her breath coming in ragged, uneven shudders.

Cashmere didn’t stop. Her hand twisted sharply, driving the dagger deeper, and Cecilia crumpled. Her body hit the stone with a dull thud, her limbs already slack.

Cannon.

To her left, Gloss moved swiftly, his expression hard and unyielding. His knife flashed in the light, slicing cleanly across the throat of the District 6 male. The boy barely had time to gasp, his eyes widening briefly in shock before his knees buckled, his body hitting the stone. The blood spread quickly, pooling in thick, glistening rivulets.

And then there was silence. Then a cannon.

Ophelia’s knuckles ached faintly, her fingers clenched tightly around the handle of a knife. She slipped it back into its holder, fastening the belt tighter around her waist.

Without a word, Brutus jerked his head sharply toward the jungle. The pack moved quickly and silently, their boots splattering through the blood-slicked stone, disappearing into the trees.

The humid weight of the jungle pressed down thickly, clinging to Ophelia’s skin and hair, making the blood drying on her arms feel sticky and warm. The group moved swiftly, weaving through the dense foliage with familiar efficiency. Their boots made soft, muted thuds against the damp earth, the occasional snap of a branch or rustle of leaves the only sounds breaking the heavy silence.

Ophelia walked side by side with Cashmere, their arms loosely slung around each other’s shoulders, their bodies still faintly damp with sweat and saltwater.

Ophelia pulled a second knife from her belt bag and tilted it toward her. “Here.” Her voice was low and breathless, her throat still slightly raw from exertion.

Cashmere’s gaze flicked down, her golden hair clinging in damp strands to her temples. Her fingers closed easily around the hilt, not even glancing at the streak of blood smudged along the blade as she slipped it into her own belt, her grip casual and sure. “Thanks,” she murmured, giving Ophelia’s shoulder a squeeze.

Their arms stayed loosely looped, shoulders pressed together, their steps moving in easy synchrony as they pushed further into the shrouded green.

Up ahead, Gloss walked slightly behind Brutus, his eyes sharp as they cut through the thick foliage, his knife still loose in his hand, spinning faintly between his fingers with absent-minded fluidity.

After a moment, he glanced over at Brutus, his voice low and edged. “Peeta and Katniss are allied with 4,” he muttered, his tone clipped but darkly satisfied, like he’d already made his peace with the idea.

Brutus’s eyes narrowed, the lines around his mouth tightening slightly, but he only gave a low grunt, his jaw ticking faintly. “Figures.” His voice was rough and flat, but there was no surprise in it. “Of course he’s with them,” he muttered, his tone low and scathing, not bothering to hide the slight curl of disdain in his voice.

Ophelia felt her stomach clench faintly, a dull twist of unease working its way through her chest. Without thinking, the words were already slipping out, “Finnick will bring more sponsors to Katniss and Peeta.” Her voice was tight and strained, the words quiet but certain. “That’s no good.”

There was an edge to her voice— a little too firm, too impulsive. Her heart thudded faintly against her ribs the second the words were out.

Brutus’s dark eyes flicked sharply toward her, his expression cool and assessing, his brows tugging faintly together. For a moment, Ophelia was certain he’d caught it— the faint waver in her voice, the almost imperceptible tightness in her throat.

But he only gave a sharp exhale, his eyes flashing with hard calculation. “Yeah,” he muttered gruffly, nodding faintly, his voice grim and resolute. “More sponsors means more supplies. More help.” His jaw ticked faintly. “And if they’re getting help, they’ll be that much harder to take out.”

Ophelia felt her throat tighten faintly, her stomach clenching. She could feel the way her fingers curled slightly against Cashmere’s shoulder, the brief, faint tension in her grip before she forced her hand to loosen.

The realization struck her a half second too late. Her own damn words had just made Finnick more of a target.

She felt a sharp, sudden spike of regret, her fingers briefly flexing against Cashmere’s arm. But what else could she do? Panic wouldn’t help. And she wasn’t going to die over a crush on a guy.

Her jaw clenched faintly, her eyes flicking briefly toward the ground, refusing to let the tension show in her face. She forced herself to stay silent, her fingertips steady against Cashmere’s arm, her expression impassive.

Brutus’s voice cut through the jungle’s heavy hush, his tone low and steady, gravel-rough with certainty. “We’ll need to plan the attack. Break up the alliance first. It’ll make them weaker.”

Gloss gave a sharp nod. “Take out the weakest link first.” His voice was calm, matter-of-fact, as if he were discussing a trade deal, not a human life. “Mags,” he muttered darkly, his voice flat and clipped. “She’ll slow them down. Distract Finnick. Make him vulnerable.” 

His knife flipped idly between his fingers again, his eyes sharp and calculating. “Then we take him out.”

The words hung heavily in the humid air, the intent so casual and merciless it made Ophelia’s stomach twist. She felt her fingernails dig faintly into her palm, the metal of her remaining blade cool against her skin.

Her lips parted faintly, the words slipping free before she could stop them. “Yeah, we could try that,” she muttered, her voice low and careful, measured and even. “But Finnick won’t let that happen.” Her tone was steady, almost detached, but there was a faint edge to it. “He’ll guard her until he dies.” Her voice was matter-of-fact, like she was stating a certainty, not a possibility.

There was a brief pause, Cashmere’s gaze flicking faintly toward her, sharp and considering. “Then we take him out. Lessen the sponsors going his way, lessen the supplies sent to 12.”

Ophelia felt a brief, sharp sting of dread, cold and twisting beneath her ribs. Her throat tightened faintly, her pulse quickening in her ears. She could feel the faintest, sharpest prickle of sweat at the nape of her neck.

She needed to shut up.

The first cannon had been loud, the second even louder. By the third, Finnick had stopped flinching at the sound, but by the fourth, he’d started counting. Six. Six consecutive cannons. Six dead tributes.

Finnick exhaled, shaking his head before forcing a smirk. Keep the act up.

“Well,” he mused, the edge of his voice deliberately light. “I guess we’re not holding hands anymore.”

Katniss stared. “You think that’s funny?” she snapped.

No, Finnick didn’t. He didn’t think any of this was funny. But he didn’t like awkward silences, and he didn’t like what they left him with— too much room for thought, too much room to wonder.

So he shrugged, gesturing to the sky. “Every time that cannon goes off, it’s music to my ears.” He flicked his gaze up briefly, his expression unreadable. “I don’t care about any of them.”

That was a lie. A lie so bitter it almost got caught in his throat.

There was one person he cared about. One person he shouldn’t care about. One person who might have been behind one of those cannons.

The thought twisted inside of him like a knife.

He forced himself to look back down before Katniss could read anything on his face. But she was already staring at him, her eyes dark and sharp. Her gaze dropped— just for a second— to the glimmering gold bracelet on his wrist. Haymitch’s token. A silent message. A command. Trust him.

But Katniss wasn’t stupid. He could tell by the tension in her jaw, the wayshe reached behind her to grab a knife out of her arrow holder. She didn’t trust him. Not really. Not yet. And he couldn’t blame her for that.

“Good to hear,” she muttered, voice cold.

Finnick tilted his head slightly, studying her before he let his mouth pull into another smirk— this one more taunting than anything else. “You want to face the Career pack alone?” he challenged. “What would Haymitch say?”

Katniss didn’t miss a beat. “Haymitch isn’t here.”

Finnick nearly rolled his eyes.

A tense silence stretched between them, but Peeta stepped in before it could get worse. “Let’s keep moving,” he muttered, glancing between the two of them.

Finnick nodded. Good idea.

He reached down and helped Mags back to her feet, steadying her as they started forward again. But his mind wasn’t on the jungle ahead of them.

It was on Ophelia. On where she was now, if she was still alive, if she was still moving through the jungle with Brutus and the rest of the Career pack. Or if she was lying dead in the sand, her cannon one of the six that had already gone off.

The humidity clung to them, thick and suffocating, as the four careers pressed further into the jungle.

The sun was slowly slipping, casting longer shadows through the dense, tangled canopy overhead. The occasional ray of gold knifed through the lush foliage, painting the damp leaves with fleeting streaks of light.

Ophelia’s boots sank faintly into the soft, spongy earth with each step, her calves burning faintly from the relentless trek, but she kept moving without complaint.

Eventually, they reached a section of the jungle where the brush thickened, creating a shrouded hollow beneath a dense canopy of interwoven branches. There was enough tree shade to keep them hidden from aerial cameras, while the dense foliage would act as cover from passing tributes.

Without a word, Brutus slowed to a halt and gave a sharp nod, gesturing vaguely to the space. “This’ll do,” he muttered gruffly.

No one argued.

Ophelia exhaled slowly, wiping her forearm over her forehead, the skin-tight material of her wetsuit damp against her ribs. The heavy heat was smothering, clinging to her skin like syrup, making the fabric of the suit feel even tighter, more suffocating.

She didn’t think twice as she reached for her shoulder seam, her fingers curling sharply around the material, and with a swift, brutal tug, she ripped the sleeves away. The sound of the fabric splitting was sharp and satisfying.  The freedom of it made her exhale sharply, her shoulders instantly cooler, the faint brush of air on her damp skin oddly relieving.

Her wetsuit was now sleeveless, the top clinging to her like a tank top, leaving her arms bare, making her feel lighter despite the weight of sweat and grime on her skin.

Beside her, Brutus gave a rough grunt, barely glancing over before reaching for his own wetsuit collar. With a jerk of his arms, he stripped the top half away, the black material falling around his waist, leaving him bare from the torso up, his broad chest streaked faintly with grime and sweat, his muscles taut with residual exertion. 

Gloss followed suit, shedding the top of his own wetsuit with a casual, fluid motion, rolling it down to his waist and leaving his torso bare, his skin slick and flushed from the humidity. Cashmere, still clad in the full suit, simply sat down with a faint exhale, propping herself against the base of a tree.

From above, a silver parachute drifted downward, its cord shimmering faintly in the dimming light. It landed several yards away, the cannister thudding softly against the loose earth.

Cashmere was on her feet instantly. She was at the cannister in seconds, her fingers closing around the smooth metal before she glanced at the small District 1 insignia engraved on the lid. “It’s for us,” she muttered, her voice breathless but firm, her eyes flashing slightly with satisfaction.

Without hesitation, she popped the lid, the sharp hiss of pressurized air escaping as she pulled it open. Inside was a neat stack of food— muffins, crackers, and a small bundle of dried meat.

Cashmere’s lips tugged faintly into a satisfied smirk. “Finally,” she muttered under her breath. She quickly divvied up the contents, tossing two muffins toward Brutus, then handing one to Ophelia. She kept the last one for herself, pulling it apart slowly, offering half to Gloss.

The four of them sat in loose formation, leaning back against tree trunks and sitting on the damp ground, their bodies tense with exhaustion but their movements steady. Ophelia sat with her legs crossed, pulling apart her muffin idly, the bread faintly sweet against her tongue.

But her teeth sank into a tart burst, and she immediately grimaced faintly, her face scrunching slightly. She plucked out the first blueberry, then another, and another, placing them into her palm. 

With a casual flick, she tossed the berries toward Gloss. He caught them easily, his fingers closing around the tiny fruit before he arched a brow at her. “Picky, huh?” he teased, his voice dry with faint amusement.

Ophelia rolled her eyes, her lips tugging faintly into a wry smirk. “They’re too tart,” she muttered.

Gloss gave a soft huff of laughter, popping the berries into his mouth without hesitation. “Too tart for you. Just fine for me.” 

After they finished eating, Brutus’s voice cut through the faint lull, gruff and final.

“I’ll take first watch,” he muttered, pushing himself to his feet. He slung his spear casually over his shoulder and moved to take first watch, rolling his neck once before leaning against a broad tree trunk, his eyes sharp and still.

Gloss and Cashmere both exhaled softly, dropping down onto the ground, their movements fluid and automatic. Cashmere curled against her brother’s side, draping herself half over him, her cheek resting lightly on his bare arm. Her eyes slipped closed, her fingers curled faintly against his chest. Gloss didn’t even glance down, his knife still loose in his grip, his free hand idly brushing over Cashmere’s back.

Ophelia watched them for half a second, something faintly wistful and foreign tightening in her chest, before she forced her gaze away.

She missed Cato.

Without a word, she lowered herself onto the jungle floor, the cool, damp ground soaking faintly into the fabric of her suit. She bundled the ripped sleeves of her wetsuit into a rough pile, tucking them beneath her head, using the scraps of fabric as a makeshift pillow.

Curling onto her side, she folded her arms loosely against her chest, tucking her hands beneath her chin, her legs drawing slightly up, finding a faint semblance of comfort. Her eyelids felt heavy as she drifted into shallow, restless sleep.

July, 75 ADD— Quarter Quell, Day 2

Time slipped by in a slow, dreamless blur.

At some point, Brutus moved toward Gloss, giving him a sharp nudge with his boot. “Your turn,” he muttered, his voice thick with fatigue.

Gloss stirred easily, his eyes snapping sharply open, immediately alert, despite the briefness of his rest. He slipped free of Cashmere with a careful, practiced ease, moving slow and steady, gently easing her head from his arm so she didn’t wake. She gave a faint, sleepy murmur, but didn’t stir.

Gloss pushed himself to his feet, moving toward Brutus’s previous post, his knife still loose and easy in his grip.

Ophelia didn’t know how much time passed before she woke. Her eyes snapped open before her mind even caught up, her body tense and alert, her chest tight with adrenaline.

The sharp, distant scream rang faintly through the jungle, far-off and distorted, but human.

Her breathing hitched, her fingers digging faintly into the dirt. Her head whipped up, her eyes sharp and wild, blinking against the dark, her chest rising too fast. She stared blindly into the darkness, half-expecting someone to be standing over her.

But there was nothing. Only the heavy hush of the jungle.

Her pulse pounded dully in her ears, her breath coming too fast, but she didn’t know why. She couldn’t even place the voice that had shouted.

And when the cannon sounded, loud and jarring, it felt like the ground itself vibrated beneath her.

She gasped faintly, her chest heaving once, her fingers tightening briefly into the dirt.

Beside her, Cashmere’s eyes snapped open, her brows furrowed faintly, her gaze sharpening as she sat partly upright, instantly on edge. Her hand slipped toward her knife, her fingers curling faintly around the hilt.

But Gloss’s voice cut through the darkness, low and steady, but firm. “Relax.” His eyes flicked toward them, his voice calm and low, almost bored. “Go back to sleep,” he muttered evenly, the faintest edge of irritation at being disturbed in his voice.

Ophelia felt her pulse slowly settle, her breathing evening out, but her chest still felt tight and uneasy. Slowly, she nodded faintly, forcing her fingers to unclench, lowering herself back down. She pressed her cheek to the makeshift pillow of her torn sleeves and shut her eyes, but her chest still felt strangely tight.

Even as she drifted back toward sleep, the unease lingered, hollow and faintly disquieting, though she didn’t know why.

The jungle was thick with darkness by the time Gloss crouched beside her, the faintest pressure of his hand on her shoulder. “Hey,” he muttered.

Ophelia’s eyes snapped open, her breathing slightly uneven for half a second as her mind struggled to catch up, but her body reacted quickly, already starting to move.

“Your turn,” Gloss added, giving her shoulder a faint squeeze before he pushed himself upright, already turning away.

Still half-dazed, Ophelia sat up slowly, blinking against the darkness, her limbs stiff and heavy with sleep. She reached for her belt bag, her fingers slipping around the cool, familiar hilts of her knives.

Without a word, she pulled two free, her fingers curling instinctively around the handles. Pushing herself onto her feet, she moved fluidly and quietly toward Gloss’s post, taking his place at the outer edge of their makeshift camp. Gloss didn’t linger, barely sparing her a glance before he dropped down beside Cashmere again, slinging his arm loosely over her waist, already settling back into restless sleep.

Ophelia shifted her weight faintly, leaning one shoulder against the rough bark of the tree at her back. Her fingers curled loosely around the twin hilts of her knives, but her grip was relaxed, her muscles still slightly loose and sluggish from sleep.

For a while, she remained still, her eyes sharp, slowly scanning the brush, letting the soft sounds of the jungle fill the silence— the faint whirring hum of insects, the distant chirp of night creatures, the occasional drip of moisture falling from the canopy above.

But despite her hyper-vigilant gaze, her mind slowly began to wander. She couldn’t help it.

The first thing that drifted into her mind was the faint, unwelcome thought of her parents.

She didn’t mean to think of them— she rarely let herself— but the thought came anyway, uninvited and sharp. She wondered faintly if they were watching her back in District 2. Despite having left her. Despite having disowned her. Despite having turned their backs on her after Cato’s death.

She mentally pictured them in her modest childhood home in the mountains, sitting on the lumpy couch, staring at the flickering television. Her father’s arms folded, his jaw tight, her mother’s lips pressed thin, neither saying a word as they watched her fight. She could see it so clearly— the stiff tension in her father’s broad frame, the faint, strained tremor in her mother’s hands.

But then she immediately shut the thought down, clamping her mind closed with a sharp, mental snap.

No.

Don’t go there.

Her grip tightened faintly around the handle of her knives, and she exhaled slowly, forcing herself to redirect her mind elsewhere.

And somehow, without meaning to, it drifted to Ovid.

Her lips parted faintly, her fingers tightening briefly on the knives.

It had been the week before the reaping. She had run into him at the pub in the main town, and they’d started drinking too much— talking, flirting, both of them pretending like she hadn’t already made up her mind.

They had barely made it through the door of her house before he was backing her up against the wall, his mouth on hers, messy and eager. She had laughed into his mouth, grinning against his lips when his hands slipped low on her waist, lifting her slightly.

Her heart rate kicked up faintly at the memory— the feeling of his lips trailing lower, skimming along her jaw, down the slope of her neck. She remembered the low hum he made when she tugged at his belt, the way he had swept her into his arms, carrying her easily up the stairs and into her bedroom.

Her throat felt tight, her skin warm, the memory still fresh in her mind, still vivid enough to make her chest tighten faintly. Her knuckles tightened faintly around her knives, almost in reflex, trying to shake off the feeling.

What the hell was she doing? She was in a jungle, about to die. She needed to be focused, alert. Her grip tightened faintly around her knives again, her jaw clenching, forcing herself to stay sharp.

But then she heard it.

A loud, mechanical chime. Five, to be exact. The sounds were strange and hollow, ringing sharp and mechanical in the distance.

She stiffened faintly, her head jerking sharply toward the sound. Her brows knit faintly, her eyes narrowing, trying to place it. Her knuckles whitened faintly around the handles of her knives, heart pounding once, uncertain. Her eyes scanned the jungle, but she saw nothing, only the faint rustle of leaves.

But then it happened. The darkness fell like a smothering wave, swallowing everything in blackness.

It wasn’t nightfall. It wasn’t natural. It was complete, suffocating darkness— so absolute she couldn’t even see her own hands in front of her face.

Her breath caught, and her stomach clenched sharply with a jolt of panic.

Her voice snapped out, sharp and frantic, louder than she intended, “Guys.” Her breath was quicker, her voice edged with tension. “Guys, get up. Now.”

She was already on her feet, turning sharply, her head jerking in the direction of where she knew they were sleeping, even though she couldn’t see them.

There was a faint, sharp rustle, and then Brutus’s voice, gruff and low, cutting through the blackness. “What?” His voice was rough with sleep, flat and unimpressed.

“It’s— It’s—” she stammered faintly, her breath hitching, unable to articulate it. Her knuckles tightened around her knives. “It’s pitch black. I can’t— I can’t see anything.”

Brutus was unfazed. “Good,” he muttered. “Means we’ll get real good sleep tonight.”

She gawked faintly, her head jerking toward the sound of his voice, her mouth parting in disbelief.

Seriously?

“Keep watch,” he added bluntly before rolling over, his voice half-muffled in his arm.

She stared into the darkness, annoyed, her fingers clenching faintly around her knives, but she stayed awake. 

For the rest of the hour, she sat there, knives drawn, heart tight, her eyes staring into the black void, unable to see a damn thing, her skin cold with the faint, uneasy chill creeping down her spine.

The six mechanical chimes echoed sharply through the jungle.

Each one was cold and artificial, the sound hollow and clinical, cutting through the thick, humid air. The final chime rang out with a sharp, resonant clang, and then the darkness lifted.

Just like that.

Ophelia blinked rapidly as her eyes adjusted, the inky blackness peeling away, replaced by the dull, flat light of the arena’s artificial day. The murky green of the foliage, the glassy dampness of the leaves, and the rugged sprawl of the jungle floor came back into focus, almost as if the black veil had never been there.

She exhaled faintly, her shoulders slackening, the faint knot of unease in her chest loosening just slightly, though she was still tense with adrenaline.

Her eyes flicked slowly over the surrounding trees, her muscles taut, watching, waiting. But nothing stirred. No footsteps. No crack of twigs. No glint of weapons. Nothing.

Her throat tightened faintly, and she let out a slow, measured breath through her nose, forcing herself to release the tension in her chest. Her eyes shifted upward toward the sky, squinting faintly, as if trying to spot the source of the chimes, though she knew there was nothing to see.

She didn’t know what the chimes meant— not really.

Maybe they were just signals, the Gamemakers’ way of keeping track of the arena’s inner mechanisms, marking the end of the blackout. Or maybe they were announcing something. Some new threat. Some new horror. She didn’t know.

But then, in her exhausted haze, she felt a faint, dry smirk tug at the corner of her mouth. Her mind quipped, her thoughts wry and sharp: Maybe it was them apologizing for scaring her.

Her lip twitched faintly, her fingers brushing idly over the handle of one of her knives as she stared into the blank, empty space in front of her.

Apology not accepted, she responded in her mind.

Her smirk lingered faintly for only a moment before she exhaled softly, her shoulders slumping slightly, her muscles stiff from sitting still for so long.

Her eyes flicked over to where Cashmere was still curled against Gloss, her breathing slow and even, her face half-pressed against Gloss’s bicep.

She had been asleep for at least five hours. Ophelia didn’t care that Cashmere’s turn wasn’t for another hour. She had been out long enough. And Ophelia was done being awake after enduring the blackout. 

Without hesitation, she pushed herself up onto her feet, moving with a slow, fluid ease, the remnants of exhaustion making her limbs feel sluggish and clumsy. Her boots sank faintly into the damp jungle floor with each step, the earth soft and spongy beneath her.

She lowered herself quietly beside Cashmere, leaning close enough that her breath stirred faintly against the shell of Cashmere’s ear.

She tilted her head slightly, her lips barely brushing the edge of Cashmere’s hair, and whispered in a low, sing-song murmur, her tone mockingly sweet, “Rise and shine.”

Cashmere’s brows furrowed faintly in her sleep, her face pinching slightly in annoyance. Her eyes blinked blearily open, hazy with groggy confusion, and she let out a faint, irritated sigh, her lips parting into a small, exasperated scowl.

“Ugh,” she groaned, her voice rough and slurred with sleep, her lashes fluttering slightly. Her eyes were dull, unfocused, still half-lidded with exhaustion. She stretched faintly before she slowly sat up, blinking sluggishly.

Her face scrunched briefly, her lips pursing in a faint pout as she gave Ophelia a mildly withering look, clearly unimpressed by being woken up early. But she didn’t complain. She simply let out a slow, raspy exhale, running a slim hand through her hair, the blonde strands mussed in the curled ponytail her stylist had fashioned.

Without a word, she shifted onto her feet, grabbing one of the thin daggers from her belt with a fluid, familiar motion, and moved toward the edge of their makeshift base to take over the watch.

Ophelia didn’t wait. She lowered herself back down beside Gloss, who was still half-asleep, his breathing slow and even, his arm limp against the jungle floor. She pressed herself down onto the damp earth, her body sinking heavily into the dirt, her limbs boneless with exhaustion. Her muscles ached, her limbs stiff, and her eyelids were already drooping once more, her vision hazy with fatigue. She barely noticed when Gloss shifted slightly, half-conscious, his arm loosely draping over her waist in his half-asleep state.

The weight of his arm was heavy and solid, his body warm against hers, and she felt the faint, familiar press of his chest against her back as he settled deeper into sleep. She didn’t react, didn’t tense or pull away. She barely even registered it. Her breathing slowed, and for a moment, her mind softened, blurred at the edges, and she let herself pretend— just for a second.

That it was Cato.

Her eyes drifted shut, and she pictured him instead. His arm around her waist, his chest against her back, his breathing slower and deeper. She imagined the faint, sleepy mutter he would have mumbled into her hair, something teasing and ornery. She pictured his warmth, the weight of his muscular frame beside her, the steady rhythm of his breathing a constant presence against her back.

For just a second, she let herself sink into it, into the aching familiarity, the ghost of him.  The ache in her chest was dull and familiar, but she didn’t shy away from it. She just let it wash over her, the faint, bittersweet warmth that came with the imaginary weight of her brother’s arm around her waist.

And before she could stop herself, she was asleep.

The soft rustle of leaves overhead was sliced apart by the faint, familiar whirring hum of a mechanical device. It was subtle at first, almost imperceptible beneath the muffled hiss of the jungle breeze. But then came the faint, metallic clink-clink of a parachute’s clasp unfurling, and the distant creak of the cord being cut loose.

The cylindrical canister came drifting down, its silver body glinting dully in the weak morning light. It sliced through the humid air, spinning faintly as it descended, the attached parachute fluttering softly, the Capitol’s seal glimmering faintly on the fabric.

The moment it hit the damp earth with a dull thud, Brutus was already on his feet. His head snapped up, his eyes locking onto the canister’s glint with predatory precision.

Without a word, he strode across the small clearing, his boots grinding faintly into the damp earth with each heavy step. He crouched down and snatched it up, his thick fingers curling around the cool metal of the canister. With a sharp twist, he unsealed the top and ripped it open.

Inside were four plastic bottles filled with clear water, their surfaces already faintly clouded with condensation.

Brutus’s mouth twitched faintly in satisfaction. “Water.”

Without hesitation, he pulled one out and tossed it toward Gloss, who caught it effortlessly with a lazy swipe of his hand. The next one he flung toward Cashmere, who caught it with sharp reflexes, her fingers deft and fluid. Then, with a casual flick, he tossed the third bottle toward Ophelia.

The bottle hit her chest with a faint thump, and she barely had time to fumble for it, her fingers clumsily closing around the plastic. Without a second thought, she uncapped it quickly, the plastic seal popping open with a faint crackle, and tilted her head back, bringing the bottle to her lips.

The first gulp was cold and sharp, and she swallowed quickly, feeling the chill of the water coat her throat. She didn’t bother with small sips or pacing herself. She just drank deeply, tilting the bottle back and chugging with a single-minded desperation, her throat flexing faintly with each gulp.

The cool water rushed down her throat, and she felt a faint trickle escape, spilling down her chin. She barely noticed.

A faint, cool rivulet ran along her jawline, trailing sluggishly down her neck before it disappeared beneath the high collar of her wetsuit. She didn’t stop until she had drained it dry, the plastic crinkling faintly as she squeezed the last few drops out. Her chest rose and fell heavily, her throat slick and cool, and she slowly lowered the bottle, the plastic still clutched loosely in her hand.

Across from her, Cashmere took a few slow sips. She drank just enough to ease the dryness in her throat, then capped the bottle and set it down beside her, her fingers lightly brushing the condensation-coated surface.

“What’s our next move?” Her eyes flicked between Brutus and Gloss, her expression calm and unruffled, her lips barely parted, her breathing still slow and steady.

Brutus didn’t hesitate. He was already wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, his expression stoic, his voice gravelly and curt as he answered. “We stay put,” he said bluntly, his rough voice low, gruff with simple finality.

He reached down and capped his bottle with a firm, precise twist, his movements slow and deliberate. “We wait until we hear another cannon, then we’ll know others are awake.”

“Or they’re waking up.” Across from him, Gloss let out a faint, low grunt, the corners of his mouth twitching faintly into a dry, crooked smirk. He tossed his empty bottle aside, letting it thump softly into the brush.

Ophelia sat silently, holding her bottle in her hands, her fingers lightly tracing over the thin ridges of the plastic. Her thumb dragged absently over the condensation, feeling the faint slickness on her skin. Her eyes drifted to the bottle’s smooth surface, her gaze dull and unfocused.

She hesitated as she glanced toward Brutus, her voice flat but mildly uncertain. “What do we do with these?” she muttered, her fingers loosely gripping the empty bottle. “If we leave them behind, they’ll know we’ve been here.”

Her fingers tightened faintly around the plastic. She didn’t want to litter. But more importantly, she didn’t want to leave a trace. She didn’t want anyone else to know they had staked this spot. She didn’t want to be tracked.

Brutus barely looked at her. Without a word, he extended his hand, his thick fingers open, palm up. “Gimme.”

Without hesitating, Ophelia handed him her empty bottle, and Cashmere did the same, her movements fluid and efficient. Gloss grabbed his discarded bottle and chucked it toward Brutus, who caught it effortlessly in his meaty hand. Brutus crouched low, using the heel of his boot to dig into the damp earth, scraping a small trench into the mud and foliage. 

With slow, practiced movements, he buried the bottles beneath a layer of dirt, branches, and thick brush, ensuring they were hidden from view. He pressed the earth down firmly, packing it in with his hands, then scattered damp leaves over the patch, obscuring the spot entirely.

When he was finished, he stood slowly, brushing the dirt off his hands with rough, unhurried swipes against his wetsuit pants. He glanced toward Ophelia.

“Satisfied?”

She didn’t answer. She just nodded once, her throat tight, and her fingers curling absently over the hilt of one of her knives as she sat stiffly on the jungle floor. 

Ophelia sat cross-legged on the damp ground, her elbows resting loosely on her knees, the fingers of her left hand loosely curled over the hilt of one of her knives. The other was already pressed into the earth, the blade’s tip idly carving into the soft, damp soil.

She drew without thought, her movements lazy and slow, her wrist flexing fluidly as she etched faint shapes into the dirt. A spiral here, a few jagged slashes there, and a vaguely flower-shaped smudge where she had absently flattened part of the drawing with her palm.

Her eyes were dull, her gaze unfocused as she stared at the rudimentary shapes, her mind blank, slipping into that faintly numb, detached state that came with boredom in the arena. 

The soft scrape of footsteps on the loose brush behind her made her glance over her shoulder. Cashmere was strolling over, her golden hair loose and tangled, still slightly damp at the ends from the humid air. 

Without a word, she sank down beside Ophelia, folding her legs neatly beneath her as she settled into the dirt. A moment later, Gloss came over as well. He flopped down onto the ground beside Cashmere, stretching his legs out lazily in front of him, his broad shoulders rolling back slightly.

For a moment, none of them spoke. Then, with a faint, casual hum, Cashmere pulled one of her knives from her belt and, without looking, began idly dragging the tip through the dirt. She drew a long, lazy line, then curved it into a loop.

Gloss, watching her, let out a faint, amused exhale through his nose. “Oh, is this what we’re doing now?” he muttered dryly, his tone flatly teasing, his eyes flicking toward Ophelia.

Without waiting for an answer, he unsheathed his own knife, his fingers flipping it once with effortless fluidity before he, too, began scratching aimless shapes into the dirt.

For a while, they simply doodled in silence, the soft scrape of their knives the only sound. Eventually, Ophelia glanced at Gloss’s blade, watching as he absently carved a jagged, uneven grid of sloppy lines into the soil. Her eyes narrowed faintly, and a slow, mischievous smirk tugged at the corner of her lips. Without a word, she reached over and dragged her own knife through the grid, creating an X in one of the squares.

Gloss’s brow flicked up, his mouth twitching faintly in a crooked smirk. Without hesitation, he cut a diagonal slash through another square, creating a neat O. Ophelia’s eyes glimmered faintly, and she leaned forward slightly, her blade moving with playful determination.

The tic-tac-toe game was on.

They moved quickly, silent and focused, their knives gliding easily through the soft dirt. But Gloss, being ruthless and practiced, outmaneuvered her in only a few moves, creating a winning line of neat O’s that slashed through the grid.

He leaned back slightly, his knife flipping lazily between his fingers, his eyes flashing with smug amusement. “You lose, Ophie,” he muttered with a faint, mock-sympathetic drawl, shooting her a smug, lopsided grin.

Ophelia’s nose wrinkled faintly, her lips pursing in mock annoyance. Before she could grumble about it, Cashmere smirked faintly and reached forward, her knife moving swiftly to carve out a fresh grid. 

“My turn.”

The round was quick.

Cashmere created a neat, winning row of Xs within five moves, tilting her head slightly with a faint, triumphant smirk. “Victory,” she drawled softly.

Gloss rolled his eyes with an exaggerated huff, letting his knife fall lazily onto the dirt with a dull thunk. “Beginner’s luck,” he muttered dryly.

Ophelia, grinning faintly, scratched out a new grid with quick, precise strokes, her fingers light and deft. She glanced toward Cashmere, her eyes narrowing playfully, and jerked her chin toward the grid. “Rematch?” she challenged lightly.

Cashmere’s lips curved into a slow smirk, and she lifted her knife. But before she could make her move, the distant, piercing scream splintered through the humid jungle air.

It was sharp and shrill, cutting through the stillness with a violent, ragged edge, followed by a cannon firing.

Ophelia’s hand froze, her knife hovering mid-air, her body instantly stiffening. Her head snapped up, her eyes wide, her heart lurching faintly in her chest. Her gaze whipped around, her pulse quickening sharply, every instinct firing at once.

Before she could speak, Brutus’s voice came from several yards away, low and sharp. “Hey!” he barked. ”Over here.”

The three of them exchanged brief glances, then scrambled to their feet, their movements swift and fluid.

As Ophelia stood, she quickly dragged her knife over the dirt, scuffing up their doodles and games, obliterating the traces of their idleness. The shapes vanished, reduced to nothing but rough smudges in the damp soil.

Without a word, they moved swiftly, their footsteps light and quick, as they hurried toward Brutus, their weapons drawn, their bodies tense. As they reached him, they halted at the edge of the foliage, and Cashmere slowly stepped forward, her movements deliberate and silent.

She eased closer, her footsteps soundless, and peered through the thick branches, her eyes narrowing faintly. Her gaze swept downward, locking onto the figures moving along the beach below. She scanned the group, taking in Katniss and Peeta, Wiress and Beetee, and Finnick and Johanna.

Her eyes narrowed, and she slowly backed up, returning to the group, her voice low and sharp.

“12 and 4 have allied with 3 and 7,” she reported flatly, her tone brisk and clinical. Her eyes flicked toward Brutus, then to Gloss and Ophelia, her expression impassive. “Blight and Mags are gone.”

Gloss’s mouth twitched into a faint, crooked smirk. “Huh.” He let out a low, dry chuckle. “The weak link took care of herself.”

Ophelia stared at Gloss for a beat longer, unimpressed, before turning toward Brutus, her voice low and even, her gaze flat. “What’s the next move?” she asked.

For a moment, Brutus’s eyes remained on the stretch of beach, his jaw tight, his expression calculating. He glanced toward her, his voice low and gravel-rough, as he spoke without looking away. “We wait,” he muttered shortly, his tone flat and certain. He tilted his head slightly, gesturing toward the figures on the beach. “Until their guard is down. Then we strike.”

Ophelia’s throat bobbed faintly, her fingers tightening ever so slightly around the hilt of her knife, the familiar anticipation pooling faintly in her gut.

They waited.

The four of them remained silent and still, crouched low in the thick, shading brush, partially concealed by the foliage. They were motionless shadows, their breathing slow and soundless, their gazes sharp and focused, waiting, watching, listening.

The minutes dragged. The only sounds were the faint rustling of the occasional breeze through the tangled leaves and the distant, lapping hush of the waves against the island shore.

Ophelia’s legs ached faintly from the stillness, her thighs stiff, but she remained crouched, her muscles locked in place, her breathing steady.

Finally, Gloss gave a faint, abrupt jerk of his chin, his voice a low murmur, barely above a whisper, “Movement.”

Without lifting her head, Ophelia’s gaze flicked over, her body still, her stomach tightening slightly. The alliance was moving out, slowly making their way toward the island, walking the spokes toward the Cornucopia.

She squinted faintly, watching the slow, deliberate steps of Katniss and Peeta, Wiress and Beetee, Finnick and Johanna as they moved across the narrow pathways that extended over the saltwater lake. Johanna walked with her axe in hand, her movements fluid but sharp, angular, almost defensive.

So she got another one after all, Ophelia thought to herself. She assumed the one she had thrown at her was at the bottom of the lake.

Finnick’s trident was steady in his grip as he moved, his eyes sharp, his gaze sweeping fluidly from side to side, covering Katniss and Peeta with a subtle side step in their direction. It made Ophelia’s stomach turn faintly with a low, bitter twist of disdain.

Without a word, Brutus’s voice came low, curt, sharp with authority, and all four of them turned toward him. “We split up,” he muttered briskly. He lifted his hand, his fingers moving quickly, efficiently, as he divided them with a series of curt gestures. “Gloss, west.”

Gloss’s jaw tightened faintly, and he nodded once, his eyes already focused in the direction he was assigned.

“Cashmere, south. Ophelia, east.”

Ophelia’s head lifted slightly, her eyes narrowing faintly, her hand tightening around the grip of her blade. But before she could nod, Brutus’s final order came, sharp and certain. “I’ll take north.”

Without breaking stride, Ophelia’s lips parted, and she paused briefly, blinking once. Then she frowned faintly, her nose crinkling slightly, and her brows furrowed. She lifted her head slightly, her voice flat, a faint, mild confusion threading through it.

“Wait,” she muttered, her brow creasing faintly, her gaze flicking toward Brutus. She tilted her head slightly, squinting at him. “Cardinal directions?”  Her knife lowered slightly, and she jerked her chin subtly, her expression dubious. “Why not just left and right?”

There was a brief beat of silence. Gloss’s head turned toward her, his gaze flat, his expression mildly incredulous. His eyes narrowed faintly, and his voice came low and dry, laced with faint disbelief. “You don’t know your directions?” he asked slowly.

Ophelia stared at him, her mouth falling slightly open, but she said nothing. She simply blinked once, her lips slightly parted, her expression frozen, and remained utterly silent, staring blankly at him.

For a long, drawn-out beat, Gloss’s eyes remained fixed on her, his brows slightly raised, his expression expectant, waiting for her to confirm or deny it. But she simply held his gaze, her face impassive, her silence heavy and unmoving.

At last, Brutus exhaled sharply, a low, gruff sound, and he shook his head slightly, his expression exasperated. Without looking at either of them, he simply jerked his chin toward the beach. “Move.”

Without hesitation, the four of them turned and slipped into motion toward the beach. As Ophelia moved east, her fingers tightened faintly around the hilt of her knife, her jaw clenching slightly. Her eyes narrowed, mentally scowling.

“Cardinal directions? Seriously?”

Her boots splashed against the edge of the narrow, uneven spoke leading to the Cornucopia island, her breathing steady but measured, her fingers gripping the hilts of the knives in her hands. She moved low and fluid, her breathing barely audible, keeping her gait light and fast as she crept along the spoke.

Without breaking stride, her gaze narrowed, and she moved forward, her steps brisk but deliberate, her muscles tense and coiled, her heart pounding dully in her chest. She felt her fingers tighten faintly around the cool steel of her knives.

Then she saw them. The alliance was huddled near the water’s edge on the Cornucopia island. They were focused— but not on the threat creeping toward them.

Not on her. Not on Brutus. Not on Cashmere. Certainly not on Gloss, who was already slipping through the water toward them.

And then there was Wiress rocking faintly, separated from the rest of the group with her knees drawn up, her lips parting slightly with the fragile, erratic murmurs that poured softly from her mouth.

“Hickory dickory dock,” she breathed softly, her wide, unfocused eyes blinking faintly. “The dog barked at the clock. The clock struck—”

The wet, heavy sound of steel slicing into flesh cracked sharply through the stillness.

Wiress’s eyes flew wide, a shallow, startled gasp leaving her lips, her back arching sharply as Gloss’s knife drove cleanly into her chest, the blade cutting effortlessly through the soft, fragile bone. Her breath hitched sharply, her fingers clenching faintly, trembling.

“—three,” she gasped out faintly, the faintest rasp of air catching in her throat, her voice breaking.

The light drained quickly from her wide, startled eyes, and Gloss wrenched the blade back, pulling it from her chest with a sharp, brutal yank, letting her body crumple bonelessly into the water.

The cannon fired.

And just like that, the moment shattered.

The alliance whirled in unison, their weapons drawn, their expressions hard and sharp as their eyes locked onto Gloss— his blade still slick with blood.

Then came a blur of motion. Then a sickening, wet thunk.

Gloss jerked, his breath catching sharply as the arrow buried itself deep in his chest.

His eyes flickered, his lips parting in shock, and then he collapsed, his body hitting the water with a heavy splash, his limbs going slack, his blood curling into the rippling waves.

The cannon fired again.

Chaos ensued.

Cashmere’s scream came, raw and sharp, as she lunged forward, her knife drawn, her grief twisting into fury. Her arm whipped back, and she reared the blade behind her, preparing to hurl it straight at Katniss’s chest. But Johanna was faster. Her slammed into her shoulder first, the heavy, jagged head knocking Cashmere violently back, sending her staggering with a sharp, guttural sound of pain.

Ophelia moved swiftly, breaking into a low sprint alongside Brutus as they came around the back of the island, flanking the alliance. Brutus’s spear swung wide, clashing hard with Finnick’s trident, the metal sparking faintly on impact. The two men clashed brutally, metal slamming against metal, their movements sharp and savage, neither giving an inch.

From her position behind them, Ophelia didn’t hesitate. She threw one of her knives, her arm quick and steady, her aim true. The blade spun through the air, narrowly missing Katniss, slicing through the edge of her shoulder strap, making her stumble slightly, her bow tilting.

She threw another, aiming for Finnick, her hand swift and sure.

The blade caught the light, a quick silver flash, slicing through the air, cutting a thin, stinging line across his forearm.

He had reacted instinctively, twisting his trident in a clean, sharp arc, deflecting the next blade before it could pierce his chest. He hadn’t hesitated. But when he saw her eyes meet his, something inside him faltered.

She was focused, yes— her jaw clenched, her eyes narrowed, her fingers curled tightly around the hilt of her next knife— but he knew her. He knew her movements, had observed her during her training sessions, watched how she never missed a single target in the knife station.

She was pulling her throws, ever so slightly. She wasn’t aiming to kill.

It made him angry.

His jaw clenched faintly, his breath slow and controlled, but he felt the faint, throbbing heat crawling up the back of his neck, into his temples, making his muscles coil tightly beneath his skin. He was still staring at her when he saw her pull back, her arm poised for another throw. Her chest heaved faintly, her eyes sharp, her fingers tense.

And she didn’t hesitate this time.

“I got 4!" Ophelia shouted. "Go!” Her eyes snapped toward Brutus, her expression sharp and unyielding, her breathing quick and clipped.

For a fraction of a second, Brutus’s eyes locked with hers, brief and steady, before he nodded once, sharp and curt. Then he whirled away, already moving toward Peeta, his spear flashing in the low light.

And suddenly, it was just her and Finnick, their footsteps shifting, circling.  For a brief, jarring moment, they just stared at one another, their breathing labored, the sound of waves crashing around them, the scent of iron and salt thick in the air.

She could have thrown another knife. She should have. But she didn’t.

And so, Finnick made the first move. Without a word, he lunged forward, closing the distance between them in two quick strides, his trident sweeping sharply through the air.

He saw her eyes widen faintly, but she didn’t flinch. Her hand flew up, and she threw the next knife with a sharp, fluid motion, her aim swift and steady, but Finnick’s trident caught it midair, knocking it aside with a quick, metallic clang. Her fingers twitched, already reaching for another blade, but he was on her.

The shaft of his trident swung low and sharp, sweeping toward her legs, aiming to knock her footing, not wound. She twisted sharply, narrowly dodging the blow, but her heel slipped slightly against the slick stone, and she stumbled back.

Her shoulder slammed against the rocks, but she recovered quickly, her teeth clenched, her eyes locked on his, and she threw another knife. He deflected it cleanly, the blade glancing off the haft of his weapon, skidding into the sand at his feet.

And then he was moving again, a sharp, fluid arc of his trident slashing through the space between them. But she was faster. She ducked low, her shoulder dipping, narrowly avoiding the strike, and she drove her elbow hard into his ribs, making him stagger back slightly. She took the opening, thrusting another knife toward him, but he was already moving, twisting sharply, his trident catching the blade, sending it spinning from her grip.

The force of the deflection sent her back a step, her feet skidding slightly, but she recovered, breathing hard, her chest rising and falling rapidly, her cheeks flushed. Her eyes were wild, her lips parted slightly, and for the briefest moment, he could see the faint tremble in her hands, could see the heat in her eyes, could feel the familiar, painful ache behind his ribs.

But he didn’t stop. Neither did she.

Again and again, they clashed. Her knives flew, but he was too quick, his trident sweeping sharply, knocking them aside, one by one, sending them clattering into the water. And still, neither of them struck to kill. Every blow was deflected, every strike evaded, their bodies moving fluidly, like they had memorized each other’s rhythm.

And for a brief, frantic moment, it felt like muscle memory. The way they moved around each other, their bodies twisting and shifting, their blows met with practiced ease, like they had done this before. But they hadn’t.

And then, suddenly, Ophelia’s fingers fumbled faintly at her belt. Her eyes widened slightly, and she stumbled back, realizing—

She was out of knives.

She didn’t hesitate. She turned sharply, her breath sharp and ragged, and she bolted toward the Cornucopia, her feet swift and silent, her shoulders tight, her heart slamming violently in her chest. But before she could reach the weapons cache, the Cornucopia island suddenly lurched. She felt the sharp, jarring tilt beneath her feet, and then it began to spin, the entire island turning sharply, groaning faintly under the weight. Her stomach dropped violently, and she staggered sharply, barely managing to keep her balance as the ground beneath her tilted, spinning faster and faster.

Her balance was lost as she stumbled to her knees, the skin bruising on impact as her fingers dug desperately into the lava rock. Her knuckles were white, her nails splitting against the jagged surface as she clung on for dear life. The Cornucopia island lurched with a sharp, gut-wrenching tilt, the metal groaning as it spun faster, sending violent waves slamming into the edges of the island. Her palms were slick— whether from the lake spray or the sweat of terror, she wasn’t sure. The briny water stung her eyes, her vision blurring, but she forced herself to look— to find the others. Her gaze jerked right just in time to see Cashmere lose her grip.

“No!” Ophelia’s gasp tore from her throat, sharp and strangled.

The blonde’s hand slipped, her fingers scraping futilely over the wet stone, her nails clawing for purchase—

And then she was gone, her body flung violently from the island, limbs flailing, her dagger glinting once in the moonlight before she crashed into the waves.

“Cash!” Ophelia’s scream split the air, raw and broken.

But Cashmere didn’t resurface.

The cannon boomed, and the echo of it splintered through Ophelia’s chest like a knife, sharp and brutal.

Her fingers slipped slightly against the stone as her breath hitched, her vision blurring further, not just from the saltwater, but from the sting in her eyes. Her throat ached, and she gritted her teeth, a broken sob catching somewhere between her lungs and her tongue.

Her eyes squeezed shut, blocking out the sight of the water, the horrible realization of it all— of her friend vanishing beneath the waves, her body limp, lost forever. A sharp clatter made her gaze snap back up, and her stomach twisted violently at the sight.

Weapons.

Sliding downward, falling forward from the Cornucopia platform, sent skidding by the momentum of the island’s spin. Her breath caught as she saw the glint of a sword slicing through the air, its deadly point slicing closer, falling in a brutal arc straight toward her face.

Her heart seized in her chest.

Move.

She didn’t think. She reacted. Her fingers slipped from the stone as she jerked herself sideways, narrowly avoiding the blade that slammed into the rock where her head had been moments before. 

Her stomach dropped violently when she realized she’d let go with both hands. Her heart stuttered, her eyes going wide, her fingers stretching out, grasping for anything, but there was nothing. Her scream tore through the air as she plummeted backward, her limbs flailing uselessly.

The water hit her like stone. A brutal, freezing impact that stole the breath from her lungs, turning her scream into a choked, stinging gasp. Her arms thrashed, her legs kicked, but the waves churned violently, slamming against her from every angle.

The current was relentless. She kicked desperately, but the water was too powerful, the current too rough, keeping her pinned beneath the surface, spinning her head over heels. Her lungs burned, the pressure building in her chest, and she scrambled uselessly, her fingers clawing at nothing, her feet kicking against only water.

She broke the surface for a fleeting second, gasping for air, but a wave slammed into her face, forcing her back under. The saltwater filled her mouth, burning down her throat, making her gag and cough. Her chest heaved, the lack of oxygen making her muscles scream, her limbs trembling violently with exertion.

Suddenly, she was scared. Because she could feel herself slipping. Because she could feel her arms giving out. Because she knew— without a doubt—she was going to die.

She felt the faint, nagging numbness spreading down her arms, her chest tightening sharply, her lungs screaming. For a brief, horrifying second— she thought, this is it. She was going to die here.

And she didn’t want to. She didn’t want to die. Not here. Not in this water. Not like this. Not alone. And she suddenly felt so stupid, so violently, brutally stupid for ever fantasizing about drowning herself. For ever climbing into her bathtub, months ago, the water cold and still. For ever sinking down beneath it, watching the ceiling blur through the surface, wondering what it would feel like to just stay there. To never come back up.

She had thought, maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. Maybe it would be quiet. Maybe she would just slip away. Maybe she would see Cato again. But this— this wasn’t quiet. This was violent. This was brutal. She was choking on saltwater, her lungs burning, her limbs seizing, and she suddenly, violently, brutally wanted to live.

Her fingers reached out— weak, trembling— but she was slipping.

The world was turning black around the edges, her body heavy and useless, her fingers limp, just as she felt it— a tight grip on her wrist. Rough, unyielding fingers clamped tightly around her bare skin, their grip hot and firm, almost painfully tight. And suddenly she was yanked upward, hard and fast.

Her head burst through the surface, and she gasped violently, her lungs heaving sharply, her chest convulsing as she coughed violently, expelling half-choked mouthfuls of water. Her arms flailed weakly, grasping at anything she could, and she felt herself latch on— fingers clutching tightly at something solid, something warm and alive, her nails digging in sharply as she clung for dear life. She didn’t even register what it was at first— only that it was there.

Strong, steady arms wrapped around her, holding her upright, one broad hand bracing her back, the other still clamped firmly around her wrist. Her cheek pressed against the skin of someone's cheek, bare and slick with water, and she barely comprehended the voice, faint and rough near her ear.

“I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

The words were low, barely above a hoarse whisper, but she recognized it immediately. Her fingers tightened in the damp fabric of his wetsuit, and she sputtered out a weak, gasping cough, still clinging to him, her legs weak and trembling, barely kicking to help them stay afloat. Her arms looped weakly around his neck, her fingers trembling violently as she grasped for purchase, as though she could anchor herself to him, could stop herself from slipping under again.

Finnick held her upright.

His arms were strong and sure, keeping her against him, his grip tight around her as he kicked them toward the Cornucopia island. His movements were firm and deliberate, his strokes powerful, but she could feel the sharpness in his breathing, the faint, ragged edges to his exhale— as though he was barely containing something.

But he didn’t look at her. He didn’t speak again. He just kept swimming, his gaze sharp and unfaltering, his jaw clenched tightly, his eyes locked on the rock ahead.

The jagged lava stone was slick and wet, but Finnick’s movements were quick, pushing her toward the edge. His palms were hard as he shoved her upward, one hand against her waist and the other on the back of her right thigh.

“Up. Up.”

The words were low and tight, rough and hurried, and she barely registered them before she felt her chest slam into the jagged stone. Her palms slapped the rock, trembling as she scrambled for purchase, her fingertips slipping slightly against the slick, salt-coated surface.

Finnick’s hands were still there, steady and insistent, giving her the leverage she needed. Her knees scraped against the rough stone as she dragged herself forward, coughing violently, her arms shaking fiercely with the effort. Her chest heaved sharply, and she gagged on a mouthful of water, spitting it out violently onto the rock as she collapsed weakly onto her hands and knees, gasping for air, her entire body trembling.

Her fingers curled against the stone, digging in tightly, as she gagged and coughed, spitting out saltwater between each heaving breath. Her lungs burned fiercely, her throat raw, and she choked sharply on each wet, hacking cough, her fingers trembling violently against the rough stone. Her arms buckled faintly, her shoulders trembling, and she felt herself sway slightly, still lightheaded and weak from the near-drowning.

But before she could fall, before her knees could give out, she felt Finnick’s hands on her again. Strong, steady fingers gripped her upper arms, wrapping around her tightly, and then she was being hauled upright, pulled to her feet. She was wobbly, her knees still weak and unsteady, and her vision swam slightly, still blurred from salt and exhaustion.

Finnick’s arms steadied her, his hand gripping her waist, the other still locked around her arm as he kept her upright. Her chest heaved sharply, her breath coming in short, uneven gasps, and when she tilted her head back, she finally looked at him.

Only, he was already looking at her. His eyes were sharp, narrowed slightly, but he didn’t look angry. He didn’t look furious or ruthless the way he had in the fight minutes ago. He just looked— Conflicted. His lips were parted faintly, his breathing uneven, and for a brief second, she thought— why did he save her?

Her vision blurred slightly, her lashes wet, and she stared up at him, her lips slightly parted, her lungs still burning. She was still staring, dazed and disoriented, when she felt him tense slightly.

He wasn’t looking at her anymore. He was looking past her, his gaze sharp, his eyes flickering briefly to the side, to where Johanna stood several paces away, her axe still in hand, her eyes narrowed sharply.

Finnick’s fingers tightened faintly around Ophelia’s arm, his grip almost bruising, as he leaned in slightly, his lips barely moving when he spoke, “Go.” His voice was rough, barely above a whisper, but firm and commanding, leaving no room for argument.

Her chest tightened, her fingers twitching slightly against his arm, but she didn’t hesitate. She didn’t need to ask why. She didn’t need to look over to see Johanna staring at them. She just knew.

Her heart lurched violently in her chest, and she could feel the panic rising, sharp and cold, but she didn’t think twice. She jerked away from Finnick’s grip, her limbs still trembling, and she took off. Her feet pounded against the stone, her legs weak and heavy, but she didn’t stop running, didn’t slow down, didn’t glance back. She didn’t breathe until she was on the spoke, her arms pumping fiercely, the jagged stone scraping her feet, her lungs still burning.

But she didn’t stop. She didn’t look back. Not even when she heard Johanna’s voice cutting through the sound of the waves.

“What the hell was that?!”

Her legs were heavy. Burning and sluggish, still weighed down from the water, but she kept sprinting.

Ophelia's feet pounded against the slick, jagged stone of the spoke, her feet stinging sharply in her boots each time they slapped against the uneven surface, but she didn’t slow down. Her lungs were raw, still tight and aching, still tasting of salt, but she didn’t stop. She was panting sharply, her breathing uneven and shallow, her chest tightening painfully with each step.

Her bubble braid hung heavy, still soaking wet, slapping against the back of her neck and shoulders with every sprinting stride. The weight of it was sluggish and cold, and the waterlogged strands felt like they were slicing into her skin, each slap like a whip across her spine. Her arms pumped weakly, still sore and trembling from the struggle in the water, and her hands were slick with sweat, salt, and lake water.

She forced herself to move faster, faster, her feet hitting the beach, her boots sinking into the wet sand, her breath still jagged in her throat. Her eyes darted frantically across the jungle’s edge, scanning wildly, her chest tightening with panic.

Her feet skidded slightly as she veered into the tree line, the jungle’s thick brush snagging faintly at her wetsuit, but she barely noticed. She just kept running. Her lungs burned, her arms ached, and she was still gasping sharply when she finally saw him.

Brutus.

He was several meters ahead, emerging from the foliage, his shoulders squared, his muscular frame tense, his spear in hand. His head turned sharply, his eyes locking onto her as she came barreling toward him, her steps frantic, her breath labored.

Her heart lurched violently with relief, and she sputtered out a sharp breath, her voice breaking faintly as she stumbled closer. “Oh, thank God, you’re alive!” Her voice cracked sharply, half from relief, half from exhaustion, and she didn’t slow her steps, still breathing heavily, still wide-eyed with frantic desperation.

But Brutus didn’t move toward her. He didn’t reach out. He just stood there.

Her steps faltered faintly, but she didn’t register it at first. Not until she saw the way his jaw clenched, the way his shoulders squared, the way his fingers flexed around his spear, knuckles white with tension.

“He saved you?”

The words were sharp, almost a snarl, and they cut through her like a blade, slicing through the momentary relief and splitting it wide open.

Her eyes widened faintly, her breathing slowing, and she stared at him, momentarily stunned. “… Brute—”

But he didn’t let her finish. He took a step closer, his eyes narrowed, his voice hard and seething, low enough to be deadly, “Why would he do that?"

Her throat tightened sharply, and she froze, her fingers tightening faintly around the knives in her grip, but she didn’t say anything. Didn’t move. Because she knew what he was asking. And she knew he was right to ask. Still, she gave a nervous smile before daring to speak, “Huh?”

Brutus asked again, “Why would Finnick Odair spare you?”

She opened her mouth, shaking her head faintly, but she didn’t have an answer.

And Brutus— Brutus saw it immediately. He snorted sharply, his lips curling faintly, but it was cold and humorless, and his eyes narrowed further. “You had the perfect shot. You were right on top of him. Right there, Ophelia.”

Her stomach turned violently, and her breath hitched faintly, her fingers twitching at her sides. But she still said nothing.

Brutus’s expression hardened. “But you didn’t do it. Why?”

Her throat tightened, her lungs constricting, and she felt her mouth go dry, her fingers trembling faintly.

“Why didn’t you kill him?” The words were low, almost a snarl, and they cut sharply into her. “You could’ve. I know you could’ve.”

Her stomach twisted sharply, her chest tightening, and she stared at him, frozen. Because he was right. She could have killed Finnick. She should have. She was meant to. But she hadn’t. And she never intended to. Not for a single second.

Her eyes burned faintly, her fingers twitching slightly against her knives, and her lips parted faintly, her voice barely audible, “Brutus, I—”

But he didn’t let her finish. His lip curled faintly, and he took a step forward, his expression darkening, his voice turning cold, “You’re nothing but dead weight now.”

Her breath caught violently in her throat, and she stared at him, her eyes wide and disbelieving. “What?”

Brutus's fingers shifted faintly on his spear, his knuckles flexing tightly, and his eyes narrowed coldly. “I can't trust that you won't hesitate again. I can't risk my life on that.”

The words hit her like a punch to the gut, stealing the air from her lungs. Her chest constricted, and she felt her eyes burn sharply, her fingers trembling faintly, but she still took a step closer. “Brutus… I—”

But his fingers flexed around his spear, and he lifted it slightly, his eyes hard and unyielding, his voice low and warning, “Leave.”

Her lips parted faintly, and her stomach twisted violently, her breath coming in shallow, uneven gasps. But she still stared at him. His eyes were dark, empty, and ruthless, and she knew he wasn’t bluffing.

If she stayed, he would kill her himself.

Her fingers twitched weakly,  but she didn’t say anything. Didn’t argue. Didn’t beg. She just turned and ran.

Chapter Text

July, 75 ADD— Quarter Quell, Day 2

ALONE. Ophelia was completely and utterly alone. Though she was used to it now, the sting of it was still unforgiving to her bones as she trekked through the jungle. Her legs ached, and her arms hung heavy at her sides, slick with saltwater and streaked with dirt.  Her bubble braid, once neat, now clung in a soggy, tangled mess to the back of her neck and shoulders, the soaked strands slapping against her spine with each step. Her breathing was uneven, shallow and shaky, and she couldn't seem to steady it.

She could still see Cashmere’s hand slipping beneath the waves every time she blinked. Could still feel the weight of Gloss’s arm around her in the dirt. Could still hear Brutus’s voice, low and steady as he told her to get lost. To leave. That she was nothing but dead weight to him.

Nothing.

Her throat constricted as she pressed the heel of her palm against her sternum, as if trying to physically push the ache back into place. Her hands shook slightly as she patted around her hips and waist, searching by instinct for the familiar weight of her knives. She felt nothing. Her fingers fumbled over her body before lingering on the swells of her breasts, searching for the second bag she had strapped in between them.

It wasn’t there.

Ophelia froze mid-step. She patted around herself in a frenzy, checking her back, her hips, her thighs, even tugging at the waistband of her wetsuit as if somehow it could be tucked in there.

“Shit,” she whispered under her breath, before repeating it more frantically. “Shit, shit, shit.”

Her stomach dropped. She must have lost it in the water when she flew off the Cornucopia island. She didn’t even remember feeling it come loose. Just another thing she hadn’t noticed while she was busy drowning.

Her jaw clenched, frustration burning at the edges of her throat. Her fingers twitched, desperate for the phantom weight of her knives— her security, her skill set, her only advantage in this goddamn arena. Gone. She was unarmed and alone. Alone and unarmed.

A sound snapped her from her thoughts— a faint mechanical whirr in the distance, then a hiss of pressurized air.

Ophelia’s head snapped up toward the sky. Through the sparse canopy of the jungle, she spotted the silver glint of a parachute descending, its delicate fabric rippling softly as it glided downward.

Her breath caught.

Her feet moved on instinct, breaking into a clumsy jog toward the clearing. She barely felt the sharp leaves slapping at her bare arms, the scratch of low branches nicking at her skin. All she saw was the shimmer of silver against the gold-tinged afternoon light.

She stumbled into the clearing just in time, her arms outstretched as the parachute drifted into her hands. She caught it awkwardly, cradling it against her chest as her feet skidded on the loose soil. Her hands trembled as she unlatched the clasp on the canister. The lid popped open with a metallic clink and she stared down at the contents inside.

Her breath caught sharply in her throat.

Knives.

A fresh belt bag filled with knives.

She stared, wide-eyed, for half a second before her hands were moving in a frantic blur, yanking the belt free and fastening it around her waist, replacing her old one quickly. Her fingers were trembling, slick with sweat, but she didn’t care. She fumbled with the buckle for only a moment before it snapped into place. She ran her fingers over the knives with a desperate sort of relief, feeling the cool, familiar weight of them against her hips.

Then, she saw it.

Tucked inside the canister, pressed flat against the bottom, was a slip of paper.

She stilled. Her hands, which had been moving with wild urgency, slowed as she gingerly plucked the small note from the bottom. It was slightly crumpled at the edges, damp from the condensation inside the canister. With hesitant fingers, she unfolded it.

Three small words were printed in small letters that carried a larger meaning.

Hang in there.— O.

Ophelia’s breath hitched sharply. Her fingers curled tightly around the note, crushing it slightly in her palm. She clamped her hand over her mouth, squeezing her eyes shut as her throat burned. She squeezed her eyes shut tighter, biting back the cry that was threatening to crawl up her throat.

He was watching.

Of course he was watching.

She forced in a sharp breath and swiped her knuckles across her eyes, hurriedly brushing away the dampness clinging to her lashes. With shaking hands, she folded the note with quick, frantic precision before slipping it into her new belt bag, tucking it safely beneath the flap.

Then, she tightened the belt strap another notch and pressed her palm flat over the knives, grounding herself with the weight of them. With a final sharp exhale, she turned back into the jungle.

She moved carefully now, keeping her footsteps light on the damp earth. Her eyes scanned the trees, the underbrush, her ears tuned in to every faint rustle or distant crack of foliage. She was alone now, but she wouldn’t be caught off guard. Not again.

With her hand resting over the hilt of a knife, she slipped into the shadows, steeling herself against the ache in her chest.

Ophelia moved through the thick jungle with steady, measured steps, her boots sinking slightly into the damp, leaf-littered earth. The sun had begun its slow descent, casting long golden slants through the canopy, the light fractured by the thick foliage above. The leaves glimmered with a slick sheen of humidity, and the air was still heavy with the scent of wet soil and vegetation. Her wetsuit clung uncomfortably to her skin, still damp from the lake water, making every step feel heavier, each movement sluggish and uncomfortable.

Her hand stayed close to the knives on her new belt, fingers brushing over the hilts every few steps, just to ground herself. She kept her eyes sharp, her gaze flickering between the underbrush and the low-hanging branches overhead, alert for movement. Her ears strained to catch even the faintest sound— a footstep, the snap of a twig, the telltale shift of leaves. But the jungle remained eerily still, nothing but the occasional drip of water falling from the canopy and the faint rustle of ferns in the breeze.

After a while, she slowed her pace, her body aching from walking aimlessly for what felt like hours. She came to a stop beside a wide, knotted tree trunk and pressed a hand against the bark to steady herself. Her gaze drifted downward and caught on something half-buried beneath the leaves at the base of the tree.

Her breath hitched slightly.

The black fabric was unmistakable.

She crouched slowly, her fingers brushing aside the damp leaves, revealing the familiar fabric of her old sleeves— the ones she had stripped from her wetsuit and used as a makeshift pillow the night before. She stared at the crumpled pieces of cloth for a long moment, her throat tightening.

Her eyes traced the edges of the jungle clearing, taking in the familiar trampled foliage, the faint outline of where their bodies had pressed into the dirt. The realization slammed into her chest with a dull, sinking weight.

She was back.

Back where they had started.

Back where she had fallen asleep beside Cashmere, where she had given Gloss her too tart blueberries from the muffin, where they had sat around the dirt playing tic-tac-toe with their knives. Where they had been alive.

Her fingers curled into the fabric, clutching it tightly as a wave of nausea coiled in her gut. The clearing was empty now. No Cashmere. No Gloss. No Brutus. Just her.

Her throat bobbed tightly. With trembling fingers, she shoved the sleeves into her belt bag, stuffing them down beneath her spare knives. She told herself it was just in case she needed something to use as padding, or to makeshift another pillow if she found a place to rest. Just in case.

Without another glance at the clearing, she turned and pressed on, walking through the thinning jungle with no real direction in mind. Her legs were growing sore, her boots damp and heavy, but she didn’t slow down. She let her feet carry her, one step after the other, without pausing to consider where she was heading.

It was only when she slowed to catch her breath that she faltered.

Her eyes narrowed slightly as she turned in a slow circle, glancing around at the jungle around her. She could feel a prickle of doubt worming its way into her chest.

Where the hell was she?

Her eyes flickered over the trees, searching for something— anything— familiar. She glanced over her shoulder and squinted at the slant of the light through the trees. It was lower now, beginning its slow crawl toward the horizon. She furrowed her brow, trying to remember what Brutus had said when he’d split them up during the ambush.

Gloss west, Cashmere south, herself east, Brutus north.

Her lips parted slightly as realization struck her. She had been east when they ambushed the island. And she was moving in the opposite direction now. West, she thought. She must be going west.

She ignored the hollow flutter of uncertainty in her chest and pressed on, moving through the jungle with longer strides, convincing herself she was heading in the right direction.

As she moved deeper into the foliage, her eyes flickered upward at the sudden movement of color along the bark of a tree.

She stilled.

Perched vertically along the trunk was a large, thick-bodied lizard. Its scales shimmered with a strange, oily iridescence— bronze and copper beneath the speckled sunlight, with a bluish sheen clinging faintly to the edges. Its long, slender tail coiled loosely against the tree bark, and its throat pulsed slightly with each lazy breath.

Ophelia stared as its tongue flicked out, an electric shade of blue, darting between its jaws before snapping back into its mouth.

She tilted her head slightly, staring at it.

Could she eat that?

Her stomach clenched slightly at the thought.

It wasn’t a ridiculous idea. Meat was meat.  But the longer she stared at the flickering blue tongue, the more unsure she became. It was a vibrant color. Too vibrant. Wasn’t that usually a warning sign?

She stared at the creature for another moment before slowly, deliberately, stepping around the tree and continuing forward.

Her fingers curled around the hilt of her knife, her eyes sharp as they scanned the foliage ahead, and she kept walking. She slipped her fingers beneath the strap of her belt bag, adjusting the weight slightly against her hip, before she reached up and absently ran her hands over her bare arms.

Her palms skimmed over her skin slowly, feeling for any raw scrapes or shallow cuts she might have missed during the chaos of the ambush. Her fingertips pressed along her bicep, trailing down the curve of her forearm before sweeping back upward. Her skin was slightly damp from sweat and faintly clammy from the humidity, but smooth beneath her touch. No roughened patches. No stinging nicks.

She flexed her fingers once more, dragging her palms over the exposed skin at the tops of her shoulders. Still nothing. No gashes from Finnick’s trident, no shallow cuts from flying debris.

Her brows pinched slightly.

Really? She hadn’t come out of that with a single scratch?

She let out a slow exhale through her nose, but her fingers continued to move, slipping around to her right shoulder. She hooked her thumb beneath the edge of her wetsuit where she had hacked the sleeves off, peeling the material back slightly.

Her fingertips pressed gingerly against the spot.

She winced.

The area was tender and sore, the dull throb pulsing faintly beneath her skin. Her fingers probed the spot again, tracing the tender area with slow, deliberate movements. She rolled her shoulder slightly, testing it, but the faint twinge confirmed what she already suspected.

A bruise.

Her fingers lingered there for a moment, massaging the area lightly before letting the fabric fall back into place. Her lips pressed into a thin line, and her eyes flickered toward the ground as she walked, watching her boots sink slightly into the mud with each step. She let her hand drop back to her side.

She knew exactly how she had earned it. 

The two of them circling one another on the rocky island, drenched and winded, their eyes locked. The wet sheen of Finnick’s skin beneath the sun. The sharpness in his eyes. The quick, graceful movement of his trident cutting through the air.

Her stomach clenched slightly.

The memory was so vivid she could feel the heat of it still clinging to her skin. The rush of adrenaline pulsing in her veins. The slickness of the saltwater stinging her eyes.

She could see the way his jaw had clenched, the way his eyes had narrowed slightly when he had swiped at her legs with his trident. The moment her footing had faltered, her boots slipping slightly on the wet rock, sending her stumbling back.

Her shoulder had slammed hard against the jagged, uneven stone as she hit the ground. That was when she’d earned the bruise. She knew it.

She hoped he didn’t hate her for the throwing knives at him. 

Her eyes narrowed faintly, her gaze dropping to the forest floor as she kept walking.

Damn it. Now all she could see was the look on his face.

The dangerous glint in his eyes. The sharpness of his features, rigid with tension. His chest rising and falling with every quickened breath, his skin slick with sweat and saltwater. The flex of his arms as he gripped the trident. The sharp, fluid movement of his body as he parried her knives. The grace in the way he fought, disarming and elegant even in the ferocity of it.

The look in his eyes. Angry. Focused. Hot.

Then he had saved her.

She could still feel the iron-like grip of his hand around her wrist, yanking her from the water. She could still feel the firmness of his arms around her, the heat of his skin pressed against hers as he had held her above the waves.

And she could still hear the roughness in his voice when he had told her to run.

Why? Why did he do that? It didn’t make sense. He could have left her there. He should have left her there.

But he hadn’t. Instead, he had saved her.

She wasn’t sure if she hated herself more for not understanding why he had saved her or for knowing that part of her wished he would do it again.

Before she could dwell on it any longer, the sudden sound of mechanical chimes rang out through the jungle, sharp and melodic.

Four.

She had heard it before. The same strange, ethereal chimes that had cut through the arena earlier when the jungle had gone dark, only there had been five instead.

Her eyes narrowed slightly, irritation prickling faintly at her temples.

What are those stupid sounds?

Ophelia’s boots dragged faintly through the damp jungle earth, her steps heavy with exhaustion. Her legs ached with every sluggish movement, her muscles leaden from hours of walking without pause. Her breathing had slowed into an even rhythm, but her limbs felt sluggish and uncoordinated, her body dulled from fatigue.

Her eyes flickered dully from tree to tree, only half-seeing the jungle around her, her mind drifting into a fogged haze as she walked. But the sudden, sharp scurrying of claws against bark pulled her focus. Her eyes snapped upward.

A tree rat.

It darted erratically up the length of a wide-trunked tree several feet ahead of her, its sharp little claws scrabbling over the rough bark. Its slick, gray body moved swiftly, a flash of sleek fur and a narrow tail disappearing into the leaves above.

Ophelia slowed slightly, coming to a stop a few feet away. She stared at the spot where the rat had vanished. Her eyes flickered downward. She could still see its long, furless tail dangling for half a second before it disappeared completely into the foliage.

She could catch it. It wouldn’t be hard. She was fast, precise, had five knives at her disposal now. She could shoot it down with a blade have herself a meal.

Her stomach growled faintly at the thought. But she only exhaled sharply through her nose and shook her head, a grimace twisting faintly at her mouth.

No, she wasn’t that desperate. Not yet.

Her knees were starting to wobble faintly with each step, her legs trembling slightly from overexertion, the deep ache settling in her thighs with a weight that grew heavier with every step.

Her limbs felt waterlogged and shaky. She sighed. Her eyes flickered toward the tree where the rat had scurried. She made her way toward it, her boots dragging slightly.

The base of the tree was wide and broad, its bark jagged and cracked, with thick, heavy vines draping down from the limbs above like lazy, winding ropes.

Without hesitation, she slumped down heavily at the base of the tree, letting her legs stretch out in front of her.

Her boots scraped lightly over the jungle floor as she kicked them out slightly. She sagged back against the bark with a heavy exhale, the rough surface digging slightly into her shoulder blades, but she didn’t care.

The damp heat of the jungle clung heavily to her skin, making her arms feel slightly slick where they pressed against her sides. Her hair was still damp from the lake, the sticky humidity keeping her bubble braid clinging wetly to her back.

The soft hum of the jungle surrounded her— the distant buzz of insects, the faint rustle of leaves. The world blurred into a faint, soothing static, and her consciousness blurred into a faint, watery haze.

The sharp, chiming clang of five mechanical gongs jolted her violently awake. Her hands shot out faintly at her sides, instinctively gripping the bark of the tree behind her. Her chest rose and fell sharply as she blinked blearily around her, trying to clear the haze from her eyes.

The noise faded, but her eyes caught the faintest flicker of movement a few yards away. She turned her head slightly.

The jungle beyond her was suddenly pitch black.

Her stomach clenched faintly, a sudden tension knotting in her chest. Her eyes widened slightly as she sat forward, squinting through the thick, sticky darkness. It was so abrupt, so unnatural, that it almost looked like a solid, living wall of shadow stretching out before her. 

But then she noticed the way it stopped. Sharp. Abrupt. An invisible barrier halting the blackness in its place.

Her stomach turned faintly. Her heart gave a slow, heavy thud in her chest. She squinted slightly.

Wait.

She had just been there.

Her eyes narrowed slightly, squinting at the invisible wall. There were sections in the arena. Barriers.

She didn’t know what to do with that information. Not now. Not when she was this exhausted.

Her stomach twisted faintly, her mouth slightly dry, but she let out a slow, heavy exhale through her nose. She leaned her head back against the tree. She let herself fall into a shallow, restless sleep.

It didn’t last long. Another sharp, metallic clanging jolted her awake.

Six.

Her eyes snapped open. She jolted upright, her boots scraping slightly against the dirt.

Her chest rose and fell sharply. Her eyes narrowed slightly.

Again?

Perhaps it was an alarm. Time to wake up! The show must go on!

With a huff and screaming resistance from her limbs, Ophelia rose to her feet, hand braced against the trunk behind her for support. 

Her feet crunched with each step forward, dirt and leaves sifting under the soles of her black boots. She was walking aimlessly, she knew that. But there was no clear route, no layout of the arena. All she could do was walk. Walk. Walk. And hope that no one was hunting her down.

She had barely walked another twenty paces before she slowed again, her eyes narrowing at a tree up ahead. It was larger than the others, its trunk thick and gnarled, the bark deeply scored with massive, jagged slashes. Her footsteps faltered.

Her eyes trailed slowly over the enormous claw marks gouged into the bark. Three long slashes. Deep. Her stomach flipped violently.

Nope.

Her feet slowed to a crawl, her heart kicking up into her throat.

Nope. Nope. Nope.

Her pulse thundered in her ears, but she forced herself to take a small, hesitant step back. Then another. And another. Her breath caught slightly as she turned on her heel and pivoted in the opposite direction.

Just walk away. Don’t look back.

Smack.

Ophelia’s head snapped back with the force of the impact, her vision tilting as her body reeled backward. She stumbled violently, her hands flying out to catch herself as she staggered, blinking in confusion.

Her fingers grazed the air in front of her, but they made no contact with anything visible. Her eyes narrowed. Slowly, she reached out again. Her hand pressed against something cool, hard, and entirely invisible. 

Her stomach plummeted. She slid her fingers along the surface, her breath catching as she realized she was touching something smooth and solid— a transparent wall. She ran her hands along the surface, feeling the sharp edge where it curved slightly upward.

The barrier. This was the end of the section.

Her blood ran cold. She was trapped.

She staggered backward slightly, eyes wide, her palms still pressed against the invisible barrier. Her heart was beating erratically against her ribs. 

Ophelia barely had time to react before the thing emerged.

Her breath hitched violently as the guttural roar thundered through the jungle behind her, reverberating through the humid, cloying air. Her fingers tightened instinctively around the handles of her throwing knives, her knuckles whitening beneath the tension of her grip. She didn’t dare turn around immediately— her body frozen for a split second, her ears straining, her eyes wide and unblinking as she listened to the creature's heavy, lumbering footfalls approaching. She could feel the ground shudder faintly beneath its weight, the earth trembling with each predatory stride.

Move, she told herself. Move, move, move.

She spun around sharply, pivoting on the balls of her feet, knives raised defensively—

Her breath faltered violently in her chest.

The muttation towered before her, partially obscured by the dense foliage, its hulking frame silhouetted against the dimming light. It was grotesque—a horrific amalgamation of beast and nightmare. Its body was massive and gnarled with muscle, its build somewhere between a bear and an alligator, grotesquely thick and rippling with sinew. Jagged, bone-like spikes jutted out along its spine, serrated and uneven. Its elongated snout was split with needle-like teeth, flecked with foam and saliva, while its nostrils flared as it exhaled in heavy, guttural huffs. Its forelegs were broad and powerful, ending in massive, curved claws that dug into the earth with each step.

But none of that was what made Ophelia freeze.

And it was the eyes.

Cato’s eyes.

She knew them instantly. The exact shade of blue she had memorized since childhood, the very same eyes that often looked back at her in the mirror, the same shade they had inherited from their mother. 

No. No, no, no.

Her chest tightened. The air caught in her throat, and for a brief, paralyzing moment, she couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t move. She could only stare into the same icy eyes that she had seen on the Victory Tour posters, on the screens broadcast across Panem— the same eyes that had gone vacant as he lay broken and bloodied in the grass of the 74th arena.

Her legs refused to budge. She heard her own strangled breath rasping unevenly from her throat, the knives trembling in her grip.

And then the mutt moved. It lunged at her with a feral snarl, its massive claws swiping with brutal force through the humid air. The whistle of its strike snapped her out of her paralysis.

MOVE.

With a sharp gasp, Ophelia dove to the side, twisting her body and rolling hard across the uneven ground. She felt the wind of the mutt’s claws as they tore through the empty space where she had just been standing, the blow so forceful that it sent a scattering of leaves and dirt spraying through the air. Her breath came in shallow, terrified pants as she scrambled back onto her feet.

The mutt rounded on her with a heavy snarl, its lips pulling back over rows of jagged teeth. It was fast— faster than it should have been for something so massive. Ophelia’s fingers twitched around the handle of the knife in her grip. Her heart was slamming violently against her ribs.

Without thinking, she reared her arm back and flung the knife with all the force she could muster. It sailed through the humid air and missed. The blade sank uselessly into the thick underbrush behind the mutt, the sound of it embedding into the bark barely audible over the creature’s growl. Her stomach clenched with dread as she registered the loss.

The mutt snarled and charged again. She barely had time to react before she flung another knife, her hand moving on instinct. The blade arced toward the creature’s chest. But she was too panicked, too frantic— her aim was off. The knife merely grazed its massive shoulder and clattered to the forest floor.

The mutt lunged again, swiping with its massive claws. This time, the blow struck. The impact was bone-rattling. The claws raked savagely across her left shoulder, tearing through the sleeveless top her wetsuit and into the flesh beneath. A flash of white-hot pain shot down her arm, sharp and sudden, and she let out a strangled scream as the force of the blow sent her sprawling.

Her body slammed into the dirt with a jarring thud, leaves and soil grinding against her skin. She clutched at her bleeding shoulder, her fingers pressing against the fresh, wet warmth of the wound. Her vision blurred momentarily from the pain, her breath leaving her in a wheezing gasp.

She scrambled backward, heels digging into the dirt, her chest heaving. Her legs flailed beneath her as she frantically pushed herself back onto her feet, barely registering the blood dripping down her arm, streaking her forearm in deep crimson rivulets.

Her legs screamed in protest, but she forced herself into a dead sprint. She bolted through the underbrush, branches whipping against her face and arms as she fled, stumbling over exposed roots and uneven ground. Her bloodied shoulder throbbed with every stride, the pain sharp and searing, but she didn’t slow down. She couldn’t.

She could hear the mutt behind her. Gaining.

Its heavy footfalls slammed into the earth behind her, closing the distance with horrifying speed. Her throat tightened with fear, her chest aching with exertion.

In desperation, she fumbled for another knife, yanking it from her belt. She didn’t slow. She didn’t glance back. She didn’t aim. She just threw it. The blade sailed blindly over her shoulder. The mutt let out a guttural roar as the knife struck it somewhere along its flank, but the wound was superficial— it only seemed to enrage it further.

Ophelia choked on a sob as she forced her legs to move faster, her limbs trembling from exertion. Her bloodied hand slipped against the hilt of one of her two remaining knives, the handle slick with sweat. Her vision blurred slightly with tears, her chest tightening violently. Her foot caught on a tree root hidden beneath the leaves, and she was suddenly airborne, her arms flailing as she slammed into the dirt with bone-jarring force. The impact knocked the wind from her lungs, leaving her gasping violently. Her body screamed with pain, her shoulder throbbing viciously as she forced herself onto her back.

And there it was.

The mutt was already upon her.

Her eyes widened in terror as it loomed over her, massive and towering, its snout curled back in a snarl, rows of jagged teeth bared as saliva dripped from its maw. With a shaking, bloodied hand, she raised her knife as the mutt lunged. She thrust it upward with every ounce of strength she had left, her hand slick with sweat and blood, trembling violently.

The blade sank into the roof of the mutt’s mouth. The creature let out a guttural, ear-splitting snarl, its head jerking violently as its jaws snapped around the handle, the force of the motion nearly ripping the weapon from her grip.

Ophelia let out a strangled, terrified sob as she clung to the knife with both hands, her knuckles white with the effort. Her arms quivered with exertion, tears stinging her eyes. Her breath came in shallow, broken gasps as she stared into the mutt’s eyes.

Her brother’s eyes.

With a broken, desperate gasp, she twisted the blade sharply, her wrists burning from the exertion, forcing the knife deeper into the meat of the creature’s mouth. The mutt bellowed— a wretched, choked roar of pain and fury— and Ophelia seized the moment.

Her legs bucked beneath it violently, her boots slamming into its hulking chest and snout again and again, her feet slipping against its bloodied hide. She grunted with each blow, her kicks frantic and uncoordinated, her limbs trembling with the last dregs of her strength.

“Get off, get off, get off!” she sobbed hoarsely through gritted teeth, her voice rasping with terror.

Her boot struck the knife’s handle by accident, driving it further into the creature’s mouth. The mutt let out a savage, gurgling snarl and finally wrenched back, tearing itself off of her. Strings of saliva and blood trailed from its fanged maw, the knife still embedded deep in its palate, gleaming wetly beneath the dimming light.

Ophelia let out a broken, wheezing gasp of relief as she staggered onto her feet. Her legs nearly buckled beneath her, her balance precarious and unstable, but she forced herself to stand. Her bloodied fingers dug into the raw wound on her shoulder for leverage as she stumbled forward, her boots slipping slightly on the damp earth, but she kept moving.

Her chest heaved violently, her lungs struggling to expand. Each breath tore raggedly through her throat, burning like fire. She limped forward clumsily at first, disoriented and uneven, her limbs trembling violently from exertion.

Her ears were ringing so loudly she didn’t register the faint, distant boom of a cannon somewhere in the arena. It was nothing more than a distant throb beneath the thundering pulse in her head.

She pressed her blood-slicked hand to the gash in her shoulder, her fingers trembling over the torn, mangled skin. The pain was sharp and hot, radiating with every movement, but she barely noticed it. The adrenaline pumping through her veins made everything else distant, muffled— white noise.

She staggered forward, her legs threatening to buckle, her steps uneven and clumsy. Her boots slipped against the damp soil and scattered foliage. She kept her eyes ahead, unblinking and wild, refusing to glance over her shoulder.

She could hear the mutt tearing through the jungle behind her— snapping branches, stomping down brush, and snarling furiously, blood still gurgling in its throat. But she didn’t look back. She couldn’t.

The first glimpse of the pale golden sand made her lungs seize violently. Her throat tightened with a broken, half-strangled sob.

The beach.

She barely registered the dull burn in her thighs as she forced herself into a sprint, the uneven grains slipping beneath her boots as she surged forward. Her vision blurred violently, spots blooming at the edges of her sight. Her shoulder screamed with each jarring stride, but she pushed herself harder.

The heavy, bloodied braid clung to the back of her neck like a weight, dripping saltwater and sweat down her spine. Her chest was heaving unevenly, and her breaths came in frantic, shallow gasps as she stumbled across the shore.

The sand sucked at her boots, slowing her, and she nearly collapsed from the sudden shift in terrain. Her feet skidded, her knees knocking together clumsily as she scrambled to regain her footing. Her legs were barely holding her upright, her steps wavering and uncoordinated.

She heard voices in the distance— faint, alarmed shouts, growing closer. But she didn’t slow. She barely even registered the sound.

Her foot caught on an uneven patch of sand, and she pitched forward, falling hard to her knees. The impact sent a sharp jolt of pain through her legs and up into her throbbing shoulder, but she hardly noticed. Her hands shot out into the sand, catching her weight. Her fingers curled weakly into the grains, dirt and salt clinging to the blood beneath her fingernails. Her chest heaved violently, her gasping breaths raw and uneven.

The sob broke from her throat before she could stop it. Her bloodied hand slapped over her mouth, muffling the strangled, pitiful sound, her eyes squeezing shut as she sucked in uneven, broken gasps.

Her trembling fingers pressed harder against her lips, stifling the noise. Her throat tightened painfully, her chest constricting violently with each fractured sob. The adrenaline was ebbing. She could feel it slipping away— the panic leaving behind only trembling exhaustion and the sharp, searing pain in her shoulder.

Her bloodied fingers curled into the sand as she drew in a shallow, unsteady breath. She staggered slightly as she shifted onto her heels, forcing herself into a crouch. Her boots slipped slightly in the shifting grains, but she managed to push herself upright.

And then she turned. The mutt was still there. Snarling. Raging. Charging straight for her. But it wasn’t closing in. Her eyes widened as she realized it wasn’t moving forward. It was slamming against something.

The barrier.

The mutt’s massive, bloodied body collided against the transparent wall with a guttural roar, but it didn’t break through. It bellowed and reared back on its massive legs, claws raking violently across the unseen barrier. Sparks erupted along the surface as it struck, but it didn’t break.

It was trapped.

The mutt let out a deafening, piercing roar and lunged again, hurling its massive weight against the forcefield. Its claws scraped against the shimmering surface, shrieking as it tore at the wall in futile rage.

Her legs felt numb and heavy, rooted in place. She stared through the haze of sweat and blood, watching as the creature slammed itself against the wall with frantic, enraged persistence. Her chest constricted sharply as she stared at its eyes.

His eyes.

Her trembling hand fell limply from her mouth, her fingers trembling faintly at her side. Her vision blurred violently with tears.

The mutt let out a guttural, anguished snarl— its cry raw and grating. But beneath the feral roar, she could hear it— the unmistakable, familiar timbre of a human voice. It slammed itself against the forcefield again, clawing and snarling, the sound wet and grating as blood bubbled from its torn mouth. Its claws screeched against the shimmering wall, the tips sparking on impact, but it remained stuck. But it didn’t stop.

The mutt kept lunging, its massive body hurling forward with relentless fury. Snarling. Wailing. Screaming. That same awful, anguished sound he’d made when the wolf mutts tore away at the armor, the flesh, the bone. 

Her eyes burned with salt and sweat, but she didn’t blink.

The mutt threw itself at the forcefield again, its claws screeching against the wall. Its snarl was guttural and wet, blood gurgling in its throat. Its eyes— a chilling, perfect mirror of Cato’s— locked onto hers through the transparent shimmer.

And it roared.

She didn’t hear the footsteps until they were right behind her. She tensed sharply. Her breath caught violently in her throat, and her trembling hand shot to her belt, fingers closing around the final knife.

Her bloodied fingers curled around the handle, her grip clumsy and weak, but she yanked it free, twisting sharply onto her knees, ready to strike— but then she froze.

Her wild eyes locked with Finnick’s.

Her grip slackened immediately, her fingers loosening slightly around the knife’s handle. Her breath faltered in her throat, her chest still heaving unevenly. She stared up at him, wide-eyed and trembling.

For a split second, she thought she was imagining him— her disoriented, half-delirious mind conjuring him in the sand, like some cruel hallucination. But he was real. So painfully, vividly real.

His chest was still heaving from the sprint, sweat clinging to the hair at his temples.  His sea-green eyes were wild, scanning her rapidly for injuries, his hands slightly unsteady at his sides. And then his gaze snapped to the forcefield. Finnick’s breath caught violently in his throat, his brows jerking together sharply as his eyes locked on the creature thrashing behind the wall.

For a fleeting moment, he just stared. The blood drained from his face. His lips parted slightly, his chest tightening faintly as he watched the mutt hurl itself at the barrier with vicious desperation, its massive claws raking over the shimmering surface.

But it wasn’t the violence that made him go still. It was the eyes. 

He knew those eyes.

His jaw clenched faintly, a slight twitch of muscle in his cheek, but his face remained unreadable. Slowly, he tore his gaze away from the forcefield and turned back to Ophelia. She was still staring at the mutt. Her face was slack and empty, her expression eerily vacant— stripped of everything but shock. Her lips were slightly parted, barely breathing, her eyes still trained on the beast beyond the barrier.

And in that moment, he recognized the look. That terrible, hollow vacancy. He’d seen it before. He’d seen it on Annie’s face after she came out of the arena.

Finnick’s throat bobbed faintly, but his voice was steady when he spoke, low and sharp, “Where’s Brutus?”

Ophelia didn’t answer at first. Her eyes remained locked on the mutt. Her fingers remained slack around the hilt of her knife, trembling faintly from exertion.

Finnick’s eyes narrowed slightly. His chest rose and fell with steady, measured breaths, his trident still lowered slightly at his side. “Ophelia,” he pressed, a bit firmer this time. “Where is he?”

She blinked sluggishly, her eyes glassy and unfocused. She barely turned her head, her voice hoarse and hollow, “I dunno.”

Finnick’s face hardened slightly, his lips parting faintly with a sharp exhale. His jaw tensed, the muscle flexing as he turned his head sharply back toward the jungle, scanning the trees.

“Bastard,” he muttered under his breath. His grip on his trident tightened slightly, the muscles in his forearms flexing underneath the sleeves of his wetsuit.

Ophelia barely heard him. Her eyes drifted back to the forcefield. Her chest rose and fell faintly, barely moving. She was still staring at the mutt’s face.

And then he saw it.

The blood. Dark red streaks smeared down her arm, dripping steadily onto the sand.

His jaw clenched slightly. His eyes narrowed faintly as he reached out without thinking, his fingers brushing carefully over her shoulder. She flinched faintly at the contact, but she didn’t pull away.

Finnick’s brows furrowed, his fingers carefully tracing over the torn, ragged gashes where the mutt’s claws had raked through her flesh. His throat tightened sharply. 

“Shit,” he muttered under his breath, his voice hoarse.

Her skin was clammy and slick with blood beneath his palm. The wound was still bleeding sluggishly, the torn skin raw and ragged. She didn’t seem to notice.

Her hands remained limp at her sides, her bloodied fingers still half-curled around the knife, but she made no move to resist when he carefully curled his arm around her back, his other hand slipping beneath her elbow.

“Come on,” he murmured softly.

She didn’t respond. She barely blinked.

But when he tugged her forward, she stumbled numbly onto her feet. Her legs were shaking violently beneath her, the exhaustion hitting her all at once. Her shoulder throbbed viciously as she leaned against him, her face buried against his chest, her breath shallow and uneven.

Finnick glanced toward the trees, his sharp eyes scanning for the others. He spotted them not far down the beach— Johanna, Peeta, Katniss, and Beetee. They were staring. But he didn’t stop.

Without another word, he guided Ophelia across the sand, his grip firm but steady, his arm still looped securely around her waist. She let him.

She didn’t look back. His hand remained firm around her waist, fingers curled against her ribs, anchoring her to his side. Ophelia barely noticed.

Her legs dragged heavily with every step, her limbs leaden and stiff. Her boots scuffed unevenly through the damp sand, grains clinging to her knees. Her wet hair clung in heavy, sodden strands to the back of her neck, the tail end of her braid still dripping faintly.

But she kept walking. Only because he was moving her.

Katniss was the first to react. Her sharp eyes snapped to them instantly, her hand tightening around her bow as she shot to her feet.

Johanna was only a second behind her. Her eyes locked on Ophelia, and she was already reaching for her axe. She yanked it free from where it had been propped against the trunk of a slender tree, her knuckles tightening around the handle.

Peeta and Beetee rose as well. Neither reached for their weapons, but they didn’t need to.

Finnick didn’t slow. He kept his hand firmly around Ophelia’s arm as he drew her closer, guiding her toward the group. But as he took the final step into the clearing, he subtly shifted. Without hesitating, he moved Ophelia partly behind him, shielding her with the subtle, fluid motion.

Katniss’s eyes narrowed slightly, her fingers flexing over the bowstring.

Johanna’s eyes flickered briefly between Finnick and Ophelia. Her grip on the axe tightened, her lips parting slightly in disbelief before her expression hardened. “Oh, are you kidding me?” she snapped, her voice low and sharp.

Finnick’s jaw clenched faintly. He didn’t move. His hand remained steady against Ophelia’s waist, subtly keeping her just behind him, his sharp eyes locking squarely on Johanna. “We don’t have time for this,” he said.

Johanna’s eyes widened slightly in disbelief. She let out a sharp, humorless laugh, her lips curling faintly with a sneer. She took a step closer, her fingers curling tighter around the handle of her axe.

“Are you out of your mind?” Johanna hissed, her voice low and cutting. “You dragged her here?” She pointed the blade of her axe at Ophelia, the steel catching in the dim light. “Are you actually insane?”

Finnick’s eyes narrowed faintly, but he didn’t move.

Katniss stayed silent, but her grip on her bow didn’t loosen. Her eyes flicked briefly to Ophelia, her expression unreadable, her lips pressed into a firm line. She didn’t speak— didn’t lower her weapon. Peeta’s eyes remained trained on the two of them, his jaw tight, his hands tense at his sides.

Finnick’s fingers twitched slightly where they rested on Ophelia’s ribs. “She’s not a threat,” he said, his voice low and steady.

Johanna barked out another humorless laugh, shaking her head in disbelief. Her lips twisted with venom as she took another step forward. “Not a threat?” she snapped, her eyes flashing. She jabbed the blade of her axe sharply in Ophelia’s direction. “She was with the Careers. She fought you.”

Finnick’s jaw tightened slightly. His eyes flicked to Katniss— watching her for any sign of movement. Her bowstring was still taut, her knuckles slightly pale from the tension. Her eyes remained trained on Ophelia.

He exhaled slowly through his nose. “She’s alone now,” he muttered, his voice low but resolute.

Johanna shook her head sharply, her eyes flashing with disbelief. Her lip curled with disdain, her voice sharp and caustic. “Oh, so what?” she snapped. “You think that means she won’t gut you in your sleep?” She jabbed her axe toward Ophelia again. “You saw her on the island, Finnick. She was aiming for you.”

Finnick’s fingers curled subtly against Ophelia’s ribs. “Then why am I still alive?” he snapped back. His voice was sharper than he meant it to be.

The words hung heavily in the humid air.

Johanna’s eyes narrowed faintly, but she didn’t answer.

Ophelia remained silent. Her eyes remained fixed blankly on the distant tree line— vacant and glassy, her expression empty.

And then, without warning, she turned. Her limbs were sluggish and trembling, but she moved. Her legs carried her numbly away from the confrontation, her boots dragging faintly through the sand. She didn’t glance at the others. Didn’t register Johanna’s venomous glare or Katniss’s sharp gaze. Her face was slack and empty, her eyes dazed as she moved toward the trees— directionless, aimless.

Finnick’s sharp eyes immediately flicked toward her, his breath catching slightly in his throat. “Hey,” he snapped sharply, his voice low but firm.

She didn’t stop.

His expression hardened, his throat tightening slightly. Without hesitation, he reached out and grabbed her arm. “Hey,” he said again, his voice gruff, frustration biting at the edge of his tone.

She jolted faintly at the contact, her muscles stiffening slightly beneath his hand, but she didn’t resist when he pulled her back toward him.

“Where the hell are you going?” Finnick muttered roughly, his voice hoarse with disbelief.

Her blank eyes finally lifted to his. For a moment, she just stared at him. And for the first time, she really saw him. She saw the sharpness in his gaze— the slight wildness there, edged with fear. The faint crease between his brows. The tension in his jaw. The subtle, unevenness of his breath.

She had never seen him like this before. Never seen his eyes so dark with worry.

Why?

Her lips parted slightly, but she didn’t speak. Her gaze flickered uncertainly over his face, her brow knitting faintly.

Finnick’s lips parted slightly, his throat constricting faintly as he stared at her, his sharp eyes scanning over her face— her pale, empty expression. His hand flexed slightly around her arm, the weight of his grip grounding her.

And suddenly, she could feel the sand beneath her feet again. The ragged throbbing in her shoulder. The faint tremble in her legs. Her throat tightened faintly.

She blinked slowly.

Without a word, Finnick guided her toward the shore, his grip firm but steady. 

She barely noticed Johanna muttering darkly under her breath, her voice dripping with disbelief.

“I cannot believe this,” Johanna hissed, shaking her head as she watched Finnick lead Ophelia toward the water.

Katniss remained silent, her sharp eyes following the pair, her expression unreadable.

When they reached the tide, Finnick released her arm and gestured toward the sand, his voice low but firm.

“Sit.”

And she did. The water was shockingly cold against her skin, and Ophelia flinched faintly as the salt seeped into the raw edges of her wounds. The sting was immediate— a sharp, biting pain that sliced through the fog still clinging to her mind. She hissed faintly through her teeth but didn’t move away.

Finnick knelt beside her, one hand firmly on her upper arm while the other cupped the water and slowly poured it over the gashes.

She barely registered the warmth of his palm against her skin. Her eyes were distant, still clouded and unfocused, her breath shallow and uneven. She barely registered the warmth of his palm against her skin. Her eyes were distant, still clouded and unfocused, her breath shallow and uneven.

Finnick noticed. He noticed the slackness in her expression, the faint tremor still in her fingers. The hollow, disconnected vacancy in her eyes. But he didn’t say anything.

Instead, he remained quiet as he dipped his hand into the surf again, letting the water gather in his cupped palm before carefully tipping it over the torn flesh.

Blood diluted into pale pink ribbons as it swirled out into the current.

His jaw tightened slightly.

The cuts were deeper than he’d realized. Three jagged, parallel slashes raked diagonally across her shoulder, carved into her skin from the mutt’s claws. The edges of the wounds were ragged and torn, the surrounding flesh bruised a deep, ugly purple.

His eyes narrowed slightly when he saw the bruising. He stilled. His fingers hovered over the discolored skin, his breath catching faintly.

The bruises weren’t from the mutt. No, these were from him. When he’d knocked her off her feet without hesitation, sending her sprawling across the jagged rock.

His stomach turned slightly.

Finnick’s hand flexed faintly before he slowly reached out, carefully brushing his fingertips over the bruised flesh.

Ophelia immediately flinched. She jerked slightly, a sharp, involuntary reaction, her muscles stiffening beneath his touch. Her lips parted faintly, a brief, unbidden intake of breath escaping her. Her hand twitched faintly at her side, instinctively lifting as though to push him away.

Finnick’s hand stilled. “Hey, hey,” he murmured quickly, his voice low and calm. His fingers lifted slightly from her skin, giving her space. His eyes flicked sharply up to her face, scanning it carefully.

Her breathing was uneven, her pupils slightly too wide, her eyes still clouded and distant.

His lips parted faintly, his voice quieter this time, softer. “Hey,” he repeated, more gently, “I’m sorry.” His throat tightened slightly. “I have to clean it out,” he added, his voice barely above a whisper now. His eyes softened faintly as they held hers, his words low and steady. “I know it hurts, but I have to.”

Ophelia didn’t respond. Her lips were parted slightly, her breathing still shallow, but she didn’t pull away again. She let him.

Finnick’s jaw tightened faintly, his fingers hovering over her skin for only a moment longer before he carefully resumed his movements. He was gentler this time, more deliberate. His fingers brushed against her arm in slow, steady passes, guiding the salt water over the wounds, carefully rinsing away the blood.

The two of them remained silent. The cold water stung mercilessly against her torn skin, but Ophelia barely reacted. Her eyes remained heavy-lidded, her gaze unfocused, her face slack and expressionless.

Slowly, she shifted. Without a word, she turned slightly, moving stiffly on the damp sand until she was facing him.

Finnick’s hands immediately stilled. His eyes flicked up to her face sharply, instinctively, searching her expression with faint alarm. His brow furrowed faintly, his lips parting slightly.

“What?” he muttered quietly, his voice low but slightly wary. His sea-glass eyes narrowed slightly, watching her carefully. “Are you—” his voice caught faintly, his eyes scanning over her pale face. “What is it?”

Her eyes lowered slightly, drifting down to his arm. Her gaze fixed on the shallow cut that marred his bicep— the one her knife had left during the Cornucopia ambush.

Without a word, she reached out. Her fingertips brushed lightly over the edge of the cut, barely making contact, hesitant and fleeting.

Finnick’s breath caught slightly, his body stiffening faintly at the unexpected touch. His eyes flicked down to her hand, his lips parting slightly, but he didn’t move.

Her fingers hovered over the wound for only a second longer before he shifted slightly, pulling his arm back. “It doesn’t hurt,” he muttered quietly.

Ophelia’s eyes remained on the cut. Her expression didn’t shift. Her lips were slightly parted, her breath still shallow, her brow faintly furrowed. She stared at the shallow gash with a distant, vacant sort of fixation— like she wasn’t seeing it at all.

For a brief moment, she simply stared. Without looking at him, she reached for his arm again. Her fingers closed gently around his wrist, lightly tugging his arm back toward her.

Finnick’s eyes narrowed slightly. He stared at her in quiet disbelief for a beat, uncertain, but he didn’t resist.

Her grip was loose, almost tentative, but firm enough that he allowed her to guide his arm back toward her. Ophelia’s fingers trembled faintly as they settled around his forearm, her knuckles pale and bloodless from exertion.

Her other hand slowly dipped into the shallow surf, cupping the salt water. She lifted it carefully, the droplets trembling slightly in her palm. Slowly, she tipped her hand over his arm, letting the water run over the cut.

The salt stung faintly against his skin, but he didn’t flinch. He didn’t move at all. His eyes remained fixed on her face, unmoving, watching the furrow in her brow, the faint tremor still lingering in her fingers.

She was silent. Her expression was impassive, her eyes downcast. She didn’t speak, didn’t look at him. She simply rinsed the wound in silence, carefully, steadily.

And Finnick didn’t stop her. He only watched her as she cupped another pool of water in her palm and carefully tipped it over his arm, rinsing the cut once more.

Her fingers were trembling less now. Her touch was lighter, more deliberate, as if the sensation of the water running over her skin— the tangible weight of it— grounded her slightly.

She watched as the diluted blood swirled faintly into the tide. Her eyes remained lowered, focused intently on the shallow gash marring the golden skin of his bicep under the torn fabric of his wetsuit.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Without lifting her eyes, Ophelia slowly extended her hand again. Her fingers hovered over the cut for only a brief moment before she lightly traced the edge of it, running the tip of her finger along the shallow break in his skin.

Her touch was barely there— a featherlight pass over the wound, hesitant and fleeting. 

“I’m sorry I hurt you.” Her voice was raw, hoarse from exhaustion. It was barely audible over the tide.

Finnick’s eyes softened faintly. His lips parted slightly, but he didn’t speak right away. Instead, he only stared at her for a beat, his eyes unmoving as they flicked slowly over her face— the hollow exhaustion in her expression, the faint redness around her eyes from tears she hadn’t allowed herself to shed.

His throat tightened faintly. “I’m sorry too.”

Ophelia’s eyes slowly lifted to meet his. Her brow furrowed slightly, faint confusion clouding her gaze.

But before she could question it, he added quietly, his voice lower this time, “For your shoulder.” His voice was gruff, barely above a murmur. “I wasn’t trying to…” he trailed off faintly, shaking his head slightly, his throat tightening with guilt.

For a moment, she simply stared at him in silence, her eyes wide and unguarded, the edges still faintly red-rimmed. “Brutus knew it too,” she murmured quietly.

Finnick’s eyes narrowed slightly. A faint crease formed between his brows as he held her gaze, his eyes flicking slightly over her face, searching. “Is that why he left you behind?”

Ophelia blinked faintly at the question. Her fingers slipped slightly from his arm, the tips of them barely resting against his skin. “No,” she mumbled faintly, her voice barely audible. She gave a small shake of her head, her brow creasing slightly.

Her lips parted slightly, and when she spoke again, her voice came in a quiet, hoarse murmur, “No, it’s my fault.” Her throat tightened faintly at the words, but her voice remained flat, matter-of-fact. Her eyes remained lowered, staring down at his arm without really seeing it. 

“My aim has gotten bad,” she added softly, her voice slow and even, almost detached. She gave a faint, barely-there shrug, feigning indifference. “He couldn’t take his chances.”

Her fingers absently traced over the shallow edge of the cut, but her eyes remained downcast. And she didn’t believe a word she was saying.

She could feel the faint sting behind her eyes— the way the tears she hadn’t shed since Gloss and Cashmere’s deaths threatened to push against the back of her throat.

But she kept her voice steady. Even. Convincing. Because it wasn’t his fault. He didn’t need to feel guilty.

When she finally glanced up, she knew she hadn’t fooled him.

Finnick’s expression was impassive, his features schooled into careful neutrality. But his eyes— his eyes held hers. And she could see that he knew.

He didn’t say anything at first. He simply stared at her, his sea-glass eyes unwavering, the subtle tension in his jaw giving him away. “I’m good at telling when someone is lying,” he muttered softly.

Ophelia’s breath stilled faintly.

Finnick’s eyes remained locked on hers, unwavering. He gave a faint, hollow scoff that didn’t reach his eyes. “I’ve been in the Capitol enough times to know how to read people,” he added quietly, his voice lower this time, his eyes flicking slightly over her face.

His gaze didn’t waver. And for the first time since Brutus had left her behind, Ophelia felt something raw and exposed that she couldn’t bring herself to guard.

She stared at him for a beat, her throat tightening faintly. “And what are you reading from me?”

Finnick’s breath stilled faintly. His lips parted slightly, but he didn’t answer right away. He only stared at her. His eyes flicked slowly over her face, taking in the soft, hollow edges of her expression— the faint redness still lingering around her eyes, the way her lashes were still damp at the tips.

And then, slowly, his eyes drifted to her mouth.

He didn’t mean for them to, but they did.

And his gaze lingered. Only for a brief moment, but long enough. Long enough for his mind to betray him.

Without warning, the image struck him— the sudden, unbidden flash of her lips beneath his, the phantom sensation of her body arching against him. Her back against the sand, his hands on her waist, his mouth moving along the delicate curve of her throat. 

Tasting the salt on her skin. 

Trailing lower. 

Her collarbone.

The dip of her sternum.

Her belly button.

Lower.

And lower.

His breath caught faintly. His eyes flicked sharply back up to hers, stifling the thought before it could go further.

His eyes landed on her braid— the disheveled, tangled length of it, heavy with saltwater and matted with blood. The same blood that had been staining his hands.

Finnick’s jaw tightened faintly. His voice was low when he spoke, quiet and gruff, but steady, “Do you want me to rinse the blood out of your hair?”

Ophelia blinked faintly at the question. Her eyes widened slightly, as though startled by the sudden shift. But she didn’t hesitate. She gave a faint nod.

Without a word, Finnick slowly lifted his hands and began undoing the ruined bubble braid, his fingers carefully untangling the bloodied length.

The tension in her body slowly melted. And when he shifted to sit behind her, legs extended out on either side of her thighs, she didn’t resist. She only let out a slow, quiet exhale and closed her eyes. Her breathing evened slightly as he worked, her body gradually leaning into his touch. 

His body remained still, unmoving except for the slow, deliberate motion of his hands as they continued to thread through her waist-length hair. Caramel blonde darkened from saltwater, the heavy strands were clumped together in damp sections, stiff with the remnants of dried blood and matted from the violence of the fight.

The blood was gone now.

He had rinsed it out a while ago, but he hadn’t stopped. His hands continued to move slowly, patiently, combing through the damp, heavy strands. He untangled each knot carefully, drawing his fingers through the salted lengths from root to tip, methodically smoothing out each section as though he had no intention of ever stopping.

Her head was tipped faintly forward, resting in the subtle cradle of his arms, her chin dipped slightly toward her chest.

She was slumped slightly, the last remnants of adrenaline draining from her limbs, leaving her hollow and boneless, her posture loose and heavy with exhaustion.

But she let him hold her. She let herself lean into him, allowed her back to settle fully against his chest, her body slack and pliant in his arms. Her eyes were closed, the soft fan of her lashes brushing faintly against her cheekbones.

She wasn’t asleep. Her breathing was still too shallow, too uneven, faintly trembling with each exhale. But she was quiet.

For the first time in hours, she was still. Finnick kept his hands moving. Slow, steady, gentle.

He didn’t notice when Peeta approached them, not at first. He was too focused on her— the subtle tremor in her breathing, the faint shiver that occasionally ran through her frame as his fingers brushed over the skin at the nape of her neck.

But he felt Peeta before he saw him. The faint, barely audible tread of footsteps over the sand, the slight shift in the heavy atmosphere as Peeta neared.

Finnick’s head turned faintly over his shoulder. His eyes met Peeta’s. His arms instinctively tightened around her frame, the gesture barely perceptible— nothing more than a subtle curl of his bicep around her— but it was enough.

He didn’t think Peeta noticed. But he did.

Peeta’s eyes flicked slowly over them, his expression subdued but watchful.

Without a word, he extended his hands. Finnick’s eyes lowered faintly, following the motion, and it was then that he saw what Peeta was offering— the sleeves of his wetsuit. The thin fabric was torn at the seams where he had ripped it from his suit, leaving jagged edges at the shoulders. But the fabric was dark and pliant, and it would be enough.

Enough to wrap her shoulder. Enough to stop the bleeding.

His fingers brushed briefly over Peeta’s knuckles as he took the sleeves. When their eyes met again, neither of them said anything. They didn’t need to.

There was no accusation in his expression, no wariness. Only quiet understanding. A faint nod of heads.

Peeta turned and began walking back toward the others. In the distance, Finnick could hear Katniss’s voice— low and quiet, questioning Peeta— “What did you give him?”

Peeta’s response was too quiet for Finnick to hear. But he didn’t linger on it. His attention was already shifting back to the girl in his arms.

He glanced down at her, at the faint rise and fall of her chest, at the subtle tension that lingered in her brow even as she rested.

Her breathing was slower now, steadier, but she was still trembling faintly. Her face was pale, the faint flush on her cheeks from exertion fading, leaving her skin ashen and stark against the golden tan of his arms where they circled her.

Her shoulder was still bleeding.

Without speaking, Finnick slowly shifted his arms, carefully guiding her to sit upright.

Ophelia let out a faint, shallow exhale at the movement, but she didn’t resist. Her body was still pliant, heavy with exhaustion, and she only slumped slightly against him, letting him guide her.

Finnick carefully peeled back the fabric of her bodysuit from her shoulder, exposing the deep, jagged slashes left by the mutt’s claws.

He stared at the gashes for a moment. The skin was raw and swollen, the edges still slick with blood that was beginning to dry against her skin in thin, tacky trails. But the wounds were still open, still weeping sluggishly.

Without speaking, Finnick slowly lifted the first sleeve and began wrapping it under her armpit, his fingers deft and precise as he tied the makeshift bandage in place. His knuckles brushed lightly over her skin as he worked, careful to avoid the torn edges of the cuts, but Ophelia didn’t flinch.

Once the fabric was secured, Finnick’s hands slowed slightly, his touch unconsciously softening as he carefully adjusted the knot at her shoulder. “Is it too tight?” he muttered quietly, his voice low and hoarse, barely above a whisper.

Ophelia gave a small shake of her head. “I would rather it be tight and stop the blood,” she whispered hoarsely, “than bleed out.”

Finnick’s chest tightened faintly. He only tightened the fabric slightly— just enough to keep the pressure firm— his hands careful, deliberate. When he finished, his fingers lingered faintly against the nape of her neck, his thumb brushing softly against her skin.

Neither of them spoke.

Finnick kept his arm steady around her waist, supporting her with each stride, his fingers curled faintly against the curve of her hip. The ache of the gashes in her shoulder was a steady throb beneath the makeshift bandage. But she didn’t lean away from him. She let him keep his arm around her as Finnick guided her back toward the tree line.

It wasn’t until they neared the shade beneath the tree line that Finnick slowed slightly, his hand instinctively tightening against her waist as his eyes flicked ahead to the figures watching them. None of them spoke as Finnick and Ophelia neared. They only watched.

Finnick’s hand tightened slightly against her waist.

As they came to a slow stop in front of the group, the silence was cut by Johanna: “Are you serious with this?”

Finnick’s jaw tightened faintly. His eyes flicked toward Johanna. “Yes,” he said flatly, his voice cool and even. “I am.”

Johanna let out a scoff of disbelief, her fingers tightening faintly around the handle of her axe as she glanced over at Katniss. Her expression was dry, pointed, practically daring Katniss to take her side.

“Are you hearing this?” she muttered sharply, her tone dripping with incredulity. She turned her gaze back to Finnick with a snarl. “You’re really just gonna bring her back here? After she tried to kill us?”

Katniss’s eyes flicked toward Finnick, but her expression remained unreadable. She didn’t say anything at first. Her gaze shifted faintly, scanning over Ophelia, taking in the shallow rise and fall of her chest, the faint pallor beneath the sunburn on her cheeks.

She hesitated.

Johanna opened her mouth, about to make another remark, but before she could speak, Ophelia took a small, unsteady step forward.

Without a word, she reached down, slowly unfastening her belt bag. Her fingers were slow, trembling slightly, stiff with the lingering ache of adrenaline and exhaustion. She slid the belt bag from her hips, holding it loosely in her hands, before she slowly unfastened the flap and turned it upside down. The bag slumped limply in her grip.

Nothing fell out.

Her voice was quiet, hoarse from disuse, barely more than a murmur, “I used all my knives on the mutt.” Her eyes were downcast, her gaze lowered faintly to the sand as she spoke. “The last one I had,” she added dully, her fingers faintly tightening around the empty bag, “I left out on the beach.”

Johanna’s mouth curled into a slow, derisive sneer. “Oh, great.” She let out a humorless laugh, dry and scornful. “So you’re useless and unarmed. Perfect.” Her tone was acid.

Finnick’s head snapped toward her. But before he could speak, Ophelia did.

“So,” she muttered, lifting her eyes toward Johanna, her tone laced with deliberate mock innocence, “would you rather me be armed or unarmed? Or do you just want to find any reason to hate me?”

Johanna’s eyes flashed. Her expression hardened into a sharp snarl, her fingers curling into fists against the handle of her axe. “You threw a knife into my back at the Cornucopia,” she spat bitterly, her voice flat and cutting. “Remember that?”

Ophelia’s eyes narrowed faintly. Her lips curved into a slow, condescending smirk. “Oh,” she murmured with mock sweetness, her brows faintly raised, her head cocked slightly to the side. “So you're wanting an apology?”

Johanna’s eyes narrowed sharply. Her lips curled into a sneer. Her grip tightened on her axe. 

Peeta suddenly stepped forward. “Hey,” he said quickly, his voice low but firm, stepping slightly between them. His expression was calm but measured, his tone carefully placating, the edge of warning faint but clear. “Enough,” he said quietly, glancing between them.

Johanna’s eyes flicked toward Peeta. Her jaw tightened faintly, the muscle in her temple ticking sharply. But she didn’t say anything, not immediately.

Slowly, her eyes shifted toward Finnick. She caught the look on his face. The hard, protective glint in his eyes. The subtle edge of tension in his jaw. The faint, almost imperceptible curl of his arm around Ophelia’s waist.

She gave a low, derisive scoff. Then she turned her eyes back to Finnick. “Keep the stray on a tight leash,” she sneered coolly. “Or she’ll get an axe to her skull.”

Chapter Text

July, 75 ADD— Quarter Quell, Day 2

FROM WHERE SHE SAT ON THE BEACH, Ophelia watched Finnick move through the shallows. Her arms were loosely looped around her knees, drawing them faintly against her chest, her hands clasped lightly together at her shins. Her hair had dried into soft, disheveled waves, heavy with saltwater, the dampened locks spilling loosely over her shoulders, darkened several shades by the ocean.

Her wetsuit was still damp, still clinging uncomfortably tight to her frame, heavy with salt and grit. The makeshift bandage Peeta had given them was still tied over her shoulder, darkened with blood, but holding fast.

Her gaze remained steady on Finnick. He stood several feet out in the water, just beyond the gentle break of the waves. His trident was held firmly in his hand, the heavy tines glinting faintly in the evening light, slick with saltwater and fish scales.

She watched the sharp, fluid movements of his arms as he lunged with swift, practiced precision, the trident slicing sharply into the water. She watched him draw it back, the tines slick with blood, a silver-scaled fish twisting limply against the prongs.

She wondered if the others could see it. If they could see the way his shoulders were held a fraction tighter than usual, the way he kept casting faint, sidelong glances toward her even as he hunted, the way his eyes lingered just a heartbeat too long. She wondered if they could see the shift in him, or if they were too preoccupied with keeping an eye on her.

Ophelia let out a slow, measured breath, feeling the salt air tug faintly at her hair.

Behind her, she heard the sound of faint footsteps crunching softly against the sand. Her shoulders went rigid, her fingers curling instinctively into the fabric of her wetsuit. She turned slightly, glancing over her shoulder.

Peeta stood a few paces behind her before he held out a halved coconut shell. She blinked at him for a moment, uncomprehending, her eyes briefly flickering down to the shell. It was filled nearly to the brim with water, still cool from the spile.

Ophelia stared at it for a moment. Then she slowly reached out, her fingers curling loosely around the shell.

Her grip was stiff, slightly weak, her hands still trembling faintly from exhaustion, but she took it. She glanced up at him, her throat dry, her voice barely more than a whisper, “Thank you.”

Peeta didn’t say anything. He only gave her a faint, silent nod. He slowly turned and made his way back toward the shade of the tree line, where Katniss and the others were still resting.

Ophelia’s eyes lingered on his retreating form for a moment before she glanced down at the shell in her hands. The water was cool against her skin, the faint condensation beading lightly along the rim.

For a moment, she only held it, letting the chill seep into her fingertips. Gingerly, she brought it to her lips and took a slow, shallow sip. The water was clean, clear, slightly sweet with the faint aftertaste of coconut. It soothed her parched throat instantly, washing away the faint sting of salt lingering on her lips.

She exhaled faintly. Her throat was still dry, but the water was cool against the rawness, and it eased the ache slightly. Her eyes flicked back toward the water. Finnick was still out there, still hunting.

She stared at him for a beat longer before she pushed herself to her feet. Her legs were stiff with fatigue, her muscles slightly shaky with the exertion, but she willed herself to keep moving. Her fingers curled faintly around the shell as she crossed the damp stretch of sand, slowly making her way toward him.

She approached him carefully, moving quietly through the shallows. The water was cool against her ankles, numbing faintly against her bruised knees. She came to a slow stop just a few feet away. 

Without a word, she extended the shell toward him.  He glanced over his shoulder when he heard her approach, the soft shuffle of her steps against the sand barely audible over the lapping waves. He didn’t take it. 

Instead, he gave a faint shake of his head, his eyes narrowing slightly. “Drink it,” he said evenly, his voice low and steady. His hand tightened faintly around the shaft of his trident, the fish still limply twisting against the tines.

Her fingers tightened around the shell. “I—”

“Drink it,” Finnick repeated firmly, cutting her off. “When’s the last time you had water?”

Ophelia faltered. Her brow furrowed as she tried to remember. Her mind felt fogged, hazy, like sifting through cotton. But as she scanned through her memories, the realization hit her. It had been earlier that day before they’d ambushed the others. Before she had fled. Before the mutt.

Her throat tightened faintly. She didn’t answer. She only stood there in silence, her fingers still curled faintly around the shell.

His voice lowered slightly as he spoke, “Thought so.”

She lifted her eyes back to his. The sharp glint of quiet command in his gaze made her chest tighten faintly. Despite that, she slowly extended the shell toward him again. “I’ll only drink the rest,” she murmured softly, “after you take a sip.”

Finnick only stared at her. Then, he set his trident down, lowering it into the shallow water. His fingers closed around the edge of the shell, brushing faintly against hers as he took it from her hands.

Without looking away from her, Finnick slowly raised it to his lips. He took a small sip then lowered it again, his eyes steady on hers as he handed it back.

She took it from him. Her fingers curled faintly around it and she finished the rest. Ophelia didn’t look away from him as she drank. Neither did he.

“Finnick! Stray!” Johanna’s sharp voice rang out across the beach, cutting through the soft hush of the waves. “Come back!”

Finnick exhaled faintly through his nose. His eyes lingered on Ophelia for a moment longer, his fingers faintly brushing hers as he took the shell back.

Slowly, he grabbed his trident, the speared fish still glinting faintly on the prongs, and turned back toward the shore. He held his hand out to her. Ophelia took it as she walked alongside him. 

The others were still gathered under the shade of the broad, low-branched tree along the edge of the jungle, where they had been sitting before. Beetee was seated on the sand, hunched over slightly as he methodically tinkered with the coil of wire in his lap. Peeta and Katniss sat across from him in the sand, both glancing up at Finnick and Ophelia as they grew closer. Johanna leaned against the base of the tree with an arm propped over a low branch. Her eyes were narrowed faintly in suspicion as she watched them approach.

None of them spoke at first.

Finnick shifted subtly behind her, his hand ghosting briefly against her waist as he moved to his left and set his trident down in the sand, leaning back casually against a low, sturdy tree branch opposite of Johanna. Ophelia remained where she was in front of him, keeping her arms crossed over her chest, her eyes lowered faintly toward the sand, though she was aware of every set of eyes lingering on her.

Johanna arched a brow faintly, her eyes flickering between the two of them with a look that was anything but subtle.

“I have a plan,” Beetee announced, drawing their attention. His voice was calm, measured, but there was an unmistakable spark in his eyes. He glanced up at Finnick and Ophelia, then back at the others. “Ophelia, where did you and the other Careers feel safest? The jungle?”

Ophelia’s arms tightened faintly across her chest. Her brows drew together slightly at the unexpected question. “Well, no,” she muttered after a moment. “It went pitch black the other night when I was on watch. Then I got attacked by the mutt. So, I wouldn’t call it safe.”

Peeta’s voice cut through the conversation. “Only place left is the beach.”

Beetee nodded once. “And why is he not here?” he asked simply.

“Because we are,” Johanna answered. “We claimed it.”

“And if we left,” Beetee said, “he would come.”

Finnick lifted a brow, his voice low. “Or stay hidden in the tree line.”

Ophelia shifted slightly, looking back to glance at him, though only for a second. “... I mean, yeah. That’s what we did,” she admitted with a faint shrug, her voice dispassionate. She turned her eyes back toward Beetee.

Beetee’s eyes narrowed slightly behind his glasses. “Which, in just over four hours, will be soaked from the ten o’clock wave.” His voice was measured, but there was an edge of anticipation beneath it. “And what happens at midnight?”

Katniss, her voice low but steady, answered without hesitation. “Lightning strikes that tree.”

Ophelia’s brow furrowed slightly, glancing at the tree in question with the faintest flicker of confusion. She looked back at Katniss, then at the others. Her lips parted slightly. “Wait, you guys can tell time?” she asked dryly, arching a brow.

Johanna let out a short, unamused breath, her lips twitching into a fleeting smirk.

Beetee ignored the remark and continued, the corner of his mouth twitching upward slightly at the edges. “Here’s what I propose.” He unspooled a length of wire between his fingers. “We leave the beach at dusk. We head to the lightning tree. That should draw Brutus back to the beach. Prior to midnight, we then run this wire from the tree to the water.” His eyes were sharp and steady as they met each of theirs in turn. “Anyone in the water or on the damp sand will be electrocuted.”

Johanna tilted her head slightly, eyeing the wire with a skeptical squint. “How do we know the wire’s not going to burn up?” she asked flatly.

Glancing over his glasses, Beetee responded, “Because I invented it. Iassure you, it won’t burn up.”

Exhaling slowly, Johanna leaned back against the tree with a nonchalant shrug. “Well, it’s better than hunting him down,” she muttered, tipping her head back with a sigh.

Katniss glanced toward Peeta. Her voice was low and steady. “Yeah, why not?” She shrugged slightly, though her eyes remained sharp, assessing. “If it fails, no harm done anyway, right?”

Peeta’s voice was even when he answered. “Alright. I say we try it.”

Ophelia lifted a brow slightly, her lips twitching faintly. “I have no reason to oppose.” Her voice was dry, almost playful, though her eyes were still sharp. She glanced briefly at Finnick, her lips quirking into a faint smirk. “Just glad I’m not on the receiving end of this one.”

Finnick’s eyes narrowed slightly, and for the first time in hours, his lips tugged upward ever so slightly. “So, what can we do to help?” His voice was low, almost disinterested, but his eyes remained fixed on her. 

Beetee met his gaze with the faintest of smiles. “Keep me alive for the next six hours,” he answered evenly. “That would be extremely helpful.”

Johanna let out a short, dry laugh, the sound cutting through the humid stillness as she stood from her spot against the tree. She hooked her axe over her shoulder with casual ease, her gaze flicking over the others with a bored sort of amusement. “Well,” she muttered. “Either this works and we live, or it doesn’t and we die. Pretty foolproof plan.”

Beetee shot her a faintly exasperated look over his glasses but said nothing. He let out a slow breath through his nose before slowly pushing himself to his feet, groaning faintly as his knees creaked.

Beside him, Peeta shifted and turned slightly toward Katniss, reaching down to offer her his hand. She glanced at him briefly, her eyes flickering with hesitation before she took it, allowing him to pull her upright. Their fingers only parted when Katniss bent down to dust the sand from the backs of her legs.

Peeta ran a hand through his damp, disheveled hair before quietly tipping his head toward the beach. “C’mon,” he muttered to Katniss under his breath, his voice low but steady. “Let’s sit by the water for a bit.” Katniss simply nodded once in agreement, and together they began walking toward the shoreline, their feet sinking slightly into the damp, uneven sand.

Johanna rolled her eyes slightly as she watched them go, then turned back to Beetee with a smirk. “Sun?” she asked breezily, already stepping away from the shade of the tree line without waiting for an answer. 

Beetee let out a low huff, but without protest, he trudged after her, moving slowly over the uneven ground, his gait slightly stiff from the long hours spent sitting in the sand.

The group splintered off gradually, wandering back toward the open stretch of beach, leaving only Ophelia and Finnick lingering in the shade beneath the low, crooked branches.

Ophelia let out a quiet sigh as she glanced down, frowning faintly when she noticed her bootlace trailing loose against the sand, unraveled and tangled with bits of broken twigs and grit. She muttered a faint curse under her breath before bending at the waist, bracing one hand on her knee while she roughly tugged at the stubborn lace. Her fingers, still slightly slick with sweat and grit, fumbled briefly as she pulled at the knots, trying to work the dirt-crusted lace free.

She didn’t notice Finnick watching her.

At first, he hadn’t been. Not intentionally. His eyes had been idly following the others— tracking Peeta and Katniss as they moved down the beach, watching Johanna’s axe glint in the sunlight as she lazily dragged it over her shoulder. But then, when his gaze shifted back toward Ophelia, he caught sight of her bent at the waist—her hips tilting toward him, the curve of her back arched ever so subtly as she tugged at the lace of her boot.

And he forgot how to breathe.

The wetsuit they were given left nothing to the imagination. It clung to her, sculpting itself to the sharp dip of her waist before flaring over the generous curve of her hips, stretched taut over the fullness of her backside. The fabric molded to her like a second skin, emphasizing the firm, muscular shape of her thighs, the solid strength in her calves. The way she was bent over only made it worse— her stance shifting, the material pulling even tighter across her hips, outlining every dip and swell.

Finnick clenched his jaw, fingers twitching at his sides. He needed to look away. Now. He inhaled sharply through his nose as he ran his tongue over his bottom lip, blinking rapidly as he forced himself to look away.

But it was too late. His body had already reacted, heat pooling low in his stomach, blood rushing somewhere it absolutely should not be, the slow but steady swell of arousal.

Fuck.

Not the time. Not the damn time. It wasn’t ever the time.

He’d spent years— years— training himself to compartmentalize, to control what had been beaten into him in the Capitol, the instinct to turn attraction into performance. To wield his own desirability as both armor and weapon. He wasn’t proud of it, but he understood it. He understood how his own body had been used, twisted into something he barely recognized, something he had long since learned to resent.

But this— this wasn’t the same. This was Ophelia. And it had nothing to do with power, nothing to do with survival, nothing to do with performance. It was just her.

His eyes darted toward the distant edge of the treeline, scanning for any faint glimmer or unnatural glint. The cameras. The arena was riddled with them, hidden carefully in the foliage or embedded in the branches. He knew they were there. He could practically feel them leering at him from the trees. They would catch this. Of course they would. The Capitol would exploit it— he knew it with sick certainty. His pulse quickened sharply, a flush of heat crawling up his neck and over the tips of his ears.

The Gamemakers would eat this up. The cameras would zoom in, linger just long enough. A flash of his flushed skin. The shape of him beneath the suit. It would be beamed across Panem within the hour, distorted and grotesque on the massive screens. 

And he knew exactly how the audience would react. How Snow— how his clients— would see it and twist it into something to use against him. And every second longer he stood there like this, they were getting footage. 

He could feel the nausea rising in his throat at the thought, a sharp, acrid burn in the back of his mouth. A familiar shame pressed against his ribs, heavy and suffocating. He ground his molars together, the muscles in his jaw tightening painfully.

She straightened.

Ophelia, oblivious to the effect she had just had on him, finished tying her boot and slowly pushed herself upright. She brushed her palms against her thighs, wiping away the sand, and turned to walk toward the beach.

She would have walked away without a second thought— had he not moved.

Without thinking, without hesitating, Finnick shot forward, reaching out and gripping her wrist with quick, fluid desperation. His fingers closed firmly around her skin before she could take another step. With one swift tug, he pulled her back, yanking her flush against him with a force that startled them both.

Ophelia let out a small, startled noise as she stumbled slightly against him, her back pressing flush to his chest. The heat of her body seeped through the thin material of his suit, making things worse, but he locked his jaw, forcing himself to focus.

She twisted her head over her shoulder, confusion written across her face as she looked up at him. “Finnick?”

He didn’t answer. He only gave her a look— a silent, sharp warning. His green eyes, usually so quick with teasing glances and sly amusement, were sharp and urgent.

“Stand in front of me,” he muttered under his breath, his voice low and steady, barely more than a whisper. The words were clipped, almost a command.

Ophelia blinked once. Her lips parted slightly as she stared at him, utterly confused. “What?” she asked, her voice a bit louder this time, her eyes narrowing slightly.

“Just— stand in front of me,” he repeated, his voice firmer, more insistent this time, his fingers tightening briefly around her wrist.

She turned fully then, pivoting slightly so she was half-facing him, her eyes narrowing slightly. She stared at him for a beat, then her gaze lowered briefly. And that was when she saw it.

Her lips parted slightly in faint surprise, her eyes flickering downward for the briefest second before darting back up to meet his gaze.

“Are you seriously—?” she asked softly, her voice lifting in a half-scoff, her lips quirking slightly with the faintest glimmer of amusement. She arched a brow, an almost playful smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth.

His eyes flashed sharply, and he gave her a look— a quiet, warning glare, but there was no real heat behind it. His grip on her wrist loosened slightly, but his eyes held hers with a silent plea.

Ophelia’s smirk faltered slightly at the look in his eyes. The color in his face— the faint flush of humiliation. She exhaled softly, her expression softening slightly, and she slowly, silently shifted forward, positioning herself directly in front of him.

He released her wrist and let out a slow, shaky breath. His stomach twisted sharply with shame, his jaw tightening as he dropped his eyes to the ground.

“Sorry,” he muttered quietly under his breath, his voice barely audible. The words were rough, strained. He couldn’t meet her eyes. “I’m sorry.”

He hated himself. For reacting that way. For feeling this way. For being so goddamn weak.

A pang of guilt tightened in Ophelia’s chest. She shouldn’t have laughed. Shouldn’t have teased him when she could see the tension in his eyes, the battle raging just beneath his carefully curated composure.

“It’s okay,” she said, her voice quieter now. “It’s just your body reacting.”

She wasn’t teasing him. She wasn’t disgusted or unsettled, and maybe that should’ve made it easier for him to breathe. But Finnick still felt the familiar sting of shame coil in his stomach, that bitter, reflexive loathing that surfaced anytime his body responded to something in a way he couldn’t control. A lifetime of conditioning— years of Capitol hands taking and using, of pleasure being a currency he had no choice but to trade— had left him with an instinct to brace for judgment, for mockery. He was used to people seeing only the glimmering, sculpted persona they had shaped him into. A performer. A prize.

But Ophelia wasn’t looking at him like that.

He exhaled slowly, allowing some of the tension in his shoulders to ease, though he didn’t speak right away.

Then, before he could react, Ophelia shifted, leaning back against him slightly— not too much, not enough to make it worse, but enough to shield him from the cameras, from the arena, from anyone who might be watching. It was an absurd thought, really. He was Finnick Odair, Victor of the 65th Hunger Games, the Capitol’s beloved. He was supposed to be the shield, the protector. And yet, here she was, standing between him and whatever vulnerability he had accidentally exposed.

Finnick let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, letting himself lean back against the tree behind them. For a moment, they simply stood there, together, the jungle humming around them.

“You okay?” Ophelia asked after a beat.

He nodded once. “I’m fine.”

It wasn’t entirely a lie. He had survived far worse— humiliation, degradation, the quiet agony of being owned by people who thought they deserved him. This? This was nothing in comparison. And yet, Ophelia still seemed unconvinced.

She turned her head slightly, but not enough to meet his gaze. “You don’t need to lie,” she murmured. “I’m not judging you.”

Finnick remained silent, his throat working as he swallowed. Then, finally, he exhaled and muttered, “These suits are too tight.”

A startled laugh burst from Ophelia, the sound breaking through the tension like sunlight through storm clouds. “Yeah,” she admitted, shaking her head. “I wish I had been given a warning. Could’ve gone on a diet or something. These suits show off everything.”

Finnick didn’t respond immediately.

Instead, she felt the slight movement of his head tilting downward, his breath warming the shell of her ear before his voice lowered, teasing and smooth, “Not that I’m complaining.”

Ophelia froze.

A beat of silence passed between them. Then another. And another.

Slowly, hesitantly, she glanced over her shoulder at him, her lips slightly parted as she processed what he’d just said. Finnick’s face remained neutral, unreadable, but his green eyes— his damned green eyes— had darkened just slightly, his gaze steady, waiting.

Ophelia swallowed. She lingered like that, staring up at him, before she finally, finally, whispered, “Right back at you.”

As soon as the words left her mouth, she hesitated.

Her eyes widened just slightly, like she hadn’t meant to say it out loud. She blinked rapidly before scrambling to correct herself, flustered and uncharacteristically nervous. “Not that I was— I didn’t see… I mean, I did see it, but—”

She inhaled sharply, eyes darting away as she abruptly turned her head back toward the shore.

Finnick was silent. Then, finally, he grinned.

Ophelia could still feel the heat rising to her face, the warmth creeping up her neck as she internally scolded herself for her own words. 

What was wrong with her? Why had she said that? Why had she—

“Did you like what you saw?”

Her breath caught. Her head snapped back up to Finnick, her eyes wide with sheer, stunned disbelief as she gaped at him.

Finnick only grinned.

That bastard.

Her mouth opened— then closed— then opened again, trying to form an outraged response, before she finally settled on smacking him square in the chest. “Finnick Odair!”

Finnick laughed, his grin widening as he let his weight lean further back against the tree, his arms casually resting at his sides. “I’ll take that as a yes, then.”

Ophelia groaned, pressing her hands to her face.

Finnick only chuckled again, clearly amused by how flustered she was, his gaze lingering on her as she continued to hide her face, as if that would somehow shield her from his teasing. He was still smiling as her hands fell from her face, revealing the still-present scowl on her lips. He reached over and brushed a loose strand of hair from her face, his fingers grazing lightly against her temple. The motion was brief, fleeting.

Then, softly, he muttered, “Sorry. Again. For… you know.” His voice had lost its teasing edge now. It was quieter, more subdued, an echo of something heavier beneath the surface.

Ophelia frowned at him before shaking her head. “Stop. You’re fine.” She exhaled before shrugging slightly. “I mean, I’ll take it as a compliment that you did. Guess you liked what you saw too.”

Finnick stilled. For a moment, he didn’t say anything. He only looked down at her, his expression unreadable as his green eyes flickered, darkening slightly.

Ophelia, suddenly aware of the way they were standing— close, too close— felt the air between them shift. She inhaled slowly, her lips parting just slightly as she studied the sharp angles of his face, the ocean breeze catching in his hair, the slight twitch of his fingers at his sides.

The way he was looking at her. The way they were looking at each other. A slow, heavy warmth settled in her chest, spreading, winding through her ribs like something dangerous, something inevitable.

For a fleeting second, neither of them moved.

Then Finnick cleared his throat. “We should go with the others.”

The moment broke. Ophelia blinked, inhaling sharply, snapping out of whatever trance she had fallen into. 

She nodded quickly. “Right. Yeah.”

Finnick lingered for only a moment longer before shifting away from the tree, his hands falling to his sides as he turned his attention back toward the beach.

Ophelia hesitated before glancing down— just briefly— before looking back up at him. “You good now?”

Finnick’s jaw tightened. He knew that look. Knew exactly what she had just checked, and exactly what she had found. And God, he should’ve been better than this. But he wasn’t.

He wasn’t sure what unsettled him more— his own reaction, or the fact that Ophelia didn’t seem fazed by it. That she wasn’t embarrassed or flustered, that she hadn’t recoiled or laughed, hadn’t treated him like the Capitol’s plaything.

And if he hadn’t been okay before, he certainly wasn’t now. 

He nodded anyway.

July, 75 ADD— Quarter Quell, Day 3

The six of them moved through the jungle, the damp air clinging to their skin and turning every breath thick and sluggish. The sharp scent of wet foliage clung to the air, mixed faintly with the briny tang of the ocean, still lingering on their skin and in their hair. Their boots sank slightly into the damp earth with each step, the soft squelch of mud barely audible beneath the constant hum of the arena.

Finnick walked slightly behind and to the left of Ophelia, just close enough that their arms brushed occasionally when she shifted her knife from one hand to the other. His grip tightened around the shaft of his trident whenever it happened— just a small clench of his fingers, but he felt it in his forearm, the tension winding through his muscles and pulling taut through his shoulders. He kept his eyes trained ahead, sharp and alert, but his gaze flicked toward her more often than it should have. 

He watched the way she moved through the uneven terrain, her steps light and quick, fluid in that almost feline way the Careers had been trained for. Even with the weight of exhaustion dragging at her limbs, she moved like she belonged here, as though the arena were just another battleground and not the stage for their slow, inevitable execution.

When they finally reached the lightning tree, Beetee slowed and came to a stop beneath the massive, gnarled branches. The others fell into place around him, fanning out slightly but remaining close. 

The tree loomed above them, its blackened bark stripped away in jagged, splintering streaks from where the lightning had struck it the night before. The wood was scorched and splintered, still faintly damp from the evening’s humidity. The thick, gnarled roots twisted up from the earth in serpentine knots, the ground hardened and cracked around them from the previous strike.

Beetee reached out, running his fingers along the charred bark with something almost like admiration. “Minimal charring,” he observed, his voice quiet, almost clinical. “It’s an impressive conductor. Let’s get started.”

He crouched slightly, setting his coil of wire down and inspecting it with sharp, practiced hands. His fingers moved deftly over the copper, unspooling a length of it with precise, measured movements. His eyes narrowed faintly behind his glasses, his brow furrowed in concentration.

“Typically, a lightning strike contains five billion joules of energy,” he murmured, more to himself than anyone in particular. His voice was calm, almost distracted as he worked. “We don’t want to be anywhere in the vicinity when this hits.”

Crossing her arms loosely over her chest, Johanna shifted her weight slightly, her axe resting against the bend of her elbow. Her dark eyes remained sharp, but her expression was impassive, unimpressed.

Beetee straightened slightly and turned toward her and Katniss, his gaze flicking between the two women. His voice was firm but even. “Johanna, Katniss,” he instructed, holding out a length of wire. “You two girls go together now.”

Katniss’s eyes narrowed faintly, but she didn’t argue. Johanna, without a word, stepped forward, already reaching for the coil.

Beetee handed it to her carefully, his voice lowering slightly in warning. “Take this. Unspool it carefully. Make sure the entire coil is in the water. You understand? Then head to the tree at the two o’clock sector. We’ll meet you there.”

Katniss took a step forward, reaching for the wire, but Peeta was already moving.

“I’m gonna go with them as a guard,” Peeta announced suddenly, his voice low but steady, brooking no room for argument. He took a step closer to Katniss, his hand lightly brushing her elbow.

Beetee’s head snapped up sharply, his eyes narrowing slightly behind his glasses. His voice, though calm, was suddenly firm. “No, no, no,” he said evenly, his sharp eyes flicking toward Peeta. “You’re staying here to protect me and the tree.”

Peeta’s brows drew together slightly, his expression hardening. “No, I need to go with her,” he said firmly, his voice low and taut, the tension evident beneath it.

Beetee’s expression remained impassive, but his voice lowered slightly, his tone carrying the weight of quiet authority. “We have the highest-ranking Career out there,” he pointed out simply, glancing toward Ophelia. His eyes were sharp but steady. “I need the guards.”

Peeta’s jaw clenched, his lips parting slightly, his eyes flashing. “Finnick and Ophelia can protect you just fine on their own.”

Katniss’s voice cut in sharply. “Yeah, why can’t Johanna and them just stay with you?” she asked, her eyes narrowing slightly. Her voice was low, biting. “Peeta and I’ll take the coil on our own.”

Beetee’s eyes hardened slightly, the weight of his gaze resting on Katniss. His voice was quieter this time, but firm. “You all agreed to keep me alive till midnight, correct?”

There was a beat of silence. Then Johanna’s voice, dry and unimpressed, cut through the air. “It’s his plan,” she said flatly, her eyes flicking toward Katniss with a faint smirk. “We all agreed to it.”

Finnick’s voice was low but steady, slicing cleanly through the growing tension. “Is there a problem here?” he asked coolly, glancing between Peeta and Katniss, his tone even and unyielding. His eyes lingered on Peeta’s face just a second too long.

Standing just beside him, Ophelia shifted slightly, exhaling softly. Her voice was low but tired, impatient. “Look,” she muttered flatly, “the more we argue, the more time we waste.” Her eyes flicked between them with a faint, pointed glare. “Can we just get started?”

Beetee glanced toward her with the faintest trace of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. His eyes glimmered faintly with approval. “Excellent point,” he murmured, his voice dry but pleased.

Katniss’s jaw tightened slightly, but after a moment, she let out a breath. Her voice was low, resigned. “Right,” she muttered. Her eyes flicked toward Beetee, then back to Peeta. “There’s no problem.”

Without another word, Katniss turned to Peeta and leaned in to kiss him. Her lips lingered against his for a beat longer than necessary before she pulled back. “See you at midnight,” she murmured softly. Her eyes lingered on his before she walked away with Johanna, the two disappearing into the foliage.

Once they were gone, Peeta and Finnick moved off together to patrol the perimeter, leaving Ophelia and Beetee by the lightning tree.

As the two of them stood beneath the blackened branches, Beetee reached into the small belt at his hip. Without looking at her, he pulled out a knife and held it out toward her.

“Grabbed this from the beach,” he muttered casually, glancing at her from beneath his glasses. His voice was dry, almost disinterested. “You left it behind.”

Ophelia blinked, glancing at the blade in his hand. She hesitated for only a moment before taking it. Her lips quirked faintly as she arched a brow.

“So you trust me?” she asked lightly, her voice low and teasing.

Beetee glanced at her, his expression faintly amused. “I have to,” he answered dryly. His eyes glimmered faintly. “If you’re keeping me alive.” He nodded toward the treeline where Finnick had disappeared. His eyes were sharp but kind. “If Finnick trusts you, that’s good enough for me.”

Ophelia snorted as she tucked the knife Beetee had handed her into the small belt bag slung low on her hip. The blade slipped into place, the handle cool and firm against her fingers.

“Oh. Well, thank you,” she murmured lightly. Her lips quirked faintly, her eyes glimmering with a brief but genuine warmth. “I promise I’ll try and keep you alive.”

Beetee’s mouth twitched faintly at the corners, something that might have been a smile if not for the quick, distracted glance he shot toward the wire in his hand. Without another word, he turned back to his work, fingers moving deftly over the coil as he crouched slightly, inspecting the placement closely. The faint glimmer of sweat gathered at his temples, dampening the hair at the nape of his neck. His glasses slipped slightly down the bridge of his nose, but he didn’t bother to push them back up.

Ophelia remained by his side, shifting her weight slightly from foot to foot, the damp earth cool beneath the soles of her boots. Her arms crossed loosely over her chest as she scanned the tree line, eyes flicking idly over the dense foliage, her attention gradually drifting.

After a moment, her gaze wandered back toward Beetee. She tilted her head slightly, watching as he continued to work, his fingers steady and sure. Her voice was quiet when she finally spoke, low and conversational, barely above a murmur.

“… So,” she asked softly, her voice almost casual, though there was a faint undercurrent of impatience, “how long do you think this is gonna to take?”

Beetee didn’t answer right away. His eyes remained fixed on the wire, his fingers still moving steadily along the length of it. His face was calm, impassive, but his jaw was set slightly tighter than before, and there was a faint tension in his shoulders— something she hadn’t noticed before.

“Step back.”

Ophelia blinked. She stared at him for half a second, thrown by the sudden shift in his tone. Her lips parted slightly, her brows knitting together faintly in confusion.

“... What?” she asked softly, her voice uncertain, her head tilting slightly.

Beetee’s voice was firmer this time, quieter but clipped with urgency. His eyes were still fixed on the wire, but there was a new tension in his shoulders.

“Ophelia,” he repeated evenly, his voice steady but commanding. “Step. Back.”

And that was when she saw it.

Her eyes flicked downward— and there, in Beetee’s hand, was a makeshift spear.

She hadn’t seen him make it. Hadn’t been paying close enough attention. It was nothing more than a long, jagged branch, stripped of its leaves, with one of the arena-issued knives lashed to the end. The blade had been secured with the same copper wire he was working with, wrapped tightly and meticulously around the base of the blade to hold it in place. She felt the blood drain from her face as she stared at it, her lips parting slightly.

Her voice caught slightly in her throat, her breath quickening. “Beetee,” she said slowly, the first thread of unease tightening in her chest. “Stop. What are you—?”

But he didn’t stop. Without hesitation, Beetee took a step forward, lifting the spear with both hands. His grip was steady, unwavering. Before Ophelia could move, before she could fully register what he was doing, he thrust the blade directly into the forcefield.

There was a brilliant flash of light— a searing, blinding burst of white— and then Beetee’s entire body convulsed violently. His limbs stiffened, jerking once, twice, his hands still locked around the shaft of the spear. His eyes widened slightly behind his glasses, the breath knocked from his chest in a sharp, guttural exhale. The current snapped through him in one violent, merciless burst.

The force of the electricity sent him flying backward. His body slammed against the base of the tree with a sickening, heavy thud.

Ophelia barely had time to react. She stumbled back violently, her boots slipping against the damp, uneven earth. Her arms flailed out slightly, hands grabbing at nothing as she lost her footing and hit the ground hard, the breath knocked from her lungs. Her knife slipped from her belt bag, clattering somewhere into the underbrush.

For a moment, her ears were ringing, the sharp crack of the strike still reverberating in her skull. She blinked once, twice, disoriented, her heart slamming against her ribs.

“Beetee!” she gasped sharply, scrambling to her knees. “No, no, no—” Her voice was choked, strangled, half-formed. She lunged toward him, her hands trembling slightly as she reached for him, her breath hitching violently.

And then she heard it— a faint but familiar rush of footsteps pounding through the underbrush.

Her head snapped up sharply.

Finnick burst through the trees, his trident clutched tightly in his hand, his eyes wide and alert. His gaze locked on Ophelia instantly, then flicked toward Beetee’s crumpled form by the tree. His expression darkened, his jaw tightening sharply.

There was no time to explain.

He rushed toward Ophelia without breaking stride, his breath sharp and ragged as he grabbed her by the arm.

“Come on,” he hissed sharply, pulling her roughly to her feet.

Ophelia stumbled slightly, her boots slipping in the loose earth. She gasped in confusion, wrenching her arm slightly, but his grip was firm, unyielding. Her eyes were wide, frantic, still wild with shock.

“Wait!” she gasped, breathless. “Finnick, no—!”

But Finnick wasn’t listening. Without another word, he dragged her into the thick of the jungle, pushing her ahead of him through the dense foliage. His breath was harsh and uneven, his eyes sharp and frantic. The heavy branches scraped against her arms and face as they sprinted through the underbrush, thorns catching on her wetsuit.

“Finnick—” she choked out, her voice hoarse with panic. Her boots slipped slightly over the slick earth, her breath coming in shallow, ragged gasps. “Finnick, stop— wait! I didn’t do it! I didn’t—” Her voice broke slightly, sharp with desperation. “I didn’t do anything— he just— he stabbed the forcefield! Finnick, we need to go back, I think he’s—!”

But Finnick didn’t stop. His hand shot out, grabbing her by the arm. He spun her sharply, slamming her back against a tree, one palm splaying against her sternum, pinning her in place while the other held both her wrists up and over her head.

She let out a sharp gasp, startled. Her eyes flew wide, her chest heaving.

And then his mouth was on hers.

Her eyes widened in shock, her breath stolen from her lungs as his lips crashed against hers. His grip tightened slightly around her wrists, his body pressing flush against hers, holding her against the tree. She could feel the frantic, desperate heat of his mouth against hers— the sheer force of it. His lips were rough and insistent, his breath uneven and erratic.

For a moment, she froze— stunned and disoriented. But before she could even think, she found herself responding. Her hands clenched slightly beneath his grip, her chest tightening as the kiss deepened. Her fingers curled against his palm, her breath hitching sharply.

And then, without warning, a sudden, searing pain tore through her right arm.

She cried out sharply, her voice ragged and strangled. Her eyes flew open wide, her entire body jerking violently against him. The hot, stinging burn of the blade sliced cleanly through her forearm.

He had her knife.

“Finnick!” she screamed, thrashing violently. She tried to shove him off, tried to break free, but his grip was ironclad. She kicked wildly, slamming her knee into his side.

He grunted sharply, wincing, but his grip didn’t loosen. His breath was ragged, his voice breaking. His grip on her wrist was brutal, unrelenting, his expression drawn tight with regret as he plunged his fingers into the open wound, searching—

“I’m sorry,” Finnick rasped, breathless, voice thick with something that sounded like actual regret. "I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry—"

Ophelia didn’t stop fighting.

The searing, white-hot pain still pulsed in her right forearm, blood slicking her skin, but it didn’t slow her. It only sharpened her fury. She thrashed violently against Finnick’s grip, her breath coming in ragged, uneven gasps. She gritted her teeth, eyes flashing with a wild, unrestrained anger as she drove her knee up hard into his ribs.

Finnick grunted sharply at the impact, his grip faltering just slightly. It was enough. She wrenched her arm free, adrenaline fueling her movements. With a sharp, desperate twist of her body, she managed to kick out again, this time slamming her boot hard into his thigh.

“Ophelia, wait—” Finnick’s voice was hoarse, breaking with strain, but she wasn’t listening.

She lunged for the knife, grabbing it with trembling, blood-slicked fingers. With a quick, sharp pivot, she turned the blade on him, her chest heaving violently as she leveled it toward his sternum.

For a moment, neither of them moved.

The knife quivered faintly in her grasp, her knuckles white around the hilt. Her hand was shaking—she could feel it—but she didn’t lower the blade. Her eyes, wild with disbelief, locked onto his.

Finnick stood frozen, his chest rising and falling heavily, his hands slightly raised in a wordless gesture of surrender. He could feel his pulse thundering in his ears, louder than the distant crash of waves, louder than the faint hum of the arena cameras. His breathing was uneven, ragged, his entire body rigid with tension. But he didn’t take his eyes off her.

Ophelia’s throat bobbed violently as she swallowed back the tight, searing knot of emotion clawing its way up her chest. Her lips parted slightly, but for a brief moment, nothing came out. Then, suddenly, her voice snapped through the thick jungle air, hoarse and trembling.

“What the fuck?!” she shouted, her voice cracking sharply, her eyes narrowing with a mixture of rage and disbelief. “Fucking ow!”

Her voice was strained, vibrating with pain and betrayal, her arm trembling faintly with the effort of holding the knife steady.

Finnick’s eyes softened faintly, something breaking behind them, but his hands didn’t move. He let her keep the blade leveled at him. His voice came out low and rough, barely above a whisper.

“Ophelia…” His breath hitched slightly. His throat was dry. His voice was thick with guilt. “I—I’m sorry.”

But the words barely registered. She barked out a sharp, disbelieving laugh, a short, bitter sound, her eyes blazing with a mixture of confusion and anger.

“Sorry?” she spat, her voice shaking. Her free hand clutched her bleeding forearm, fingers slick with her own blood. “You’re sorry?! You fucking butchered me!”

Her voice cracked slightly on the last word, hysteria threading through it. Her chest heaved violently, her breaths shallow and erratic. She let out a sharp, strangled noise of disbelief, gripping the knife tighter in her trembling fingers.

Finnick’s eyes darted to the wound on her arm, and he exhaled sharply, guilt tightening his chest like a vice. His voice caught slightly as he took a slow step toward her, his hands still raised, open.

“Ophelia, please—” he rasped, his voice low, almost pleading. “There isn’t time to explain. Just— just trust me.”

Her eyes narrowed sharply, flashing with wounded disbelief. She let out a short, humorless bark of laughter.

“Trust you?” she shouted, her voice cracking violently. Her eyes were wide with incredulous fury, her breath coming in short, shallow bursts. She let out a frustrated, disbelieving noise, her fingers tightening around the hilt of the knife.

“I did!” she screamed, her voice breaking with raw, furious betrayal. Her eyes stung hotly, her breath hitching violently in her chest. “I did before you kissed me and then— then you cut open my fucking arm!”

Her voice wavered slightly, breaking into a sharp, strangled gasp. Her face twisted, contorted with a mixture of anger and disbelief, and she shook her head sharply, her voice cracking with a sharp, disbelieving noise. “How dare you,” she snapped viciously, voice shaking with outrage, “how fucking dare you ruin a perfectly good kiss just to butcher me!” Her voice hitched violently on the last word, half-hysterical, the sharp, jagged edge of betrayal still burning behind her eyes.

Finnick’s lips parted slightly, his breath catching faintly. His chest heaved once, twice. For the briefest of moments, his eyes softened— just slightly— something raw and aching flashing behind them.

But then he shook his head sharply, his jaw tightening with sudden, sharp urgency. He took another step toward her, his voice low and firm, his eyes flashing sharply.

“You can yell at me later,” he ground out, his voice rough, low, and commanding. His tone was strained but firm, his hands still slightly raised in a gesture of surrender. “Right now, you stay close to me.”

Ophelia’s eyes narrowed sharply, still wild with fury. She scowled deeply, her lip curling slightly in frustration, her voice sharp with bitter sarcasm.

“Oh, yeah?” she snapped, eyes flashing with scorn. “So you can cut open my other arm this time?”

Finnick’s lips parted slightly, but he didn’t answer. His eyes darkened slightly, his jaw tightening. His breath came in short, uneven bursts, his chest heaving slightly with restrained frustration. For a brief moment, his eyes hardened, flashing sharply.

“Just—” His voice came out sharper, more forceful. His eyes flashed as he stared down at her, his voice low and rough with strain. But more than that, it was sharp and commanding as he added, “Just listen to me. And stay with me.”

As much as she had wanted to argue, as much as she was ready to snap back— but then she saw it. Her eyes flicked sharply downward— down to his arm. The fabric of his wetsuit was torn jaggedly at the forearm, and beneath it, a fresh, bleeding gash was visible against his skin. Her breath caught sharply in her throat. 

For a brief, startled moment, she just stared at it, her eyes widening faintly in confusion. Her fingers slackened slightly around the hilt of the knife. She blinked once, twice, her breath catching. Realization swept over her like a sudden, cold wave, and the knife wavered faintly in her trembling grasp.

She stared at him, chest heaving, her voice lowering slightly, almost a whisper. “… What the hell is going on?”

But Finnick didn’t answer. His sharp gaze flicked suddenly past her— toward the lightning tree.

And then he saw her.

Moving quickly through the brush was Katniss, her bow already drawn. Her eyes were sharp and steely, her jaw clenched tightly. Her knuckles were white around the grip of her bow, her expression cold and unforgiving. She was looking directly at them.

Finnick’s chest seized sharply. Without thinking, he grabbed Ophelia by the wrist and yanked her behind him, his body immediately shielding hers.

“Katniss,” he called out sharply, his voice low but firm. His chest heaved slightly, his breath quick and uneven. He stared at her, holding her gaze. His voice was rough, steady. “Katniss.” His voice lowered slightly, almost a plea. His eyes hardened faintly. “Remember who the real enemy is.”

Ophelia’s breath caught sharply, her chest tightening. She stood behind him, silent, her fingers trembling slightly around the hilt of the bloodied knife.

Katniss stared at them for a brief, strained moment, her eyes hard and unyielding. And then, without a word, she wound the excess strands of wire to the tip of her arrow and drew it back, aiming high toward the sky— toward the forcefield.

Finnick’s eyes widened sharply. “Katniss, get away from that tree!” he shouted sharply, his voice breaking with panic.

Of course Katniss didn’t stop. The arrow surged through the air, headed straight for the sky above as its pixelated veins lit up with sparks.

Without hesitation, Ophelia lunged forward, grabbing onto the back of Finnick’s wetsuit. “Finnick, get down!”

The arena exploded with searing, white-hot light.

The metal doors hissed softly as they slid open, revealing the dim, sterile lighting of the control deck. Heavensbee and Haymitch stood in front of the holoscreen, both men staring at the slowly rotating simulation of the arena’s destruction. The jagged, glitching holographic map crackled faintly as it displayed the splintering sectors, the forcefield rippling apart in bursts of static.

Finnick’s steps were steady but heavy, his pulse still thudding hard in his ears.

Both men turned slightly at the sound of the doors. Haymitch’s eyes flicked toward him first, sharp and faintly assessing, his expression unreadable. Heavensbee barely glanced at him, his eyes narrowing slightly, still turned toward the display.

“Ah,” Heavensbee greeted neutrally, his voice flat, eyes still fixed on the simulation. “You’re awake.”

Finnick’s eyes flicked between the two men, his throat tight. His voice was rough with disuse, hoarse as he spoke.

“Johanna and Peeta,” he said, his voice low, strained. “Were you able to get them out?”

Haymitch’s jaw tightened slightly, his gaze briefly dropping.

Heavensbee’s expression remained impassive, his tone clipped. “No.” His eyes flicked toward the holomap. “Both were taken by the Capitol.”

Finnick’s stomach turned sharply. His hands clenched faintly at his sides.

“Johanna’s tracker was never removed,” Heavensbee continued coolly. “She was cornered by Brutus before we could reach her. We lost her position. Peeta—” he glanced at the map. “—was too far from the lightning tree by the time the blast hit.”

Finnick’s jaw tightened faintly, a sharp stab of guilt twisting in his chest.

“Why the hell did you let Peeta get so far?” Haymitch snapped suddenly, his voice low, taut.

Finnick’s eyes narrowed sharply, flashing toward him. His breath came short and fast, his voice hoarse. “I heard the explosion,” he ground out. “I thought Beetee was under attack after the cannon went off. I was checking on him.”

Haymitch’s eyes narrowed sharply, his voice low and cutting. “You knew Ophelia was with Beetee,” he said coldly, eyes hard. “You weren’t checking on Beetee. You were checking on her.”

Heavensbee’s voice cut through the sudden, heavy silence. “Ophelia wasn’t part of the plan,” he said coolly. “Your… sentimentality nearly compromised the entire mission.”

The first thing Ophelia felt was the weight on her chest.

It was heavy and suffocating, pressing down on her ribs in uneven, unrelenting pulses. For a brief, disorienting moment, she thought she was still in the arena— that the forcefield blast had crushed her beneath a fallen tree, that she was buried under the splintered remains of the jungle. Her eyes flew open in sudden, startled panic, her breath catching violently in her throat as she tried to inhale— only to feel something thick and plastic clamped over her mouth and nose.

Her pulse slammed violently against her eardrums. She let out a sharp, muffled noise, her hands flying up to claw at the mask. Her fingers trembled as she scrabbled at the smooth, unyielding plastic, her vision still blurry and swimming. The sensation of being restrained sent her into a surge of disoriented panic. Her chest heaved sharply beneath the thick straps holding her to the medical cot, and she bucked weakly against them, her limbs still sluggish and disobedient from the sedative haze coursing through her system.

A low, mechanical hiss filled her ears— the sound of oxygen pumping steadily into the mask— and that was the only thing that pulled her back to herself.

Oxygen. Not jungle air. Not the stale, copper-tinged scent of her own blood or the humid, salt-heavy breeze of the beach.

She was no longer in the arena.

Her breath came in short, sharp gasps as she pried the mask off her face, tearing it away from her skin with shaking fingers. The plastic slipped from her grasp and hit the metal floor with a soft clatter, and for a brief moment, she simply sat there, heaving in shallow, trembling breaths, her chest rising and falling rapidly. Her head swam violently with disorientation— her vision still unfocused, the world around her still shifting unsteadily like the untrustworthy horizon of a hallucination.

She pressed a hand to her chest, forcing herself to breathe evenly, and slowly, her eyes adjusted.

Her gaze flicked around the room— the sterile, clinical interior of a hovercraft, its walls cold and metallic, the overhead lights casting a dim, artificial glow over the compartment.

Then she saw them.

Katniss and Beetee lay unconscious on cots either side of her. They were motionless, breathing heavily but steadily, their chests rising and falling in slow, rhythmic succession.

For a brief, disoriented moment, Ophelia just stared at them, her breathing still uneven. Her pulse throbbed violently in her ears, and her head swam slightly from the combination of the sedative and the oxygen. She didn’t know how they’d gotten there. She didn’t know if they were safe. She didn’t know anything.

Her throat tightened, dry and aching with confusion, but she didn’t linger.

Her legs felt like lead as she swung them over the side of the cot, but she ignored the ache, pushing herself unsteadily to her feet. She staggered slightly, catching herself against the wall with a sharp intake of breath. Her knees nearly buckled beneath her, but she forced them to hold, her fingers splaying against the cold, metal paneling for support.

She cast a brief, wary glance at Katniss and Beetee again before she slowly, unevenly, began to make her way toward the door at the far end of the room.

It was then that she heard the voices.

Muffled at first— indistinct and low— but growing louder as she approached.

She staggered slightly as she moved toward the door, her boots scuffing faintly against the smooth, metal floor. Her breath caught slightly as she steadied herself, her hand bracing against the doorframe as she strained to listen.

“— why her?” a voice snapped sharply. Rough. Gravelly. But somehow familiar. “Why was her tracker taken out and not Peeta’s?”

Ophelia blinked sharply. That must be Haymitch. It had been a while since she had heard his voice, but it was unique enough for her to have remembered.

There was the brief scrape of something metal— a chair leg or the edge of a panel— followed by another voice, lower and smoother. Finnick’s.

“Peeta ran,” Finnick ground out, his voice low but strained, hoarse with frustration. “I tried. I tried to get to him. He took off before I could—” He broke off sharply, his voice catching slightly, before adding in a quieter, strained rasp, “I couldn’t keep up.”

The voice that answered was calm and cold, its tone dispassionate— a clinical contrast to Haymitch’s raw frustration and Finnick’s fraying restraint. The head Gamemaker. Heavensbee.

“Well, perhaps you should have kept up,” Heavensbee said coolly, his voice low but pointed. His words were sharp, measured, deliberate. “Peeta was part of the plan. She was not.”

Ophelia’s stomach twisted sharply at the words. Her pulse thudded violently in her throat, and she felt herself go still.

Her legs felt numb beneath her, her fingers tightening faintly against the doorframe.

What plan?

She stared blankly at the closed door, her breath catching slightly, her limbs still heavy and sluggish with lingering exhaustion.

The voices grew louder, more heated.

“You should’ve gone back for him,” Heavensbee said sharply, his voice cutting, almost reprimanding.

For a moment, there was nothing but the sharp, clipped silence of tension.

And then the doors suddenly slid open with a faint mechanical hiss.

The sound made Ophelia jolt slightly. She blinked, her eyes adjusting to the sharp fluorescent light spilling out from the control room. She stared wide-eyed at the scene before her, her stomach twisting with confusion.

Heavensbee, Haymitch, and Finnick stood around a control panel table, the holographic projection of the arena still faintly glowing above its surface. 

Finnick’s hands were braced on the edge of the table, his knuckles white against the surface.  Haymitch’s arms were folded tightly over his chest, his jaw clenched sharply. His mouth was set in a hard, grim line, his eyes dark with irritation as he turned toward her. Heavensbee stood slightly off to the side, his hands loosely clasped behind his back. 

Ophelia stood in the doorway, staring blankly at them, still slightly disoriented. Her chest heaved slightly from the effort of walking, her arms trembling faintly at her sides. She blinked once, twice. Then her eyes found Finnick’s. Her throat was dry, her voice hoarse and cracked. “… Why am I here?” she asked, her voice low and unsteady.

Haymitch turned slightly toward Finnick at her words, his expression flat, unyielding. His eyes narrowed slightly, his voice low and sharp. “Yeah,” he muttered flatly, giving Finnick a pointed look. “That’s a good question.”

Finnick didn’t look at her. He stared blankly at the table, his hands still braced against the surface, his knuckles white, his jaw tight and unmoving.

Heavensbee’s voice was the one that answered. “There was a plan,” he said simply, his voice clinical, detached. “You caused a slight deviation.” His eyes flicked to her impassively. “Due to your… unintentional and reluctant cooperation.”

Ophelia stared at him, her mouth slightly parted, her chest rising and falling sharply, her stomach twisting with confusion. Finnick’s eyes finally lifted from the table. And when they locked onto hers, she felt her stomach clench tightly.

"I am extremely confused."

Chapter Text

July, 75 ADD

THERE WERE NO WINDOWS IN DISTRICT 13’S MEDICAL WARD— no natural light to mark the passing of hours, no trace of the sun rising or falling. The ceiling panels buzzed faintly with a low, constant hum, the fluorescent lighting casting everything in a cold, clinical white. It made the place feel suspended in time, as though it existed separately from the rest of the world. Separate from the smoldering remnants of the Quarter Quell. Separate from the wreckage of the arena. Separate from everything Ophelia had once known.

She sat on the edge of the cot in her room, her fingers loosely tangled together in her lap. She could still feel the faint sting in her arm where the stitches pulled tight along the freshly scabbed cut Finnick had given her. The skin around the sutures was still tender, still raw. She was certain he hadn’t meant to cut so deeply, but she didn’t care. She could still feel the ghost of his lips against hers, the phantom of his hands on her wrists, holding her still.

Her shoulder ached dully beneath the thick layer of gauze where the gashes from the mutt were being treated, but she’d grown used to the throbbing discomfort. It had become little more than background noise, barely noticeable beneath the bone-deep fatigue weighing down her limbs. Her throat was still dry from dehydration, but her body had long since numbed to the ache. It felt like the most minor of all her wounds.

The medical room itself was sparse, sterile, and impersonal. The cot was thin and stiff, the sheets scratchy against her legs. The walls were bare, matte gray. The only sound in the room came from the rhythmic, muted beeping of the heart monitor beside her bed, the faint, mechanical pulse filling the otherwise heavy silence.

She exhaled softly, her eyes dull and unfocused, watching the way her fingers fidgeted absently with the hem of her sleeve. She was tired. She was always tired. The fatigue sat low and heavy in her bones, so familiar now that it no longer felt distinct from her own body.

The door slid open without warning, the mechanical hiss pulling her from her thoughts.

She glanced up, blinking sharply at the sudden intrusion, and was unsurprised when she saw Heavensbee stride into the room. She exhaled quietly through her nose, lowering her gaze again as he approached.

It wasn’t the first time. He came frequently— more often than the nurses or the doctors. He came alone, unannounced, without explanation. Sometimes he would simply stand at the foot of her bed and watch the heart monitor, his eyes narrowed slightly in clinical assessment. Other times, he would check the charts clipped to the wall by the door, skimming over the notes written in tight, clipped script. He rarely spoke to her. Never addressed her directly.

Ophelia never knew if he was coming to ensure she wasn’t a threat or to gauge how soon she could be sent back to District 2— to be handed back to the Capitol like a rogue pet that had wandered too far from home. She wasn’t sure which outcome he was hoping for.

He didn’t speak as he stepped over to the wall-mounted terminal, his fingers flicking over the screen as he checked her vitals. She didn’t look at him. She stared blankly at the faint, shallow scratches on the backs of her hands—the remnants of the branches she’d clawed through in the jungle.

The silence in the room felt heavier when he was there.

And then, just as abruptly, he was gone.

The door slid closed behind him with a mechanical hiss, and she was alone again.

Her chest felt heavy. She stared at her hands for a long moment, her eyes unfocused, before she slowly stood from the cot. Her legs were still sore, stiff with disuse, but she ignored the dull ache as she made her way to the door. She pressed her hand to the sensor and waited for it to slide open.

When it did, she stepped out into the hallway.

The corridor was narrow and sterile, the walls the same dull shade of slate gray as the medical rooms. The floor was smooth and featureless, the overhead lighting buzzing faintly, washing the hallway in cold, colorless light. She didn’t know where she was going. She just walked.

Her feet moved mechanically over the cold floor, carrying her past rows of closed doors. She passed the occasional nurse or medic, but they paid her little attention. No one stopped her. No one cared.

And then she saw him. Through the glass panel of a hospital room door, she caught the familiar glint of blond hair.

Finnick sat on the edge of his cot, facing the wall. His knees were slightly apart, his elbows braced on his thighs, his head bent low. His fingers moved slowly, methodically, twisting a length of rope between his hands. He was tying knots. Over and over again.

His movements were mechanical, repetitive, like he wasn’t even aware he was doing it. His fingers slipped the rope into precise, deliberate loops, twisting it tightly, cinching it down, then unraveling it and starting over again. His eyes were vacant, unfocused, staring through the wall with a hollow, unseeing gaze.

She took a slow step forward, then another, moving toward the door. Her heart beat faintly in her throat as she reached out and pressed her palm against the panel, the door sliding open with a soft hiss. She stepped inside. “Hey,” she said softly, her voice low and cautious.

Finnick didn’t react. His hands continued to move, twisting and tightening the rope, his fingers deft and precise, but his eyes remained dull and unseeing. His gaze was distant, his expression blank and vacant.

She wet her lips faintly, watching him. She took a tentative step closer. “Finnick,” she tried again, her voice a little stronger this time, her chest tightening faintly with concern.

Still, he didn’t respond. His eyes remained locked on nothing, his fingers still moving mechanically, twisting and knotting the length of rope in his hands with the same detached, mindless repetition.

Her throat tightened faintly. She lingered there for a moment, watching him. She waited, hoping he would snap out of it. Hoping he would look at her. Hoping for something.

But he didn’t. He never did.

The next day, she came back. And the day after that. And the day after that.

For three days, she came to his room. She stood in the doorway and watched him, her stomach tightening slightly each time she saw the same blank, distant look in his eyes. Each time, she tried to speak to him. Each time, she waited. Each time, he ignored her.

By the seventh day, she was tired of waiting.

She walked into his room without hesitation, her bare feet padding against the floor. She didn’t stop in the doorway this time. She moved directly to him, her hands clenching faintly at her sides.

“Enough,” she snapped sharply, her voice low but firm.

Finnick didn’t look at her. His fingers kept moving, the rope twisting in his hands.

Her eyes narrowed sharply, her chest tightening with irritation, with confusion, with something she didn’t want to name.

“Enough,” she bit out again, louder this time.

He still didn’t look at her.

Her breath hitched sharply. Her hands shot out, and she tore the rope from his fingers, yanking it from his hands.

“That’s enough,” she hissed, her voice shaking slightly with anger, her knuckles white against the twisted fibers. “Stop ignoring me and tell me what the hell is wrong with you.”

For the first time in seven days, he finally looked at her.

His eyes were dull and bloodshot, rimmed with exhaustion. His expression was heavy and hollow, his lips slightly parted, his breath uneven.

And then, hoarsely, brokenly, he rasped, “Annie was taken.”

Her breath caught faintly. “… What?” she asked quietly, blinking slowly, disbelieving.

He stared at the wall, his voice low and strained. “From District 4. They took her to the Capitol.”

Annie.

Annie Cresta.

Oh.

“You must tell us, Annie, what was the first thing you thought after you won?”

“Finnick.”

“My love, you have my heart for all eternity.”

Oh.

So that was a thing.

Her hands suddenly felt cold. Her fingers curled tightly around the rope, the coarse fibers digging into her skin, her knuckles white with tension.

Her throat tightened. She stared at him, at the hollow, pained expression on his face— the way his eyes were distant, the way his voice sounded so utterly broken.

And she felt nothing but shame.

For one brief, hideous second, she hated the sound of Annie’s name on his lips.

Because for the first time, she realized that he had never said her name like that. Never looked at her the way he must have once looked at Annie. Never kissed her because he had wanted to.

Her chest constricted painfully, and she suddenly felt stupid— so stupid— realizing just how easily she had let herself be fooled. Of course he hadn’t wanted her. Of course it had just been the Games. The heat, the desperation, the chaos of survival. The need for a distraction.

Her stomach twisted violently with the realization, and she hated herself for how bitter it made her feel. For how much she cared. For how much it hurt.

Her fingers uncurled from the rope slowly, deliberately, and she tossed it carelessly into his lap. The fibers landed limply against his thigh. “I’m sorry for your loss,” she said flatly.

Finnick’s brows furrowed slightly at her tone, the hollow grief in his eyes momentarily flickering with confusion. He stared at her in silence, his hands unmoving, still half-curled around the rope. For a moment, he simply blinked at her, as though trying to process what she had just said. And then he seemed to understand.

The detachedness. The indifference. The apathy.

His jaw tightened faintly, and something flickered behind his eyes— something sharp and barely restrained. Something like hurt. He stared at her for a long moment before his voice came, hoarse and low. 

“Why did you come here?” he asked, the words barely more than a whisper. There was no anger in his voice, no heat. Just quiet, exhausted confusion. Her chest tightened at the sound of it.

For a moment, she couldn’t breathe. Because the answer was too easy. Too obvious. Too simple.

She came here for him. She came here because she was stupid enough to care. She came here because he kissed her and then made her feel like it meant nothing.

But she didn’t say any of that.

Instead, she stared at him, her throat tightening and her eyes burning with a sudden wave of humiliation— humiliation for ever thinking that what had happened between them had meant something.

Her lips parted slightly, but no words came. Her throat felt too tight.

After a moment, she swallowed back the lump rising there, her voice dull when she finally spoke. “I don’t know,” she muttered softly.

Her voice was barely audible. She didn’t meet his eyes when she turned and walked toward the door.

She didn’t look back when she stepped into the hallway, her heart still pounding against her ribs. She didn’t see the way Finnick’s eyes followed her— shocked, confused, and faintly pained.

And she certainly didn’t see the way his hands curled tightly around the rope again, knuckles white with tension, his fingers trembling slightly as he pulled at the knots with shaky, uneven movements. Because by the time she turned the corner, she was already halfway down the hall. Her hands were clenched into fists at her sides, her nails biting into her palms, but she didn’t stop walking. 

She didn’t stop until the hallways blurred in her peripheral vision, her breath uneven in her throat. She didn’t stop until she was far away from him. Far enough that she couldn’t hear the sound of his voice in her head. Far enough that she could pretend none of it had ever happened. Far enough that she didn’t have to feel it anymore.

And once she was alone, hidden away in her hospital room with the door locked behind her, she pressed her forehead against the cold wall, closed her eyes, and exhaled slowly.

She didn’t cry. She didn’t scream. She didn’t let herself feel any of it. She just clenched her fists at her sides, her nails cutting half-moon indents into her palms, and forced herself to be angry. Because it was easier than admitting that she still cared.

Finnick sat hunched on the edge of the narrow cot, his elbows braced against his thighs, his head bowed low. His hospital-issued sweats clung damply to his skin, still faintly smelling of saline and antiseptic. The room was too bright— too sterile, with its white walls and faint chemical sting in the air— but he barely noticed. His eyes were fixed on the knotted cord in his hands, his fingers working with mechanical repetition, twisting and looping the fraying strands over and over and over again.

His knuckles were white, the pads of his fingertips rubbed raw. The cord wasn’t long enough. He wished it was longer. He wished it was long enough to hang him.

The thought was fleeting, bitter, but not unfamiliar. It had crossed his mind before—in the cold, silent hours when his body was nothing more than a Capitol commodity, when he could still feel the ghost of foreign hands against his skin long after they were gone. But it was different now. More hollow. More jagged. He wasn’t just mourning himself anymore. He was mourning the pieces of himself he’d lost in the arena— and the pieces that still remained.

His fingers twisted the cord again, pulling it taut. The fibers bit into his calloused skin, burning slightly, but he didn’t stop.

He didn’t stop even when the skin split. Even when the blood slicked his fingertips and made the knots harder to tie. He just kept winding the cord tighter, methodically, until his hands shook with the tension. He wanted it to hurt.

Pain was something he could understand. Pain made sense.

Grief didn’t.

He stared blankly at the floor, his hands moving automatically, his eyes unfocused as he slipped into the fraying corners of his own mind, replaying the moments he couldn’t outrun.

The explosion. The arena. The way he had thrown himself over Ophelia as the forcefield ruptured, his arms crushing around her as though he could shield her from the blast. Her gasp against his neck when he had tackled her to the ground. The way her fists clung to the front of his wetsuit, her breath warm against his collarbone, her legs tangled with his own. When the hovercraft extracted them, he had still been clinging to her— his chest caging her to him as they were pulled from the rubble, the heat of the explosion still clinging to their skin. 

But the weight of Ophelia’s shaking body in his arms wasn’t the memory that stuck with him the hardest. It was the moment they told him about Annie.

The scene flashed in his mind so vividly that his fingers went still around the rope.

He had still been sitting on the hospital cot when Heavensbee entered the room, flanked by Plutarch and Haymitch, their faces grim. He remembered the sound of the door closing—the sharp mechanical click of the lock disengaging. Heavensbee’s mouth had been moving, but he hadn’t heard a word of it at first.

He had been staring down at his hands, numb and disoriented, still streaked faintly with Ophelia’s blood. His vision had blurred slightly, his fingers trembling from the residual adrenaline, the shock of the arena still clinging to him like oil on his skin. His ears were still ringing from the forcefield’s rupture.

It wasn’t until Heavensbee had said her name that he had snapped out of it.

“Annie Cresta was taken from District 4 by Capitol forces during the Games,” Heavensbee had said evenly, his voice clipped and clinical. So detached. As if he were reporting the weather. As if he weren’t telling Finnick that his entire goddamn world had just been ripped out from under him.

For a moment, he hadn’t understood. He had blinked at Heavensbee, confused, the words not making sense. Taken? What did that mean? Where? Why? How?

But then the realization had slammed into him, so sharp and sudden that his entire chest caved in on itself.

Annie. Annie was in the Capitol. Annie was in their hands.

Annie.

Annie.

Annie.

He hadn’t heard anything after that. Heavensbee had kept talking, detailing the logistics— the plan, the rebel losses, the strategy moving forward. But Finnick couldn’t hear him. He couldn’t breathe. His hands had started shaking uncontrollably. He remembered the cot’s legs screeching against the tile floor as he stumbled to his feet. He had tried to shove past Haymitch and Plutarch, his voice raw and hoarse as he demanded to know where they were keeping her— what they were doing to her. The two medics had grabbed his arms, pulling him back, forcing him to sit down, his limbs trembling violently. He didn’t even remember what he had screamed at them, only that he had screamed until his throat was raw and his body ached.

Finnick’s hands were trembling again now, the rope slipping slightly through his slick, bloodied fingertips.

Annie was in the Capitol. Alone. And he was sitting here, safe and sterile, with clean bandages and drinking water and enough food to keep him breathing.

He felt sick.

He squeezed his eyes shut and tightened the rope again, repeating the motion with fervent, near-frantic intensity, as though tying the knots tighter would hold him together. As though the rhythm of it could slow his heart.

But it didn’t.

Because he couldn’t stop seeing Ophelia’s face. He had held her against his chest when the arena exploded. He had kissed her in the jungle before staining his hands with her blood. And he had saved her instead of Peeta. Instead of the person who mattered. Instead of the person who had kept Annie safe.

He hated himself for it. He hated himself for remembering the shape of Ophelia’s mouth when he should have been picturing Annie’s. He hated himself for the heat that lingered in his stomach when he thought about the way Ophelia had clung to him, desperate and trembling. He hated himself for wanting her when he should have been praying for Annie.

The guilt ate through him like acid.

And still, he kept tying the knots. Faster. Tighter. Even as his hands ached. Even as his fingertips went numb.

He didn’t care if the skin split or if his blood stained the fibers. He deserved it. For letting Peeta be taken. For letting Annie be stolen. For pulling Ophelia out instead. For wanting Ophelia more than he should. For wanting her at all.

Finnick’s hands shook violently around the short cord as he wrenched the knot tighter, his breath shallow and ragged. His eyes stung, but he didn’t let himself cry.

Instead, he tied another knot. And another. And another. Until his fingers were raw and shaking— until he couldn’t feel them anymore.

Ophelia’s eyes were trained on the wall across from her, watching the faint shadow of Heavensbee’s form shift slightly where he stood near the door, his arms loosely crossed over his chest. She knew he wasn’t particularly interested in watching Dr. Aurelius work, but he remained silent and observant all the same, his eyes flicking between her and the doctor with detached interest.

He was studying her, she realized vaguely, though the thought didn’t stir anything in her. She was too tired to feel unnerved by it.

She continued to sit on the edge of the examination table, her legs dangling just above the polished floor, toes barely brushing the cold surface. The thin fabric of her hospital gown, washed a sterile white, was loose against her frame, offering no protection against the persistent chill of the room. She held herself stiffly, her arms wrapped around her middle in a poor attempt to conserve warmth.

Dr. Aurelius’s hands were steady and sure as he worked, his long, clinical fingers gently removing the stitches from the three deep gashes on her left shoulder. The scars had once been jagged and angry, remnants of the mutt’s claws tearing through her flesh in the arena, but now the skin was knitted cleanly, the puckered edges smooth and pale against the surrounding skin.

“You’ve healed nicely,” Aurelius murmured. He carefully clipped the last stitch and placed the small tool back onto the tray with a soft clink. His eyes remained focused on her shoulder, briefly inspecting the pale pink lines where the stitches had once been, nodding faintly to himself. “No signs of infection. The muscle’s healed well, minimal scarring. It shouldn’t impede your range of motion.”

Ophelia said nothing. She simply sat there, staring forward, eyes slightly unfocused, blinking slowly. She barely registered the tug of the final stitch being removed or the cool brush of antiseptic gauze that swept across the fresh skin.

But then she shivered. A small, involuntary tremor ran down her spine, her shoulder twitching faintly under Dr. Aurelius’s hand.

Immediately, he stilled. His fingers froze just above her skin, his eyes flicking upward sharply. His brow knit faintly. “Did that hurt?” he asked, his voice softening slightly with concern.

Ophelia blinked, slowly returning to herself. She glanced over at him, momentarily confused by the sudden hesitance in his voice. Then she realized he had misunderstood. Her lips parted slightly, and she shook her head faintly. Her voice came out as a soft murmur, barely above a whisper.

“No,” she rasped softly, lowering her eyes briefly before glancing at him with something close to apology. “I’m sorry. I’m just cold.”

Aurelius’s features eased slightly. He gave a small nod, the corner of his mouth twitching faintly in understanding. “Ah,” he said quietly, almost to himself, before gently pulling the thin hospital blanket from the chair beside the exam table. He draped it carefully over her lap without comment before he moved around to her right side. His hands were careful but clinical as he gently took hold of her arm.

Ophelia let him guide it into a loose position, her elbow slightly bent, her wrist turned palm-up. His fingers pressed gently against her skin, just below the long, pale pink line that ran along her inner forearm— the place where Finnick’s blade had sliced into her, the place where he had cut out her tracker. 

She glanced down at it once. Then quickly looked away. The memory was too sharp. The feel of Finnick’s lips still lingered faintly on her mouth, ghostly and cruel, quickly chased by the sting of steel biting into her flesh.

She pressed her lips into a tight line, exhaling quietly through her nose as Dr. Aurelius leaned forward, carefully snipping the stitches. She felt the faint tugging sensation as the thin black threads were drawn from her skin, one by one. The area was still tender, but it no longer ached the way it had in the days prior.

“You’re healing well,” Aurelius remarked absently, his voice low and clinical, focused on his work. “No complications. The inflammation around the incision has receded. Shouldn’t be any lasting nerve damage.”

His tone was detached, purely informative, but Ophelia still felt her stomach tighten faintly at the words.

No lasting nerve damage. 

As though there had been anything left in her worth damaging.

She stared down at her lap as he worked, her fingers lightly grasping the edge of the thin hospital blanket, idly toying with the fabric. Her nails pressed into the material, twisting and pulling at the seam, though she wasn’t sure why.

It was only when Dr. Aurelius stepped back, dropping the last of the used stitching into the tray and removing his gloves, that she lifted her eyes.

Heavensbee had remained still and silent during the examination, his expression unreadable. But now, he shifted slightly, taking a step forward.

“Timeline for discharge?” he asked, his voice low, steady, and clinical. There was no particular warmth to the words, but there was no malice either. Just detached curiosity. He held Aurelius’s gaze steadily as he added, with faint disinterest, “President Coin is asking.”

The words were simple, but they hung heavily in the air, lingering in the small space between them. Ophelia’s eyes lifted slightly, flicking to Heavensbee’s face, though she said nothing.

Aurelius nodded faintly, glancing at her one last time before turning his attention back to the clipboard in his hand, flipping through her chart.

“Her physical wounds are healing without complication,” he remarked clinically, glancing at Heavensbee. “But she’ll need a mental wellness evaluation before she can be discharged. Now that the stitches are out, we can conduct it within the next day or two. Barring any significant complications, she could be cleared for release within the week.”

There was no malice in the words— no indication of what that release might entail. But the phrasing was enough to send a small jolt of apprehension through Ophelia’s chest.

Her eyes shifted slowly from Aurelius back to Heavensbee. Her voice was quiet but clear when she spoke, “… Am I being kicked out of 13?” The question was blunt, her voice flat and unsteady, but she kept her eyes on Heavensbee’s face.

For a brief moment, he was silent, his expression still blank and impassive. Then, after a beat, the corner of his mouth quirked upward in faint amusement. His lips twitched slightly, the ghost of a smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth.

He let out a low, short chuckle under his breath, tilting his head slightly, his eyes glimmering faintly with sardonic amusement. “Not today,” he replied dryly, his voice holding the faintest trace of wry humor. He lifted his brows slightly as he added, “Although I have a feeling you might be trying to make a case for it.”

The remark was casual, almost playful, but there was an unmistakable sharpness beneath the words— a careful observation, a subtle warning.

Ophelia didn’t react. She only stared at him, her eyes steady and unreadable, before slowly lowering her gaze back to her lap, fingers tightening slightly in the fabric of the blanket.

Her throat felt tight. Her skin was cold. And she suddenly felt very, very tired.

The colorless concrete made the small hospital chamber feel more like a holding cell than a place for recovery. It was a good thing that Ophelia was being discharged that day. Otherwise, she likely would have gone stir crazy and failed her mental examination.

She sat on the edge of the bed, her legs bent at the knee, her feet flat against the cold floor. The rough fabric of the standard-issue black boots scraped slightly against her heel as she pushed her foot into it, pulling the laces tight with a sharp tug. Too tight.

She didn’t loosen it.

Instead, she cinched the knot mercilessly, pulling until the leather squeezed her ankle, the laces biting into the top of her foot. The blood flow dulled almost instantly, leaving her toes faintly numb.

Dr. Aurelius would probably consider this a form of self-harm, she mused idly to herself, her mouth twitching faintly in dry, sardonic amusement. If he knew her feet were turning blue, he might rescind her discharge.

The bitter thought lingered for only a moment before she exhaled softly through her nose and shifted her attention back to the task at hand. She slipped on the second boot, her fingers moving slowly, mechanically looping the laces into another taut knot, winding them into a constricting vise until her feet were properly bound and bloodless.

As she was finishing the final knot, she heard the door hiss softly.

She didn’t look up. She knew who it was before she saw him.

Heavensbee lingered just beyond the threshold, leaning slightly against the doorframe, one shoulder pressed against the cold steel, his arms loosely crossed over his chest. He was watching her with his usual detached, analytical gaze, the faintest glimmer of sardonic amusement flickering in his pale eyes as he remained still and silent, waiting.

Ophelia’s fingers slowed faintly, but she didn’t stop. She kept her eyes on her boots, calmly threading the laces through the final eyelet and pulling them tight.

After a moment, she glanced upward through her lashes, locking eyes with him. Her voice was soft, low, and deceptively light when she spoke, “Am I in trouble already?”

Her tone was deadpan, her expression flat, but there was a trace of sharpness beneath the casualness, a dry edge of gallows humor laced beneath the words.

The corner of Heavensbee’s mouth twitched slightly, his eyes glimmering faintly with dry amusement as he tilted his head ever so slightly to the side. His voice, as always, was calm and dispassionate— carefully measured— but there was a pointedness beneath his words.

“No,” he remarked evenly, his mouth twitching faintly upward, though his eyes remained hard, calculating. “You are the trouble.”

The retort was delivered with a casualness so subtle it could almost be mistaken for kindness. Almost.

Ophelia arched a single brow slightly at him but didn’t otherwise react. Heavensbee’s expression didn’t shift. He merely gave a faint, almost imperceptible glance toward the door. His tone remained low and steady, clinical and unconcerned.

“President Coin is waiting for you,” he added flatly, as though the meeting was as mundane as a lunch invitation.

Ophelia’s fingers stilled faintly over the laces. Her stomach tightened slightly, though her expression didn’t change. She didn’t blink. Didn’t frown. Didn’t react.

Instead, she simply lowered her eyes back to her boots and, with feigned indifference, began retying the knot she had already secured. Slower this time. Deliberately slower.

She looped the laces carefully, winding them with slow, meticulous precision, stretching the movements out unnecessarily, as though the knot required delicate, thoughtful craftsmanship. As though she wasn’t just stalling.

She felt Heavensbee’s eyes on her. She didn’t look up. She took her time.

Her fingers looped and tightened and rewound the laces methodically, though the knot was already as secure as it needed to be. She could feel her blood throbbing faintly beneath the constriction, the tingling numbness pooling at the tips of her toes.

Good.

Finally, she rose to her feet. Her boots felt stiff and heavy, the laces biting sharply into her ankles. She forced a polite, empty smile and met Heavensbee’s gaze. “Lead the way.”

Without another word, he turned and walked ahead of her, and she silently followed. The walk to the meeting chamber was uneventful but stiffly silent. The sound of her boots against the cold concrete was slightly offbeat from Heavensbee’s heavier, steadier footfalls, though he didn’t slow to match her pace. He never did.

Ophelia’s fingers twitched faintly at her sides. She curled her hands into loose fists for a moment before releasing them again, then finally resorted to fidgeting with the belt loops of her District 13-issued jumpsuit.

The dark gray fabric was coarse and industrial, fitting loosely against her torso but snug against her hips. The waistline sagged slightly against her middle, leaving the fabric to bunch slightly, while the lower half clung too tightly against the curve of her hips and thighs.

She tugged lightly at the hem, smoothing it flat over her stomach, but the fabric felt stiff and awkward. Unforgiving. Uncomfortable. She almost missed the wetsuit from the arena. At least the slick, water-resistant fabric had clung to her frame evenly, without making her feel like she was wearing a shapeless canvas tarp. Her eyes remained lowered, focused on the floor as they walked.

When they finally reached the meeting room, Heavensbee slowed slightly, moving ahead of her to step through the sliding doors first. Ophelia followed half a step behind him. And she stopped short.

She had expected President Coin to be seated— calm, cold, and impassive behind the long, steel table, assessing her from behind steepled fingers with that dispassionate gaze. But instead, Coin was already on her feet. The suddenness of the gesture caught Ophelia slightly off guard. 

Coin’s hands were resting against the smooth edge of the table as she straightened, stepping away from the chair in a fluid motion. She turned to face Ophelia directly, her cold gray eyes narrowing faintly with clinical focus, assessing her with that same, unblinking steadiness.

But her tone was surprisingly courteous. Calculated, but not unfriendly.

“Miss Hadley,” Coin greeted with a small, clipped nod of acknowledgment. Her voice was low and even, firm but steady. “It’s good to see you.”

Ophelia blinked once, caught faintly off guard by the warmth in the greeting. But she recovered quickly. She gave a small, polite nod, forcing the edges of her lips into a stiff, courteous smile.

“Hello, ma’am,” she replied softly, her voice steady but faintly hollow.

Coin’s eyes narrowed faintly, sharp but not hostile, before she gave a small gesture toward the chair across from her. “Please,” she murmured with a clipped nod. “Have a seat.”

Without a word, Ophelia moved forward, her boots scuffing faintly against the polished floor, and sank stiffly into the chair. Heavensbee circled the table and sat beside Coin, folding his hands neatly in front of him, his expression unreadable. Ophelia sat rigidly, her hands folded tightly in her lap. She didn’t fidget. Didn’t shift. Just stared steadily at Coin across the table.

The president’s eyes remained hard and steady as she studied her for a long moment. Then, without preamble, she began to speak. “We’ve been observing you since your arrival,” she began evenly. “And I’ve been made aware of your background.” Her eyes were sharp but emotionless. “Your skills. Your training.” She paused faintly, then added coolly, “Your efficiency in the arena.”

Ophelia’s eyes narrowed faintly, but she didn’t speak.

Coin’s tone was steady but purposeful, her voice low and deliberate as she delivered the offer with clinical precision. “We have a place for you here, Miss Hadley,” Coin said softly. “In Special Forces.”

Ophelia’s stomach tightened faintly. Her eyes remained on Coin. Her fingers were curled loosely together, knuckles pale beneath the sharp fluorescent lighting, but her grip was tense enough that her nails pressed faint half-moons into her palms. She didn’t fidget. She didn’t shift.

“Your assistance with the rebel plan,” Coin began evenly, her tone void of any warmth or praise, merely stating fact, “despite your lack of prior knowledge... aided in the recovery of Katniss Everdeen, Beetee Latier, and Finnick Odair in the arena.”

Her eyes narrowed faintly, studying Ophelia’s face carefully, though the cadence of her voice remained steady, impassive, “Your loyalty to your allies did not go unnoticed.”

The words were delivered evenly— devoid of inflection or sentiment— but the implication lingered heavily in the room.

Ophelia’s expression remained blank, unmoved by the calculated praise. She didn’t react. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. But inwardly, her stomach tightened faintly.

The list had been incomplete. She caught it instantly.

Katniss. Beetee. Finnick.

Coin had omitted two names. No mention of Peeta. No mention of Johanna.

Her eyes remained on Coin’s, unmoving, but her mind snagged on the omission like a burr beneath her skin. It scraped against her thoughts, catching and scratching and festering.

Where are they?

She didn’t ask. Not yet.

Coin, apparently unfazed by Ophelia’s lack of visible reaction, continued without missing a beat. Her voice remained steady, level, and resolute, each word carefully measured and weighted with unyielding conviction.

“If you choose to side with the rebellion,” Coin continued, her gray eyes hardening faintly, her tone cool but unmistakably firm, “your allegiance would not be without cause.”

She let the words hang in the air for half a beat before adding, her voice dipping faintly lower. “You would be instrumental in shaping a reformed Panem.” Her eyes narrowed slightly, sharp and piercing. “A Panem that will never again host the Games that killed your brother.”

For the first time since the conversation began, the words struck like a blow to the chest.

Her breath caught faintly in her throat. She didn’t let it show, but something in her flinched— just slightly— at the mention of Cato.

Her fingers curled faintly against her palm, her nails digging just slightly deeper into her skin.

Coin didn’t look away.

Her gaze remained steady, cold and purposeful, as though watching for the crack— waiting for the fracture, the telltale fissure of emotional vulnerability.

Ophelia gave her nothing. She kept her expression impassive, her face blank, her voice deliberately cool when she finally spoke. And when she did, her words were low. Steady. Controlled.

“Why wasn’t I involved from the beginning?”

Her voice was calm, but there was a faint, unmistakable edge beneath it— a sharp, splintered bite of restrained bitterness. She let the question hang in the air for a moment before adding softly, almost an afterthought, but not quite, “I could have done more.”

She meant it.

The words were quiet but weighted. And there was no mistaking the glimmer of restrained resentment threaded beneath them.

For the first time, Coin’s expression shifted faintly. The briefest flicker of something—something calculative, something faintly assessing— glimmered in her eyes.

But it was Heavensbee who spoke first.

The former Head Gamemaker turned slightly in his chair, his hands still neatly folded in front of him, his expression calm but purposeful. His pale eyes remained cool and analytical, but his voice was smooth— level and dispassionate, though faintly apologetic, as though explaining a logistical oversight.

“District 2 is known for its weaponry,” he said evenly. “Your district remained loyal to the Capitol long after the others began to fall.” He paused faintly, the words calculated but deliberate, his eyes narrowing slightly as he added with a pointed glance, “Had you or Brutus not been willing, it would have put the rebellion at risk.”

He held her gaze evenly, as though the logic was irrefutable, the reasoning sound and unchallengeable.

Ophelia’s eyes didn’t move from his. “I get that.” She let the words sit for a moment, flat and dispassionate. Her voice lowered slightly, “But why choose to trust me now?”

Her words were quiet, but they landed heavily in the sterile silence, the question weighted with an undertone of skepticism.

For the first time, Coin was quiet. She didn’t immediately respond. Her expression remained impassive, her eyes unblinking, her face cold and unreadable. But she was watching Ophelia carefully. Deliberately. And then, after a brief pause, she finally spoke. Her voice was low. Calm. Even.

“You’ve given us no reason to distrust you.” She paused faintly, letting the words hang in the air before tilting her head slightly, her sharp eyes narrowing faintly. “Should we?” Her tone was cool and clinical, but there was something pointed beneath it— a subtle but unmistakable challenge.

Ophelia stared at her. Then, finally, she parted her lips, her voice low and deliberate, “That depends. Can I trust you, Madam President?”

The room was so still that the faint hum of the lights seemed to swell louder in the silence. 

For a brief moment, Coin’s eyes flickered faintly, her mouth twitching just slightly at the corners— but not into a smile. Just the faintest tension of amusement. She didn’t answer. Not immediately.

Instead, she held Ophelia’s gaze, her eyes narrowing faintly in careful calculation. “You’ll find,” she murmured softly, her eyes sharp and clinical, “that trust is a dangerous thing to give.” Her words were calm. Deliberate. Icy. But she didn’t break her stare.

Ophelia’s stomach tightened faintly. She held Coin’s gaze for a long, steady beat, her knuckles pale beneath the table, her nails pressing hard into her palms. But she didn’t look away. “How soon can I start training?”

Neither Coin nor Heavensbee reacted outwardly. But she saw the faint glimmer of satisfaction in Coin’s eyes. Just for a moment. Then, the president gave a slow, measured nod. Her lips curved faintly at the edges.

“Immediately.”

The underground training facility smelled faintly of rubber mats, gun oil, and the sharp tang of recycled air. The ceiling was low, just a few feet above their heads, giving the entire training room a compressed, suffocating quality. It reminded Ophelia of her days at the Training Academy back in District 2. It was familiar, almost. Comforting.

And Ophelia had been moving through it for ten consecutive days.

By now, her muscles were familiar with the regimented ache— the dull burn in her limbs from the morning exercises, the stiffness in her calves from the relentless sprinting drills, and the faint throb in her shoulders from the endless hours of sparring. She welcomed it— the soreness, the tightness in her joints, the rhythmic, punishing familiarity of it all. It gave her something to focus on. Something tangible. Something that staved off the gnawing, restless disquiet festering beneath her skin.

It was her tenth day of training, and her body was already conditioned to the routine— the ceaseless cycle of physical exhaustion. She ran until her lungs were raw. She stretched until her muscles trembled. She pushed herself through the endless circuits of push-ups, burpees, and hand-to-hand combat sparring without complaint. Without thought.

Without giving herself the chance to stop.

She was becoming familiar with the other rebel soldiers, too. The ones she trained alongside. She didn’t speak to them much— she never had been one for casual chatter with strangers— but she was growing accustomed to their presence. She knew their names now. Homes. Mitchell. Leegs 1 and Leegs 2, identical sisters who Ophelia still struggled to differentiate between. She knew the sounds of their voices, the rhythm of their steps during formation drills, the way their expressions barely flickered when the trainers barked orders at them.

Homes was the most skilled of them— tall, broad, and built for endurance. He moved with practiced precision, controlled and steady, with each step and each strike measured and deliberate. His sparring technique was crisp and clean, all brute force and efficiency. When Ophelia fought against him during combat drills, she knew she was overpowered by him in sheer strength, but she was fast— faster than he was. She dodged and ducked and landed sharp, precise strikes before darting out of range.

Leegs 1 was just as skilled. Calculated, sharp, and unyielding. She fought with cold efficiency, her movements swift and practiced, with just enough snap in her strikes to keep her opponents off balance. Her sister, Leegs 2, was equally relentless, though more restrained— slightly more measured with her strikes, a bit more cautious.

Ophelia had spent the past week trading blows with them, rolling across the floor, knees slamming into the mats, sparring until her muscles were trembling and raw. She'd taken elbows to the ribs, knees to the sternum, and a sharp strike to her jaw that had left the taste of copper lingering on her tongue. But she never winced. Never faltered. Never asked for a break.

And today was no different.

The first round of training had been the standard drills— push-ups, sprints, and stretches— followed by several rounds of combat sparring. Ophelia had spent nearly forty minutes circling and striking with Homes and Leegs 2, her boots scuffing sharply against the training mats, her limbs trembling faintly from exertion by the end. She had walked away from the combat round with high markings— just a few points beneath Homes and Leegs 1, which she mentally counted as a small victory.

But she barely lingered to register it before moving onto the next station.

She rolled the stiffness from her shoulders as she approached the firearms station, her boots heavy on the concrete as she made her way toward the firing line. Her arms still ached faintly from the sparring, the dull throb of muscle fatigue lingering beneath her skin, but she ignored it. She adjusted the stiff, District 13-issued vest across her chest, tightening the Velcro straps across her torso as she waited for her turn.

Her eyes flickered toward the weapon rack, scanning the selection of firearms arranged in neat rows along the steel shelves. Her fingers itched faintly as she selected one of the larger machine guns from the rack, ignoring the standard rifles she typically practiced with.

The gun was heavier than she expected. Heavier than it looked. The moment she lifted it from the rack, her arms dipped faintly beneath the unexpected weight. She quickly adjusted her grip, rolling her shoulders to stabilize herself, but she noted the added strain almost immediately. Her muscles were still trembling faintly from the earlier sparring, and the added weight sent a dull ache through her biceps.

Her hands were steady as she loaded the magazine, the motion swift and practiced, but her fingers flexed slightly against the resistance of the bolt when she slid it back.

She adjusted the fit of her noise-canceling headphones over her ears, pressing them tighter to muffle the sound of gunfire from the other trainees. The faint vibrations of rapid, consecutive shots still reverberated through the soles of her boots, even with the noise dampened, but she blocked it out.

She exhaled slowly, lowering her gaze to the target ahead of her as she braced the butt of the machine gun against her shoulder.

Her breathing was slow and steady as she took aim. And then she saw him. Out of the corner of her eye. She hadn’t been looking for him, hadn’t expected him, but there he was.

Finnick was standing at the far end of the training room, across the length of the firing stations, reporting to the head trainer. His face was half-shadowed in the dim artificial lighting, his expression flat and unreadable as he handed the man a folded slip of paper. She couldn’t see the text on the slip— couldn’t make out what was written on it— but she could see the slight tremor in Finnick’s hand as he passed it over.

Her breath caught faintly in her chest.

He was discharged.

It struck her like a blow to the ribs. The realization hit with sudden, jarring clarity.

He would be training with them now. With her.

The fleeting thought caught her off guard. It lodged itself beneath her skin, sharp and splintered, making her stomach tighten unexpectedly.

Her hands flexed faintly around the grip of the machine gun.

For a moment, she stared. Longer than she meant to. Long enough that she almost forgot where she was. Long enough that she could feel the faint, dull ache in her chest pulling taut, the knot she’d buried there tightening sharply, painfully. 

She saw the slight downturn of his mouth as he turned away from the trainer. The weight in his eyes. The hollowness in his face. The pallid shade to his skin. Her throat tightened faintly.

Without thinking, she pressed her noise-canceling headphones tighter against her ears, blocking out the sound of the other trainees around her. And then, without allowing herself another second of hesitation, she turned her focus back to her target. She exhaled slowly, steadying her breath.

And she fired.

The machine gun jolted sharply against her shoulder with each shot, the recoil pulsing hard against the muscles in her arm. But she held steady. Her eyes remained locked on the target, her fingers clenched tightly around the trigger, her breaths sharp and measured.

She emptied the magazine in a series of consecutive shots, her focus unwavering, her eyes narrowing slightly as she aimed.

Nine of her ten bullets hit the bullseye.

When the gun clicked empty, she exhaled slowly, her hands steady, her pulse still elevated from the sting in her arms. She slowly lowered the machine gun, her limbs aching faintly from the effort. But she didn’t look toward Finnick again. She simply moved to reload.

The heavy scent of boiled cabbage and stale bread lingered in the air, thick and cloying. It clung to Ophelia’s clothes, her hair, and the inside of her throat. She sat at one of the long steel tables, elbows braced faintly on the edge, her tray of food in front of her. The Leeg sisters sat across from her, eating with the hurried efficiency of soldiers accustomed to consuming their meals more out of necessity than enjoyment.

Ophelia sat silently, her hands loosely curled around the edges of her tray, slowly swirling her spoon through the thick, brown stew. She absently pushed a chunk of potato beneath the surface, watching as it sank, before dragging it back up and letting it float again. Her eyes remained fixed on the contents of her tray, but she wasn’t really seeing it. The dull scrape of her spoon against the tin tray was steady, rhythmic. A meaningless cycle of stirring and sinking, dragging and lifting, over and over again.

She didn’t look up when the overhead monitors flickered faintly— static hissing softly as the propo cut through the chatter in the dining hall. She barely registered the room falling into a low, expectant hush as Caesar Flickerman’s familiar, showman’s voice echoed from the speakers, filled with his usual, plastic warmth.

“Hello. Good evening. And a big welcome to all in Panem.”

Ophelia kept her eyes down.

She stared at the stew, half-watching the sheen of grease on the surface ripple faintly with the slight tremor of her spoon.

“I'm Caesar Flickerman,” the Capitol host’s voice rang out, artificially chipper, his tone bright with practiced charisma. “And whoever you are, whatever it is you're doing, if you're working, put down your work. If you're having dinner, stop having dinner. Because you are going to want to witness this tonight.”

Around the dining hall, the muted clatter of utensils subsided. Conversations stilled. Soldiers and refugees alike turned toward the monitors.

Ophelia didn’t look up.

Her spoon continued its slow, idle movements through her bowl, dragging a limp strip of meat to the edge before lazily pushing it back toward the center.

“There has been rampant speculation about what really happened in the Quarter Quell,” Caesar continued, his voice bright with false intrigue, carrying that same, overly theatrical cadence. “And here to shed a little light on the subject for us is a very special guest.”

The dining hall was deathly still.

“Please welcome Mr. Peeta Mellark.”

At the mention of Peeta’s name, Ophelia’s hand paused faintly. Her grip on her spoon stilled for half a beat— just the slightest falter. She resumed stirring again.

The silence stretched as Caesar’s voice lowered slightly, adopting a softer, more compassionate tone, “Peeta, a lot of people feel as though they are in the dark.”

“Yeah,” Peeta said quietly, his voice hoarse, faintly frayed. “I know how they feel.”

The spoon in Ophelia’s hand stilled again, halfway through another slow, aimless swirl through her bowl. She still didn’t look up, but she could see him with perfect clarity— the hollowness in his face, the faint tremor in his voice, the vacant dullness in his eyes. Too thin. Too pale.

Her fingers tightened faintly around the spoon’s handle. She didn’t glance toward the monitor. Not even when she heard Caesar’s voice again.

“Now, set the stage for us,” the host prompted softly. “Talk us through what really happened on that final and controversial night.”

There was a faint pause before Peeta’s voice came again, rasping and faint, broken around the edges, “Well, first off, you have to understand that when you’re in the Games… you only get one wish. It’s very costly.”

Caesar’s voice came back softly, the faux-sympathy in his tone like static, “It costs your life.”

Peeta’s next words came softly, barely above a breath: “I think it costs more than your life.”

The spoon in Ophelia’s hand slowed. Her eyes drifted faintly downward, falling to the thin, jagged scar along her right arm— the faint pink ridge of skin from where Finnick had cut the tracker out of her. She stared at it absently, watching the way the dim dining hall light reflected faintly off the raised line, the scar pale against her skin. Her stomach turned faintly.

“I mean, to murder innocent people…” 

Her grip on the spoon tightened faintly. 

“… that costs everything you are.”

The words echoed through the dining hall, soft and fractured, lingering heavily in the static-choked silence.

Slowly, her eyes lowered back to her tray. The stew had gone cold. Grease pooled faintly at the surface, congealing around the edges. Her spoon was still half-submerged, chunks of soggy bread and meat clinging limply to its edges.

She didn’t move. Didn’t take another bite. Her hand slowly lowered the spoon to the tray. She wasn’t hungry anymore. She stared at the bowl for another long moment, her hands lightly curled against the edge of the tray.

She could still hear Peeta’s voice faintly playing in the background— the sound of him speaking, broken and hollow, carried through the sterile dining hall. Her eyes remained on the scar on her arm. 

She didn’t finish her meal.

The second week of Ophelia’s training passed in a grueling blur of drills, combat simulations, and relentless conditioning. Her muscles ached, her knuckles were raw from hours of striking the padded dummies, and she welcomed every bit of it. The pain, the exhaustion— it kept her from thinking too much. It kept her from feeling.

Her fists were taped, knuckles wrapped with the coarse fabric the trainers had given them. The edges were fraying slightly from the repeated strain of her blows against the sparring pads. Her forearms were tight with tension, the muscles trembling faintly from overuse, but she kept her stance steady, her arms loose and ready at her sides.

She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, her boots scuffing faintly against the mat beneath her. Her movements were smooth, fluid, the familiar, predatory grace of a Career tribute still etched into her bones. Her District 13-issued tank top clung damply to her back, sweat making the black fabric cling to her shoulder blades. Her jumpsuit had been shed halfway, tied loosely around her hips, the sleeves knotted at her waist.

The heat from the drills still clung to her skin, making the room feel even smaller than it already was. Her face was stricken blank as she stood with the other soldiers, arms loosely folded across her chest, her breathing slow and measured.

She didn’t look at Finnick. Hadn’t looked at him all week.

The first time she spotted him in the training room, she had gone utterly, rigidly still, her breath catching faintly in her throat. She had been sitting on the bench near the wall, tightening the laces on her boots when she caught the brief flash of bronze at the corner of her vision. Her fingers had paused, halfway through tying the knot. She had stared at the stone floor, her hands motionless in her lap, her knuckles white against the laces.

But she hadn’t turned her head. She hadn’t acknowledged him. Not when she heard him murmuring quietly to the trainer. Not when she felt his presence nearby. Not even when she could feel him looking at her.

Instead, she had finished tying her boots and pushed herself off the bench without a glance in his direction.

She had kept her back to him during the drills. Had made a point not to stand near him during the shooting range exercises. Had paired herself off with Homes or Mitchell for the sparring sessions. Had kept her eyes ahead.

And when she finally did catch glimpses of him— his sharp, quick movements on the sparring mats, the effortless grace in the way he dodged and countered his opponent’s strikes, the stillness of his expression behind the dullness in his eyes— she simply pressed her lips together and forced herself to look away.

She pretended she didn’t feel his gaze lingering on her. Pretended she didn’t notice the way his eyes always found her.

Until the trainers paired them together.

Ophelia stiffened when her name was called alongside his, her jaw tightening as she turned to face him. Around them, the other recruits were already breaking off— Homes and Mitchell had squared up across from one another, the Leeg sisters moving into position. 

But Ophelia and Finnick? They just stood there, staring.

A slow, unreadable expression crossed Finnick’s face before he let out a quiet breath and raised his hands in a neutral stance. Then, with a tilt of his chin, he signaled for her to strike first.

Her fingers curled into fists.

She knew what the trainers wanted. Sparring was about strategy, control, and precision. It was about testing your partner’s limits without injuring them, about reading their movements and adapting. She had been doing this for years. She knew how to hold back.

But suddenly, she didn’t want to.

The emotions she had bottled up since the Quarter Quell, since arriving to District 13, since him, surged through her like wildfire— anger, grief, hurt, bitterness. It was all there, clawing at her ribs, choking her throat. 

So Ophelia struck. Fast. Hard. She didn’t pull any of her hits.

Finnick took the first blow to his ribs with nothing more than a quiet exhale. His feet shifted slightly, bracing himself. Another strike— a sharp hook aimed at his side. He twisted, absorbing the impact. She advanced on him, her body moving on pure instinct, throwing jabs and strikes with the same brutal efficiency that had made her a Career. But he still didn’t fight back.

Ophelia grit her teeth. Was he letting her do this? Taking the punishment like it was something he owed her?

The thought made her more furious.

She swung again, this time aiming high— toward his jaw, toward that stupid, impassive, perfectly handsome face. Finnick dodged, shifting just in time to avoid the full force of the hit. But he didn’t strike back. Didn’t even raise his hands beyond what was necessary to block.

“Fight back,” she bit out, circling him.

Finnick didn’t respond. His sea-green eyes just flickered over her face, unreadable.

Ophelia lunged again, feinting left before pivoting sharply and slamming the heel of her palm against his sternum. He barely stumbled. Didn’t even flinch. His expression remained calm, infuriatingly so, as if he were willing to let her throw every ounce of anger into him, let her try to break him apart if it would make her feel better.

It didn’t.

Her chest heaved as she finally stopped, her knuckles still trembling at her sides. Finnick just stood there, watching her, his face unreadable.

She hated him for it. Hated that he was still standing. Hated that she had wanted him to hit back. Hated that she had wanted him to want to.

Around them, the other pairs were still engaged in sparring matches, but Ophelia barely heard the grunts and scuffles of their training. Her pulse was a dull roar in her ears.

Finnick exhaled once, a slow and measured breath, before finally lowering his hands. “Satisfied?” he asked quietly.

Ophelia’s throat was dry. She didn’t know what she had been expecting from him. A reaction? A fight? Some kind of release for the rage she had spent so long swallowing down?

She turned away.

August, 75 ADD

Ophelia had always been a heavy sleeper. An obnoxiously heavy sleeper.

Her earliest memories of District 2 were dotted with the sound of her mother’s frustrated voice calling her name over and over through the thin walls of their home in the mountains, only to eventually storm into her room and rip the covers off her with exasperated hands. During her training years, her fellow Career tributes had teased her relentlessly, saying she could sleep through a fire, an earthquake, or even the reaping itself.

They were wrong about that last part. But not the others.

So when the air raid alarms began to wail through the District 13 compound, shrill and jarring against the subterranean silence, Ophelia didn’t even stir.

The flashing emergency lights strobed red against the walls of her room, stark and relentless, illuminating her face in intermittent bursts. The alarms blared overhead— violent and piercing— but she simply rolled onto her side, murmuring faintly, brow creasing slightly in her sleep. Her arm draped loosely over the edge of the thin cot, her fingers twitching faintly at the sensation of cool air brushing over her skin.

The mattress dipped slightly as she shifted, but her breathing remained slow and steady, blissfully unaware of the chaos rapidly unfolding outside her door.

In the halls of District 13, it was pandemonium.

Citizens were pouring into the corridors, their eyes wide with panic, their voices raised in frantic confusion. Soldiers barked orders down the hallways, herding the citizens toward the underground bunkers. Footsteps thundered against the concrete floor, filling the compound with the frantic slap of bare feet and boots alike.

And Finnick was among them. His breath came hard and fast, sharp bursts dragging through his chest as he ran. His heart was slamming violently against his ribs, each thud reverberating in his ears louder than the sirens overhead. His boots pounded against the floor, the muscles in his legs coiled tightly, driving him forward. His arms pumped at his sides as he sprinted down the hall with the mass of bodies rushing toward the shelter stairwell.

He barely registered the blur of faces around him, the wild, darting eyes of the people pressing in on all sides, their panicked voices crashing into his ears. He was focused on one thing: getting underground to safety. His legs burned faintly from the sudden exertion, the back of his throat stinging as he breathed in sharp, shallow gulps of cold air. He was moving on instinct alone, the primal rush of adrenaline driving him forward.

But then it happened.

A sudden, sharp pang of dread, lancing through his chest without warning. His steps faltered. He didn’t know what it was at first— some illogical jolt of panic firing off in his gut, instinctive and unexplainable. It made him stumble slightly, his shoulder knocking against the edge of the stairwell’s steel railing.

But instead of correcting himself and following the others down, he slowed. And then he stopped. His chest was still heaving, his throat tight and dry from the run, but he turned. He looked back over his shoulder. The others surged past him, shoving him slightly in their desperation to get to safety. He barely registered it. His eyes narrowed faintly as they swept over the corridor behind him.

Something was wrong. Something was missing.

His eyes moved from door to door, sweeping over the sealed entrances to the various dormitory units, searching, searching, searching. And then he saw it. A closed door.

Her closed door. Still shut.

His stomach plummeted violently. His breath caught in his throat.

For a fraction of a second, he simply stared at it, his chest rising and falling sharply. His hands clenched tightly at his sides, fingernails biting into the meat of his palms. He knew before he even moved. Knew she was still in there. Asleep. Unaware.

Without a second thought, he turned and ran. He bolted back into the corridor, the force of his sprint causing him to slam his shoulder into the corner of the wall as he rounded the level. Pain burst briefly across his shoulder, sharp and sudden, but he didn’t stop. Didn’t even slow. His boots pounded against the floor as he raced across the compound, his eyes locked on her door.

The world became a blur around him. The bodies moving in the opposite direction shoved against him, arms and shoulders colliding with his in their desperate rush for safety. He pushed through them, shoving them aside with his arms, forcing his way forward.

When he reached it, he grabbed the handle and yanked. The door slid open sharply.

And there she was, still lying there asleep. Her hair was spilling loosely across the thin pillow, the strands golden and unruly in the dim light. The blankets were tangled around her legs, twisted in a careless knot around her calves. Her arm dangled over the edge of the cot, the thin fabric of her tank top clinging to her shoulder.

She was breathing deeply, heavily. Oblivious. Completely unaware of the chaos closing in around them.

His chest heaved sharply at the sight. And then he moved.

“Ophelia!”

His voice came out low and rough, but she didn’t stir.

Without hesitating, he lunged forward and grabbed her by the arm, his fingers closing tightly around her wrist.

Her eyes shot open, wide and unfocused, startled by the sudden pressure. She jolted upright with a sharp intake of breath, her limbs tensing beneath his grip. “What—?!” she gasped, her voice thick with sleep, still sluggish with confusion. Her eyes were still half-lidded, clouded with disorientation as they darted toward him. “What?”

He didn’t answer. Didn’t give her a chance to ask again. His grip tightened around her wrist, and he yanked her off the cot.

Her bare feet hit the cold floor with a sharp thud, her legs nearly buckling beneath her as she stumbled slightly, still groggy with sleep.

“Go!” Finnick barked sharply, his voice cutting through the sirens.

Her eyes widened at the sudden command, still blinking rapidly in confusion. She instinctively dug her heels in slightly, her muscles slow to react. “Wait, what’s happening?” she demanded, her voice groggy, still thick with sleep.

But Finnick was already pulling her forward, his grip iron-tight around her wrist. “Go!” he shouted again, his voice raw with urgency, yanking her into a sprint.

Her legs stumbled beneath her at first, her feet barely keeping up with his stride as they charged into the corridor. The rush of cold air slapped against her face, the sudden onslaught of flashing lights and screaming sirens disorienting her further. “What the hell is going on?!” she shouted, her voice cracking with confusion as she struggled to keep up.

Her breath was coming in sharp, uneven bursts, her limbs still heavy with exhaustion as she sprinted alongside him. Her heart pounded violently in her chest, each thud ricocheting through her ears.

But he didn’t slow. Didn’t look back. “I don’t know!” Finnick shouted hoarsely over his shoulder, his voice rough with exertion.

And he kept running. His grip was unyielding, holding her wrist so tightly that she could feel the faint throb of her pulse beneath his fingertips. And when he glanced back at her, eyes wild and frantic, she saw it— the fear glinting in them, sharp and raw and unguarded.

And she knew.

Without knowing how or why, she knew. That she wouldn’t have woken up in time. That she wouldn’t have made it if he hadn’t come for her.

Their breaths were still uneven from the sprint once they reached the underground bunker, lungs tight from the sharp exertion. Her legs felt leaden and sore from the adrenaline crash, her calves trembling faintly with each shallow inhale. She could still feel the press of Finnick’s fingers on her wrist, the ghost of his grip lingering there like a phantom sensation.

She stared at the stone floor, unfocused, barely seeing it.

Her heart was still hammering violently, but everything else felt sluggish and distant, as though she were underwater. She could hear the muted murmurs of conversation around them— muffled voices speaking in uneven, broken tones— but they barely registered.

Ophelia sat on one of the thin cots, her back pressed stiffly against the cold stone wall, legs bent loosely in front of her with her arms draped limply over her knees. Finnick sat beside her, close enough for their knees to brush, but neither of them spoke.

And then the first explosion hit.

The world shook.

The entire bunker lurched violently, the stone walls shuddering against the impact, and the cots rattled against the floor.

Ophelia’s breath caught sharply in her throat.

Her hands fisted into the fabric of her jumpsuit on instinct, nails biting into her thighs. Her spine stiffened, muscles going rigid.

A second explosion came.

Then a third.

The bunker trembled violently, the shockwaves reverberating through the stone with enough force to rattle the metal support beams.

The fluorescent lighting above them flickered faintly from the aftershock.

She barely noticed the way her knuckles turned white from how tightly her fingers curled into the fabric of her jumpsuit. Her eyes remained locked on the floor, unmoving, unblinking. Her entire body felt tight, constricted, her ribs squeezed in a vice-like grip that made it impossible to draw a full breath.

She flinched violently as another blast reverberated through the stone.

And suddenly— warm hands were cupping her ears.

Ophelia blinked sharply, disoriented for a moment by the sudden lack of sound. The world muted abruptly, as though someone had flipped a switch. The concussive roar of the explosions became a distant, dulled hum.

Her eyes slowly shifted to the side.

Finnick’s face was inches from hers.

He was turned slightly toward her, his expression inscrutable, his eyes sharp and unreadable. His hands were pressed firmly over her ears, the heels of his palms cupping the curve of her skull, fingers splayed lightly along the sides of her head.

He didn’t say anything. Didn’t look at her. He simply kept his hands there. And she didn’t push them away.

She hated that she didn’t push him away. Hated the faint, involuntary tremor that passed through her arms when he shifted slightly, his fingertips grazing the curve of her jaw as he adjusted his hold. Hated the way she exhaled shakily against the knuckles of his hand, her breath warming his skin. Hated the way her chest ached at the warmth of his hands— large, steady, grounding— while her own fingers were still clenched into the pants of her jumpsuit, knuckles trembling faintly.

But most of all, she hated the jealousy that lingered beneath her skin like a dull, throbbing bruise.

The lingering bitterness she felt— the ugly, gnawing twist in her gut— as she remembered the way he had said Annie’s name. The softness in his voice. The rawness. The grief. She hated that it made her feel so small.

The guilt curdled in her throat, thick and bitter.

She shouldn’t feel this way. She shouldn’t. But she did. And it made her feel sick. She bit the inside of her cheek, hard, clamping down on the sudden stinging heat behind her eyes.

The explosions continued to reverberate through the stone, but she barely noticed them anymore. The sounds were a dull, distant vibration in her skull, nothing more than a faint, muffled hum beneath Finnick’s hands. 

She stared at the floor, unmoving. And he kept his hands there. Even when the final blast sounded in the distance, even when the stone beneath them finally stilled, his hands stayed where they were.

Neither of them moved.

The bunker fell into a heavy, reverberating silence. The only sound was the faint, trembling exhales of the citizens around them, the residual hiccups of children crying softly, and the hollow scrape of boots against stone.

Finally, after several long moments, Finnick slowly lowered his hands. The cold, hollow silence rushed back into her ears, making them ring faintly.

“It’s over,” he whispered softly. His voice was low, almost hoarse from the exertion of the sprint. It was rough around the edges but steady— soothing, almost.

But she didn’t respond. She stared down at her lap, her hands still trembling faintly in her lap, but she didn’t say a word.

The two of them remained sitting there, silent and unmoving, both of them staring at the stone floor in front of them.

The tension sat heavy between them, thick and cloying, pressing down like a weight. The silence was stiff, stretched thin by the tangled knots of unspoken words.

After several long moments, Finnick finally shifted slightly. His voice was low and steady when he spoke, careful and deliberate, his tone deliberately casual— a transparent attempt to distract her, “Tell me about home.”

Ophelia blinked faintly, her eyes shifting slightly toward him. Her expression remained blank, her gaze still heavy-lidded and unfocused. She was silent for a long moment. 

“Well, it’s not much different from what you’ve heard about it, I’m assuming,” she murmured. Her eyes stayed fixed on the ground, her voice strangely devoid of emotion. “Peacekeepers everywhere. Kids carrying around knives and swords as toys. Small towns up in the mountains.”

She exhaled faintly through her nose, blinking slowly before reaching up and brushing her caramel tresses back over her shoulders. “My parents moved back up into our old home in the mountains last year,” she added absently.

Finnick was quiet for a moment. Carefully, he asked, “Why’d they leave the Village?”

His voice was low and even, but he already knew. He could feel it twisting in his chest before she even answered. He could see the faint flicker of grief behind her eyes, the slight clench of her jaw.

She was silent for a long moment. Then, softly— almost inaudibly— she whispered, “I’m not their daughter anymore.” The words came out hollow and heavy, her voice barely louder than a breath.

His chest tightened. He exhaled slowly, watching her carefully. He didn’t speak right away. But when he did, it was barely above a whisper. “It’s not your fault.”

Her throat tightened violently. “Don’t say that.”

Finnick said it again. “It’s not your fault.”

Opehlia’s eyes stayed locked on the floor.  She exhaled shakily, her shoulders rising and falling faintly.

Finnick slowly pulled the rope from his pocket. Without looking at her, he began to tie a knot. His hands moved slowly, deliberately. And after a moment, he quietly placed the rope in her hands. “Here,” he said softly. “Let me show you.”

The rope was coarse between her fingers, stiff and slightly frayed from Finnick’s constant twisting and retying. She could feel the grit of it pressing into the creases of her palm as she struggled to maneuver it, her knuckles whitening faintly from her uneven grip.

Ophelia pursed her lips to the side in concentration, her brows knitting together faintly as she clumsily attempted to mimic the way Finnick had moved the rope. Her fingers tugged and twisted— careful but awkward— until she reached the final loop.

She fumbled. The knot slipped loose between her fingers. The frayed end of the rope limply unraveled, the half-formed shape falling apart in her lap.

Ophelia exhaled sharply through her nose, her lips still pressed tightly to the side.

Her brow furrowed slightly in frustration as she glanced down at the frayed mess in her hands, silently glaring at the knot as though she could will it into submission.

Beside her, Finnick let out a soft, breathy chuckle.

She glanced up sharply at the sound, narrowing her eyes at him.

He was smiling faintly, his lips tugged at the corners in a way that was almost boyish, the tension in his face momentarily softened. There was something unguarded about the way he was looking at her— his eyes warmer, looser— as though he’d forgotten, if only briefly, about everything outside of that moment.

He shook his head slightly, still grinning, his voice low and lightly teasing. “You’ve got the right idea,” he murmured, reaching over, “just not… quite.” His hands found hers without hesitation. His fingers moved over hers, steady and sure, as he adjusted her grip.

Ophelia inhaled faintly, stiffening slightly at the feeling of his calloused palms covering her hands. His touch was warm and rough, the pads of his fingers faintly coarse with the texture of sea-worn skin. She felt the slight, uneven edges of his calluses scrape softly against her knuckles as his fingers closed over hers, guiding them gently but firmly.

Her heart gave a faint, traitorous lurch.

She didn’t pull away.

She hated the way her stomach dipped faintly at the roughness of his hands— the callouses catching slightly against her skin in a way that felt unexpectedly grounding. She could feel the lingering dampness of sweat on his palms from the sprint earlier, the faint stickiness of it where his skin met hers.

And she hated that she liked it.

She kept her eyes on the rope, refusing to look at him.

“Here,” Finnick murmured, his voice low and steady as his hands moved slowly over hers, adjusting the position of her fingers. His breath was warm against her temple as he leaned slightly closer, his voice softer than before.

“Loop this part under,” he instructed, gently guiding her hand. “And then— no, not that way. Over. Like this.”

His fingers pressed lightly over the back of hers, coaxing her movements along. She followed his lead, slowly winding the rope in her hands as he corrected her grip. She kept her eyes fixed on the knot, focusing on the way his hands moved rather than the warmth of his skin against hers. She refused to acknowledge the faint prickling heat at the back of her neck.

After a moment, she slowly began to mimic the movements herself, this time without his hands guiding hers. Finnick’s hands lingered for a fraction of a second longer than necessary before he slowly pulled them away. Ophelia carefully twisted and tucked the final loop into place, her lips faintly parted in concentration. 

As she finished, her eyes flicked up to his briefly. “What’s District 4 like?” she asked softly.

Finnick’s hands slowed slightly, the rope momentarily still in his fingers. He glanced at her, something faintly surprised flickering in his expression at the question, before his eyes softened. He exhaled lightly through his nose, a faint, lopsided smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Well,” he murmured, his voice lower, quieter. He shrugged slightly, leaning back against the stone wall, his eyes distant. “It’s not much different from what you’ve probably heard,” he said. His voice was calm, almost absentminded, his tone carrying a faint, wistful lilt.

“Fish is the main import. So, lots of fishermen,” he added with a faint chuckle. “Men out on the boats before sunrise. The women mending the nets on the docks with their kids. Salty air that you can taste on your tongue from the minute you step outside.”

His eyes softened faintly with the memory, his fingers idly toying with the frayed end of his rope. “I started fishing with my father when I was still a kid,” he added.

Ophelia’s eyes flicked toward him at that, her fingers still moving idly over the rope. 

He glanced at her, his voice slightly quieter, more measured. “Started going out on my own when he passed away.”

She stilled slightly. Her fingers slowed faintly over the rope. The corner of her mouth dipped faintly downward, but she kept her eyes down, focusing on the knot. Her voice was soft when she murmured, almost absentmindedly, “I’m sorry.”

Finnick’s eyes flicked toward her. He held her gaze for a moment, and then he exhaled lightly through his nose. He shook his head faintly, the corner of his mouth lifting in a small, rueful smile. “It was over a decade ago,” he said simply, brushing it off with a faint shrug. His voice was calm, but there was a distinct, hollow weight behind it. “I was nine.” 

He let the words settle between them for a moment before he added, almost offhandedly, “Annie’s father helped me out for a while.”

His voice was even, but his eyes shifted slightly— just barely— as he mentioned Annie’s name. “Annie and I lived next door to each other,” he added softly, his voice gentler than before. “Her family was always around.” He glanced down at his hands briefly, turning the rope over in his fingers.

Ophelia nodded faintly, her throat tightening slightly. She kept her eyes down on her hands, focusing on the knot, watching her fingers thread the rope slowly and steadily.

After a moment, her voice was quiet again, almost tentative, “What about your mom?” she asked softly, glancing at him. Her voice was light, almost curious, but there was a faint hesitance in her tone. “Did she fish too?”

Finnick’s fingers stilled faintly over the rope. “She died in childbirth.” His voice was low, steady, but there was a faint rawness beneath it. He exhaled softly, glancing down at the frayed edge of his rope, running his thumb over the worn fibers.

“Mags was like my mother after I won my Games,” he added quietly. His voice was softer than before. “She took care of me.” His eyes remained fixed on the rope, his voice almost distant. “Moved into my home in the Village.”

Ophelia stilled slightly. Her fingers slowed faintly over the knot. Her throat tightened faintly, and she lowered her eyes back to her hands. “I’m sorry.”

Finnick’s eyes softened faintly. He glanced at her, his gaze steady. He shook his head. “You don’t need to be sorry,” he said quietly. His voice was calm, steady, but low and certain.

Her throat tightened faintly. She didn’t respond. Instead, she focused on the knot in her hands, twisting the final loop into place. After a moment, she slowly held it up. She stared at it, tilting her head slightly. 

With a perfectly deadpan expression, she muttered, “… I think I did it wrong.” Her lips twitched faintly. She glanced at him, raising a brow. “Is it supposed to look like a penis?”

Finnick blinked. Then, after a beat, a low, startled laugh escaped him. It was sharp and sudden, his breath catching slightly in his throat before it tumbled out. He shook his head faintly, chuckling softly.

“Not exactly,” he murmured dryly, smirking faintly. His eyes glinted faintly with amusement as he plucked the knot from her hands, raising a brow. “Though I guess that’s one way to tie a sailor’s knot.”

The next morning, the cold metallic halls of District 13 were strangely quiet.

The citizens had evacuated the underground bunkers only hours before, but the heavy, residual tension still clung to the air— thick and stale. The usual steady hum of activity that filled the lower levels was subdued, replaced by the dull, hollow clatter of boots against the floor and the occasional murmured exchange. The silence felt too heavy. Too loaded.

As Ophelia made her way through the sterile, gray corridor, the soles of her boots scuffed lightly against the concrete with each step. The stiffness in her limbs from spending the night on a cot in the bunker made her gait slightly uneven, her calves still tight from the lack of circulation. Her arms were crossed loosely over her chest as she walked, her hands tucked into the crooks of her elbows to ward off the lingering chill that clung to her skin.

Her eyes were still heavy with sleep deprivation.

She hadn’t really slept. She’d spent most of the night lying flat on her back, staring up at the cracked cement ceiling of the bunker while her brain twisted over itself.

When she reached the entrance to President Coin’s meeting room, she felt her legs slow slightly— just the briefest hitch in her step.

The heavy steel doors were already open, revealing the large, rectangular chamber beyond. A row of dim, flickering fluorescent lights buzzed softly overhead, casting a faint, uneven glare over the room. The walls were the same cold gray as the rest of the compound, bare and unadorned, with no windows to soften the sharp edges of the space.

Ophelia scanned the room as she walked in.

Coin was already seated at the head of the table, her hands folded neatly in front of her, her expression sharp and impassive. Her steel-gray hair was combed back severely, not a single strand out of place.

Boggs stood near the corner of the table, reviewing a series of schematics laid out in front of him. His eyes were sharp and steady, his jaw set in a firm line, his posture rigid but at ease— his usual blend of composed authority.

The others were beginning to filter in behind her— Gale, Haymitch, the Leeg twins, Homes, Mitchell, Burton, as well as a few other soldiers who Ophelia couldn’t place the names of— each taking their place around the table. The room gradually filled with the low shuffling of boots and the rustle of fabric as the soldiers settled into place.

Ophelia silently took a seat between Burton and Leeg 1. Her hands rested loosely in her lap, fingers curled faintly against her knees as she stared at the smooth, metal surface of the table. She felt the faint scrape of Burton’s elbow as he adjusted his stance, but she barely registered it. Her eyes remained fixed on the table, distant and unfocused.

Coin’s voice cut through the muted din of the room. “The purpose of this meeting,” the president began, her voice calm but authoritative, “is to outline the rescue mission for the hostages being held in the Capitol.”

The room stilled slightly.

Ophelia’s eyes flicked toward her, the faintest tension drawing at the corners of her brow.

“The information provided by Mr. Mellark’s final propo has confirmed the location of the prisoners,” Coin continued, her voice sharp and unwavering. “Annie Cresta, Johanna Mason, Enobaria Golding, and Peeta Mellark are being held in the Tribute Center.”

Ophelia’s chest tightened faintly at the mention of Enobaria’s name. Her eyes lowered slightly.

Coin’s expression remained impassive. “This mission will be volunteer-only.” She let the words settle heavily over the room for a moment. “The retrieval team will be departing in six hours.”

Ophelia’s jaw tightened faintly.

Boggs stepped forward, clearing his throat slightly before addressing the room. “Tonight,” he began, his voice low and commanding, “the rescue team will infiltrate the Capitol under the cover of the next rebel propo broadcast. The Capitol’s emergency response teams will be concentrated on the rebel attack points, creating a diversionary window.”

He picked up a small, circular device from the table and held it up for the room to see. “This is a Capitol signal disruptor,” he explained. “Beetee’s been modifying them for the past few weeks. These will cut off communication between the Capitol and their Peacekeeper units. Once activated, they’ll give us a limited time frame to extract the prisoners and retreat before the Peacekeepers are able to regroup.”

He set the device back down on the table, his eyes scanning the room. “This is not a training exercise,” he stated firmly, his voice calm but sharp. “If you volunteer, you will be entering the Capitol under active fire. This will be a live combat zone.”

The room was silent.

Boggs exhaled lightly, his eyes hard but steady. “If you’re willing to volunteer, raise your hand.”

For a moment, the room was still. Then, without hesitation, Gale raised his hand. The movement was swift, certain. Ophelia’s eyes flicked toward him, her throat tightening faintly. Burton raised his hand immediately afterward.

Around the table, two other hands began to rise— two soldiers who Ophelia could retrieve the names of. Another man and a woman. Ophelia’s hands remained in her lap, still curled lightly against her knees. Her pulse thrummed faintly in her ears, a low, steady throb that made her head feel heavy. She stared down at the table, her eyes slightly unfocused.

She knew she could do it. She should do it. She had the skills. She had the training. She’d made it through the arena. She’d walked away from fire and blood and mutts. She knew how to fight.

And she should do it. She could save Enobaria. Enobaria was her friend. That alone should have been enough. But her chest tightened faintly as her mind drifted, unbidden, to the thought of Annie. Finnick's Annie. His love. The one who had his heart. Her lips, the last thought on his mind. Not her own, but Annie's.

She could see Finnick’s face from the hospital room. The fear. The grief. The guilt. The loss. Because Annie mattered to Finnick. Her jealousy didn’t matter. Her bitterness didn’t matter. Only right mattered.

Ophelia exhaled sharply through her nose. Her fingers slowly unfurled from her knees. Her hand rose into the air, her palm open and steady. “I volunteer,” she said softly.

She barely registered the words as they left her lips. But as they settled in the room, the weight of them struck her chest like iron.

The same words she’d spoken in District 2. The same words Cato had spoken before walking to his death. The same words that had sent him to the arena.

She vowed to herself that it would be the last time she ever spoke them.

Chapter Text

August, 75 ADD

THE METALLIC HISS of the hovercraft’s pressurization system thrummed faintly in Ophelia’s ears. The engine’s idle whirred softly against the concrete landing pad, a contrast to the wind sweeping in from the open hangar doors. The sterile air bit faintly at the exposed skin on her throat and the backs of her hands. She stood a few paces away from the hovercraft’s ramp, her boots planted firmly on the smooth gray tarmac. She absently rolled her shoulders, flexing faintly against the stiff material of her gear, trying to loosen the tension that had settled in the muscles lining her neck and upper back.

Ophelia had already geared up. Her black tactical pants were snug against her legs, the fabric slightly stiff but loose enough to allow for full mobility. The holster at her hip was weighed down by her sidearm, its handle worn smooth against her palm when she’d slid it into place. The long-sleeved black undershirt clung tightly beneath the armored tactical vest strapped firmly over her torso. The thick, reinforced material was snug over her chest and slightly heavier across her back, as she had assumed was intended.

She’d finished strapping her vest in place before the rest of the team had even started. Now, she stood still, her arms loosely crossed over her torso, watching Burton, Chance, and Tripp fastening the straps of their tactical vests. Her own vest pressed uncomfortably against her sternum each time she drew a steady breath.

“Hey.”

Ophelia blinked once. She turned slightly and found herself looking into Gale Hawthorne’s eyes.

He was standing beside her, only a step away. His own tactical vest was already fastened snugly over his chest, the black fabric taut against the lines of his shoulders. His rifle was slung diagonally across his back, the strap taut over his torso. His hands hung loosely by his sides, fingers faintly curled, his stance easy but steady.

He watched her for a moment, then gave her a brief, level look. “You ready?” he asked quietly, his voice low but firm.

Ophelia stared at him for a moment, her eyes slightly unfocused, her expression vaguely distant. For a brief second, she didn’t respond. Her gaze lingered faintly on his face, her thoughts still slightly clouded, still lingering somewhere else. Then she blinked once and shifted slightly, exhaling softly through her nose.

“Yeah,” she mumbled faintly, her voice slightly hoarse. Her eyes didn’t quite meet his.

Gale’s expression remained impassive. He watched her for a moment longer, then narrowed his eyes slightly, his brow faintly creasing.

“Are you gonna back out?” he asked plainly, his voice low but steady.

The directness of it was so casual, so flat, that it took her a second to register the words fully. 

Her eyes snapped toward his. Her gaze sharpened faintly, startled, almost affronted. 

“No,” she said quickly, her voice low but firm, almost defensive. She shook her head once, a faint scowl briefly tugging at the edges of her mouth. “No, I just…”

She stopped herself abruptly, her voice trailing off as her throat tightened faintly. She swallowed once and exhaled slowly through her nose. Her eyes flicked away, falling briefly to the hovercraft’s landing gear. 

“Never mind,” she muttered under her breath, shaking her head faintly. Her tone was flippant, but her voice was slightly hollow.

Gale didn’t move. He stared at her for a moment, then tilted his head slightly. “What?” 

The corner of Ophelia’s mouth twitched faintly, her lips pursing slightly to the side. For a brief moment, she remained silent. Her eyes remained lowered, slightly unfocused, absently fixed on the toe of her boot.

“I just have a feeling,” she murmured softly, almost under her breath. Her voice was low, almost absentminded. She shifted faintly, adjusting the strap of her holster against her hip.

Then she puckered her lips again and added, more quietly, “Do you know what I mean?” Her eyes slowly lifted to his.

For a moment, Gale didn’t say anything. He simply stared at her. His eyes were steady, impassive— but beneath them, faintly narrowed. Watchful. His gaze lingered on her face— on the slight tension around her mouth, the faint tautness in her brow. Then, slowly, he exhaled through his nose. “Yeah, I get those feelings too." His eyes remained steady on hers for a beat longer, then flicked toward the hovercraft. “Try not to think about it."

Without another word, he turned and made his way toward the ramp. Ophelia stared after him.

For a moment, she didn’t move. Her eyes lingered on the broad line of his back as he walked away, the faint creak of his tactical boots fading into the steady hum of the hovercraft’s engines. Her throat tightened faintly. Her fingers curled slightly against the hem of her vest.

Then, finally, she exhaled softly through her nose and slowly followed after him. The faint clatter of her boots on the tarmac was nearly drowned out by the steady drone of the hovercraft’s engines. She placed one hand lightly on the ramp’s support railing, her fingers faintly curled around the cold metal, and ascended the platform. Her boots thudded softly against the grated flooring as she stepped inside.

Without a word, she made her way toward the row of seats along the interior wall and silently took her place. She exhaled slowly and felt the faint tension in her shoulders as she leaned back against the seat. Her fingers tightened faintly around the strap of her rifle, and she stared ahead, her eyes slightly unfocused. She kept her breathing steady, even, as she tried not to think about the feeling.

The fibers were rough against Finnick's skin, the familiar coarse texture catching faintly on the calluses along his knuckles. The rope had once been pristine— smooth, unfrayed, its fibers tight and uniform. Now, it was worn and weathered. The strands were coarse and uneven in places, splintering faintly at the ends where the knotting had worn them down.

Finnick twisted the end of the rope beneath the loop and tugged lightly, tightening the knot with a firm, deliberate pull. The muscle in his jaw ticked faintly. He didn’t look up when he heard the soft knock against the doorframe.

The sound was light but deliberate— measured and purposeful. A silent announcement of presence. Finnick’s fingers slowed faintly against the rope, his grip subtly easing over the coarse fibers.

“Mr. Odair.”

Finnick’s hands stilled briefly. He didn’t lift his head immediately, merely exhaled softly through his nose, his fingers running idly over the ridge of the knot. “Plutarch,” he murmured quietly, his voice low and somewhat rough. Only then did he glance up.

Heavensbee stood in the doorway, his hands folded neatly behind his back. His head was slightly tilted, his dark eyes sharp and watchful beneath his heavy brow. The faintest trace of a polite smile lingered at the corner of his mouth, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

Finnick’s gaze lingered on him for a beat— cool, unreadable— before dropping back to the knot in his hands.

Without speaking, Heavensbee stepped into the room. The heavy steel door slid shut behind him with a faint metallic thud. He stopped a few feet from the table, his hands still clasped behind his back. For a moment, he simply watched Finnick’s hands move over the rope, his sharp eyes following the slow, fluid twist of the fibers between his fingers.

“The rescue team is leaving in an hour,” Heavensbee said mildly. His tone was calm, almost conversational. “They’re prepping for boarding.”

Finnick’s fingers stilled faintly over the knot. There was only the slightest hitch in his movements— the briefest hesitation— but it was enough. For a moment, he remained silent.

“Haymitch came by earlier,” he murmured quietly, his voice slightly hoarse from disuse. He didn’t look up. His eyes remained fixed on the knot between his fingers, his thumbs absently smoothing over the coarse ridges. “He let me know.” His tone was flat, almost dispassionate. But the tension in his shoulders— faint but telling— wasn’t lost on Heavensbee.

The older man’s sharp eyes remained steady on him for a moment longer. The room was quiet for a beat, save for the faint, rhythmic scrape of the rope fibers against Finnick’s calloused palms.

Finally, Heavensbee’s voice cut through the silence again. “We’ll need some extra assistance,” he said mildly, the carefully measured inflection in his voice giving nothing away. “For a propo.”

The statement was deliberately vague, but Finnick immediately understood. His fingers slowed faintly against the rope. His eyes remained lowered, unmoving. There was no outward reaction— no visible shift in his expression, no tension in his jaw. But Heavensbee didn’t miss the subtle flicker in his eyes— the faint tightening around the edges.

Finnick let out a slow, even breath through his nose, his eyes still lowered. He exhaled softly. “Of course,” he said tonelessly, almost dully, without lifting his head.

Heavensbee didn’t speak immediately. He merely stood there in the stillness, his sharp eyes lingering on Finnick’s face— watching the quiet, practiced restraint. He stepped forward slightly, his hands slowly unfolding from behind his back. 

“You can turn it down,” he said quietly, his voice steady but calm. “You know that.”

He was giving him the out.

Finnick’s hands stilled over the rope.

Heavensbee’s voice remained level as he added, “But it’ll be beneficial to keep the Capitol unknowing about the team closing in. The distraction will keep their attention divided.”

Finnick knew that. Of course, he knew that. But he remained still. His fingers remained lightly curled over the rough fibers, his knuckles faintly taut. When his gaze met Heavensbee’s, his eyes were steady, but slightly dull— heavy with resignation. 

“If it helps Annie,” he murmured quietly, his voice low and even, but distinctly firm, “I’ll do it.” There was no hesitation. No trace of self-preservation. Just a quiet, immovable certainty.

Heavensbee’s lips pressed together faintly, his eyes narrowing slightly as he held Finnick’s gaze. For a brief moment, he didn’t speak. Then, slowly, he nodded once. “The camera crew will get you when it’s time,” he said evenly.

Finnick’s eyes lingered on him for a beat longer.

Then, without a word, he lowered his eyes and carefully wound the rope into a tight coil, his fingers deftly looping it into a neat circle. He slid it into his pocket, his movements slow and deliberate. His eyes were lowered, his jaw faintly tight.

Heavensbee watched him for a moment longer. His sharp eyes lingered on the faint tension in Finnick’s frame— the rigidness in his shoulders, the slight tautness around his mouth— but he didn’t speak.

After a moment, he turned and quietly made his way toward the door, his steps slow and even. The heavy steel panel slid open with a faint hiss. Heavensbee stepped through it without a word, his hands once again clasped neatly behind his back. The door slid shut behind him with a low, metallic thud.

As soon as the room was silent again, Finnick slowly exhaled through his nose, his eyes still lowered. He sat there for a long moment, unmoving, his hands faintly curled against his knees. Then, finally, he leaned back against the chair, his eyes drifting shut. His hands slowly slid into his pockets, his fingers curling faintly around the coarse, familiar fibers of the rope. 

He didn’t move again.

The red backlights above cast everything in a dim, eerie glow, stretching shadows across the faces of the six volunteer soldiers seated along the walls.

"Mockingjay One, Mockingjay One, you are one minute out from perimeter defense."

The voice crackled through the radio, precise and composed.

At the front of the hovercraft, the female pilot responded immediately. “Going dark.”

The overhead lights cut out in an instant, plunging the craft into near-blackness. The only illumination now came from the soft red glow above and the faint, blinking signals on the control panels.

Ophelia, somehow, wasn’t scared.

She was aware that she should be. They were flying straight into the belly of the beast, deep into the heart of the Capitol where any wrong move could end with their bodies strung up in the City Circle as warnings. But fear never quite settled in. Instead, there was a quiet calm inside her, an eerie sort of detachment that came when survival was the only option. She had trained for this. Maybe not this exact mission, but for danger, for combat, for moments where hesitation could get someone killed.

The radio crackled again: "Stay low in case they're online."

It was a chilling reminder that the Capitol’s defense grid, though reportedly down, could be reactivated at any second. If that happened, they’d be nothing more than a blip in the sky before being shot out of it.

"Mockingjay One, you are twenty seconds from perimeter defense."

Boggs’ voice cut through the stillness. “Gear up.”

The six of them moved at once, rising to their feet in practiced unison. Boots scuffed against the metal floor as they reached for their tactical vests, securing their weapons in place with sharp, practiced clicks.

Ophelia’s fingers worked quickly, strapping her gear on with the ease of someone who had done it a hundred times before. The weight of the gun at her hip, the cool press of the throwing knives Beetee had given her strapped to her thigh— it was grounding.

"Command, we have visual on the Tribute Center. Initiating final approach."

Boggs turned, his steady gaze sweeping over the soldiers. “Masks on.”

Ophelia grabbed hers from her vest, securing it over her face as the countdown in her head ticked closer to zero.

Five seconds.

“Open the doors.”

The hiss of decompression filled the cabin as the doors slid open, revealing the gaping black sky beyond. The Tribute Center loomed below them, gleaming and glassy under the moonlight— silent, unsuspecting.

That had been the easy part.

Gale moved first, shouldering his rifle before taking precise aim. His finger curled around the trigger, and with a sharp, calculated shot, the ceiling of the Tribute Center shattered, raining shards of glass down into the darkness. An entry point.

One by one, the soldiers hooked onto their harnesses and descended, smoke bombs dropping ahead of them to mask their presence. The moment Ophelia’s boots hit the ground, she detached her line, gripping her weapon tightly as she scanned her surroundings. The smoke was thick, curling around them like ghostly fingers as they moved forward.

Lower Level C.

That was their target.

They moved quickly, weaving through the sterile hallways, the air growing colder as they descended deeper into the building. The Capitol’s scent lingered here— a mix of antiseptic and something artificial, something off.

A set of double doors loomed ahead, metal and foreboding, with thick handles on either side.

Gale reached forward, gripping one. Boggs gave a small nod before pulling a smoke bomb from his vest, twisting the top. The small canister hissed before he tossed it through the narrow opening.

A dull click. Then silence.

Ophelia exhaled, steadying herself as Boggs and Gale exchanged another silent nod.

Then, with a sharp, brutal motion, they kicked the doors open.

What lay inside made Ophelia’s stomach twist.

Rows of metal shelves lined the walls, but they weren’t filled with supplies.

Jars.

Dozens of them.

The sickly yellowed glass gleamed under the flickering overhead lights, their contents suspended in murky liquid— organs, extremities, pieces of something that had once been human. Some were pristine, almost clinical in their preservation. Others were raw, exposed, unfinished.

Metal tables stood in the center of the room, scattered with surgical tools— some untouched, others still slick with something dark.

Ophelia’s fingers tightened around her weapon, though she wasn’t sure what good it would do against the growing horror curling in her stomach.

Her breath came slow and steady, but her mind whirled.

What was this place?

A sharp, ear-piercing shrill rang through the cell, slicing through the thick silence like a blade. The sudden onslaught of noise sent a violent tremor through Ophelia’s body, rattling her skull. Then, just as abruptly, the blinding white lights roared to life, flooding the space with a sterile, merciless glare.

She gasped, clamping her eyes shut against the burn, her hands flying up to cover her ears as she flinched back. Her rifle slipped from her grasp, hitting the tile floor with a sharp smack that was lost beneath the deafening alarm.

She wasn’t the only one struggling to recover.

Across the room, Burton swore under his breath, shaking his head as if to rid himself of the lingering effects of the shock.

Boggs, however, barely reacted. If the sudden shift had shaken him, he didn’t show it. He was already moving, pressing a firm hand to the communicator at his ear as he barked into it, his voice sharp and controlled.

"Copy. Command, I need a situation report,” Beetee’s voice crackled through the receiver, strained and urgent.

"Boggs,” Beetee said over the radio, “we’re running out of time. Hurry."

Boggs didn’t hesitate. He motioned forward, cutting through the chaos with a decisive gesture. "Let’s move."

Ophelia took a steadying breath, tightening her grip around her rifle as she pushed forward with the team. The hallway beyond was a brutal stretch of gleaming tile and stark white walls, leading them toward a row of plexiglass doors, each one marked with a string of cold, unfeeling identification codes: R0:CTF:41P. Cell P45.

They were here.

Boggs pressed a hand to his communicator again. "Command, we’re at the first target. Preparing to extract Peeta. Will confirm when he’s in hand."

The words had barely left his mouth before the door unlocked with a mechanical hiss, the security override granting them entry.

The cell was frigid. The air inside was stale, thick with the acrid scent of disinfectant and something sour, something wrong. The single flickering light overhead barely illuminated the cramped space, casting long, jagged shadows across the figure slumped against the wall.

Peeta was thinner than Ophelia remembered. So much thinner. His frame was skeletal, draped in a loose hospital gown that hung off his body like it barely belonged to him. Bruises painted his arms, dark and mottled, disappearing beneath the fabric. His face was hollow, his cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass, his lips cracked and dry.

And he wasn’t moving.

The gas had done its job. The Capitol guards never had a chance to fight back, but neither had Peeta. He was unconscious, unmoving, his chest barely rising with each shallow breath.

Boggs didn’t waste time. "Get him up."

Two soldiers surged forward, stepping into the cell to haul Peeta upright, his limbs loose and uncooperative. He groaned softly at the movement but didn’t wake.

Ophelia’s stomach twisted.

They had him. They had Peeta. But it wasn’t over. There were still three more. 

She turned sharply, her pulse hammering against her ribs as she scanned the row of cells. No sign of Enobaria. Her name wasn’t visible on any of the tablets outside of the cells. Had she been executed?

Cell P47. Annie’s cell.

Burton moved first, overriding the lock with a quick tap to his wrist console. The door hissed open, and Ophelia stepped inside.

Annie was curled into the corner, her knees drawn to her chest, her thin shoulders trembling beneath the flimsy hospital gown she wore. Her wild red hair was tangled and matted, strands falling across her face in uneven waves. Her skin was pallid, her frame fragile. But it was her eyes— those wide, glassy blue eyes— that held Ophelia still. They were the eyes of someone who had spent too long in the dark.

For the first time since the mission started, Ophelia hesitated. She had known what to expect. She had been briefed. She had seen Finnick’s desperation, his barely-contained fury when he had spoken of her, his Annie, trapped in the Capitol’s clutches. But seeing her now— seeing the wreckage left behind— was different.

"Annie," Ophelia said gently, lowering her rifle, her voice barely above a whisper.

Annie didn’t react.

Burton shifted behind her, glancing between them, his grip tightening around his rifle. "We don’t have time for this," he muttered, his voice tense.

Ophelia knew he was right. She took a slow step forward. "Annie, it’s okay.”

Still, nothing.

She took another step, carefully lowering herself to Annie’s level, keeping her movements slow, deliberate. "Finnick is waiting for you."

That did it. Annie’s head snapped up. Her lips parted, a small, barely-there sound escaping, something like recognition flickering in her eyes.

Ophelia exhaled, reaching out carefully. "Come on," she murmured. "Let’s get you out of here."

Annie hesitated for only a moment longer before, slowly, she lifted her shaking hand. Ophelia took it. The moment their fingers touched, Annie flinched but didn’t pull away. Ophelia squeezed gently, grounding her, steadying her. And then, carefully, she helped her to her feet.

Burton took position behind them, his eyes sweeping the hall as Ophelia guided Annie out of the cell. Johanna had already been extracted. Two soldiers flanked her, keeping her steady as she staggered forward, her bald head held high despite the bruises marring her face. Boggs was waiting, his expression grim.  Then his communicator went silent.  Boggs cursed under his breath, pressing a hand to his ear, his jaw tightening.

"Command?" he tried. "Come in. Command, do you read?"

Nothing. The line was dead.  A cold wave of dread crashed over Ophelia, prickling at the back of her neck.

Snow knew.

Finnick rubbed a hand over his face as he walked briskly into the control room, the harsh fluorescent lighting making his eyes sting after the hours spent filming under Cressida’s hot stage lights. His hair was still damp with sweat, strands clinging stubbornly to his temple and the nape of his neck. His voice was still raw from speaking, from revealing— from ripping himself open for the camera, letting Panem see the scars of what Snow had done to him, turning his pain into a weapon, into something that could be used. 

He barely registered the presence of the propo team behind him. Cressida and Pollux had barely spoken to him since cutting the cameras, giving him space, and Finnick had been grateful for it. He didn’t want to talk. He just wanted an update.

Finnick’s boots scuffed softly against the concrete floor as he approached the wall of screens displaying the Capitol broadcast feeds and District 13’s internal operations. He opened his mouth, his voice already forming the words, Is Annie safe? The question was instinctual now, automatic, pulling from the same part of his brain that told him to breathe.  But he stopped short.

He saw Katniss first.  She was trembling in Haymitch’s arms, her face pressed into the coarse fabric of his shirt, her fingers curled into the material as though clinging to him might anchor her to the room. She was shaking violently, choking on shallow, broken gasps that echoed faintly through the space. Haymitch’s large hand cradled the back of her head, his eyes closed as he held her against him.

Finnick’s brow furrowed sharply. His pulse stuttered, his feet slowing.  And then his gaze lifted— following the direction of Haymitch’s hollow stare— and he saw the screen. 

The display of camera feeds— what was supposed to be live footage from the rescue team that had infiltrated the Tribute Center— was fractured. The entire middle section of the board was nothing but black screens and frozen, distorted frames. 

Finnick’s stomach dropped.

His eyes scanned the screen, searching for the list of personnel assigned to the mission. He wasn’t looking for a specific name at first— just desperate for any confirmation that the hostages had been recovered. 

OPERATOR: CORP. HAWTHORNE.

OPERATOR: CAPT. BURTON.

OPERATOR: COL. BOGGS.

Then his eyes landed on a name he hadn’t been searching for— a name he shouldn’t have seen there.

OPERATOR: CORP. HADLEY.

Finnick’s eyes locked on the screen, unblinking.

At first, he thought he was seeing things. It had to be a mistake. His brain stuttered, trying to make sense of the name in the midst of the chaos unfolding in front of him. He stared at it, the letters blurring together as he processed what he was seeing. It felt like a punch to the chest, winding him.

No. No, no, no.

He could feel his pulse thudding violently behind his eyes, the sharp rush of blood roaring in his ears. His throat suddenly felt tight, his breath catching, a stilted inhale that didn’t seem to fill his lungs. His mouth went dry.

She had been there.  The entire time.  While he was in the safety of District 13, sitting in front of the camera and exposing Snow, she had been in the Capitol. Risking everything.

Without him knowing.

His mouth parted, but he didn’t speak. He just stood there, staring at her name, blinking dumbly, his vision going slightly unfocused. His thoughts were a blur, incoherent— flashes of her face, her voice, the last time he had seen her before the propo. The bunker, his hands over her ears, her laugh as she attempted to tie a knot.

It hadn’t even occurred to him that she might have volunteered.  But she had.

His throat bobbed with a hard swallow before he finally rasped out, his voice raw, barely above a whisper, “Where is she?”

His eyes were still locked on the screen, staring at her name. He didn’t clarify, didn’t specify. Because he didn’t need to.  He didn’t look away when Coin turned sharply toward him, her expression giving nothing away. She remained merely remained silent.

“We lost signal with the rescue team,” Heavensbee stated. “We’re waiting on an update. We’ll know more once—”

“No,” Finnick cut in sharply. His voice came louder this time, still hoarse from the propo, but undercut with something brittle, fraying at the edges. His breath quickened slightly. Heavensbee must have assumed he was asking about Annie, as everyone always did.

But he wasn’t.

Finnick took a half step forward, his eyes still locked on the screen. “Where is she?” he asked again, his voice rising, sharper this time, splintering at the edges. “Where— where is she?”

Heavensbee’s face shifted, slightly taken aback by the urgency in Finnick’s voice. He glanced at Coin, briefly, clearly unsure of the sudden agitation.

“We don’t have that information yet,” Heavensbee answered steadily, his voice measured. “But we’ll know once the signal is restored. We need to be patient.”

Patient.

The word made Finnick’s stomach flip violently. His hands curled into fists at his sides.

No one understood.

They were talking about Annie. That was the only assumption that made sense. They didn’t realize that he was asking about someone else. That the name flashing on the screen wasn’t just another faceless soldier to him.

“Where is she?” Finnick’s voice cracked louder now, raw, more desperate, his eyes wild with something on the verge of panic. His face flushed, his chest tightening. His fingers twitched at his sides, his nails biting into his palms.

“Finnick,” Haymitch’s voice cut in.

Finnick didn’t look at him at first, his chest rising and falling with shallow, fractured breaths, his eyes still fixed on the screen. But Haymitch was moving now— slow, measured steps— releasing Katniss from his arms and stepping toward him.

And that’s when Finnick finally turned his head.

Haymitch didn’t ask. He didn’t need to. He knew. He knew that look. He understood that look. He felt that look before, felt it too many times at the bottom of a bottle not to understand. “Finnick,” he said again.

But it was too late.

Finnick shook his head once, violently, his breath breaking. His chest heaved as he took a staggering step back, and before anyone could stop him, he turned and shoved his way through the doors, nearly knocking Pollux aside in the process. His boots struck hard against the corridor floor, his vision swimming. His hands were shaking by the time he reached the empty hallway, his breath coming in broken, uneven gasps.

And then he was running.

Blindly, frantically, his boots slamming against the cold metal floor, his lungs burning as his pulse roared in his ears. His legs felt heavy, his throat tight, his vision narrowing as he stumbled through the corridor, his chest heaving violently with each shuddering breath.

He didn’t stop until he reached the empty corridor at the far end of the compound. His palms slammed against the cold wall and he braced himself against it, his chest hitching with sharp, uneven breaths. His forehead pressed to the wall, his fists trembling. He squeezed his eyes shut and swallowed thickly, choking on a raw, fractured sound low in his throat.

The hall was a blur.

Ophelia’s boots pounded against the cold tile floor as she ran, her grip firm around Annie’s wrist, dragging the fragile woman with her. Annie stumbled but kept moving, her bare feet barely making a sound against the ground. Burton was right behind them, a steady presence at Ophelia’s back, one hand guiding Annie forward when her steps faltered, the other gripping his rifle at his hip.

The alarms were still wailing. Red lights flashed overhead, bathing the walls in an eerie, pulsating glow. Shadows stretched and twisted as they sprinted through the sterile, windowless corridor. The air was thick with the scent of metal and smoke, heavy with the knowledge that at any second, the Capitol could flood the halls with Peacekeepers, cutting them off, trapping them inside.

But they kept running.

Ahead, the rest of the team was in motion, pushing forward at a relentless pace. Johanna staggered between two soldiers, her face set in a tight scowl despite the bruises marring her cheekbone. Gale led the way with a sharp focus, his rifle held ready. Somewhere behind them, Peeta was being carried, unconscious, his limp body barely moving with each hurried step as he was loaded onto a stretcher.

The exit was close. The open hangar bay was in sight, the waiting hovercraft just beyond.

"Move, move!" Boggs’ voice rang out over the alarms.

They didn’t hesitate.

The moment they reached the ramp, Ophelia all but shoved Annie forward, forcing her onto the hovercraft first. Annie barely reacted, her movements sluggish as she stumbled up into the open hold. Ophelia turned just in time to see Gale and another soldier lifting Peeta onto the hovercraft, his body a deadweight between them.

She exhaled sharply and stepped aside.

Her pulse was still hammering in her ears as she turned, casting a quick glance over her shoulder.

No Peacekeepers. No gunfire. No reinforcements storming in to stop them.

It didn’t make sense.

Her stomach twisted as she stepped onto the hovercraft, her boots clanking against the metal floor. The doors sealed shut behind her, locking them inside just as the hovercraft lurched, lifting off the ground.

She didn’t let out the breath she was holding until she felt the altitude shift, the force pressing her briefly into the floor before leveling out. The alarms faded into the distance, swallowed by the hum of the engine.

They were out.

Ophelia reached up and yanked her mask off, her lungs greedily pulling in the fresher air of the hovercraft. It smelled like steel and sweat, but it was better than the artificial sterility of the Capitol. She let her head tip back against the cool wall for a moment before her gaze drifted across the hold, catching on Annie. 

She was still sitting where Ophelia had pushed her, her hands resting in her lap, her fingers twitching every so often. Her wild red hair was tangled and matted, framing her gaunt face in a way that made her look smaller. Her blue eyes were distant, unfocused, staring through the floor, past it, at something only she could see.

Ophelia hesitated.

She glanced at Boggs. He was standing at the front of the deck, speaking into his communicator, his brow furrowed as he checked the monitors for signs of pursuit. She could see the tension in his stance, the way his fingers hovered over the console, waiting, watching.

They weren’t safe yet.

With a quiet inhale, Ophelia moved, stepping toward Annie before lowering herself to sit beside her on the cold metal floor.

Annie didn’t react.

Ophelia reached down, pulling one of her shoelaces loose, slipping it free from the aglet with a quiet snap. She twisted it between her fingers for a moment before exhaling, her voice soft as she spoke.

"Finnick tried to show me a knot, but I couldn’t get it down. Can you show me?"

Annie didn’t move at first. Her eyes flickered to the shoelace in Ophelia’s hands, and f or a long moment, she just stared at it. Ophelia thought maybe she hadn’t heard her, maybe she was too far gone, too deep in her own mind to respond. Then, with a slow, careful movement, Annie reached out. Her fingers brushed against Ophelia’s as she took the shoelace, her touch light, hesitant. She studied the string with a quiet intensity, her brows drawing together in a small furrow of concentration.

Ophelia stayed quiet, watching as Annie lifted the lace and, with methodical precision, began to weave it into a knot. Her fingers trembled slightly, but the movements were steady. The same knot Finnick had tried to teach Ophelia in the bunker. The same knot he had tied over and over, his hands moving with effortless skill.

Ophelia swallowed, her throat tight. Annie tied the knot, then hesitated, staring at it for a long moment before slowly untying it, as if she needed to see it undone to believe it had ever been there at all. Then she handed the shoelace back without a word.

Ophelia took it, curling her fingers around the soft string. "Thanks."

Annie didn’t respond.

Before Ophelia could say anything else, Boggs turned, his expression unreadable as he stepped back into the main deck.

"The Capitol let us go." His voice was calm, but there was an edge to it. A quiet warning.

Gale frowned, his grip tightening around his rifle as he shook his head. "Why would they do that?"

Boggs exhaled through his nose, his gaze shifting to the darkened monitors before returning to Gale. "I don’t know."

Ophelia’s jaw clenched. She glanced at Annie warily. Hoping she hadn’t been paying attention. Hoping she wouldn’t start to panic. Hoping—

But Annie just kept staring at her hands. Unmoving. Unaware.

The air inside was thick yet still left too much space for questioning whether the mission ended far too easy and far too quick. It had felt too simple. Ophelia didn’t like it.

Something was wrong. She could feel it, like a splinter buried too deep in her skin to pull out. But instead of thinking about it, she turned back to Annie.

The redhead still sat quietly beside her, her hands resting in her lap, her eyes flickering every so often to some unseen point in the distance. She looked lost, floating somewhere between reality and memory, between now and whatever horrors she had endured in that cell.

Ophelia cleared her throat softly. "Can you show me another one?" Annie blinked, her gaze shifting toward Ophelia, slow and unfocused. Ophelia lifted the shoelace between them. "Another fisherman’s knot?"

For a moment, Annie didn’t respond. She just stared at the string in Ophelia’s hands, her fingers twitching slightly against her knee. Then, without a word, she reached out, taking the lace once more.

Her movements were hesitant at first— almost as if she’d forgotten what to do— but as she twisted the lace around itself, her hands steadied. The rhythm of the knot came back to her, an instinct buried deep, even after all the Capitol had done to break her. This time, she tied a double knot.

Ophelia watched, her chin resting against her knee as Annie worked. "That was the one thing I could never master in the Academy," she admitted, her voice light, almost amused. "The trainers back in 2 focused more on combat than anything else." She let out a quiet laugh before adding, "I could never light a fire properly. Always got the lowest marks on those stations."

Annie’s fingers slowed for just a moment. Then she glanced at Ophelia, her blue eyes soft with something unspoken— something sad. A beat passed before she huffed a quiet, almost breathless laugh to herself.

Ophelia smiled faintly. "Yeah, I know. Kinda pathetic."

Annie shook her head. "It isn’t funny," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.

The smile on Ophelia’s lips wavered.

Annie’s fingers stilled around the knot as she looked down at it, her expression distant. Then, softly, she added, "It’s sad. That they trained you to kill instead of survive."

The words settled between them, weighty and cold. Ophelia’s throat felt tight as she looked down at the knot in Annie’s hands. "… Yeah." Her voice was quieter now, almost reluctant. "It isn’t funny."

Neither of them said anything for a moment.

Then, finally, Annie finished tying the double knot. She studied it for a second before gently handing it back to Ophelia. "Do you want to try?" she asked softly.

Ophelia hesitated. Her fingers brushed against the knot as she took the shoelace back. Then, with a small shrug, she nodded, already starting to undo the knot with careful, deliberate movements. "Yeah, why the hell not." She paused, then smirked to herself. "Get it? Knot?"

Annie didn’t laugh, but she did exhale a quiet breath through her nose— maybe the ghost of a smile, maybe not. Still, she watched as Ophelia attempted to tie the knot herself.

The hospital wing was stifling. The walls seemed too close, the lights too bright. The sharp antiseptic sting in the air clung to Finnick’s throat, making it feel tight, acrid. The fluorescent lighting flickered slightly overhead, casting sterile beams across the floor.

Finnick’s boots struck hard against the concrete as he entered. His legs carried him forward, his breath shallow and fast, his vision swimming slightly from the adrenaline still coursing through his system.

Beside him, Katniss stormed in with the same feral, frantic desperation, her eyes wild as they raked over the room.

And when she saw him, her breath hitched sharply, breaking on a soft, strangled sound in the back of her throat. The moment their eyes met, Katniss made a sharp, broken sound— something between a gasp and a sob— and she shoved her way through the cluster of medical staff, sprinting to him. “Gale!” Her voice cracked when she said his name.

Finnick barely registered it.

His gaze swept frantically over the room, his vision skimming past unfamiliar faces— medics, soldiers, dazed Capitol hostages with hollow, vacant stares. His head turned sharply, his eyes moving over each section of the hospital wing, his pulse rising in his throat.

He muttered softly to himself, almost under his breath, “Where is she?”

He didn’t know if he meant Annie or Ophelia. He didn’t want to know.

His voice was barely audible, lost beneath the murmurs of rebel soldiers and the quiet shuffling of medics tending to the wounded. His lips parted again, but before he could speak, Haymitch’s voice cut through the fog.

“She’s over there,” Haymitch said. He subtly tilted his head toward the far corner of the room.

Finnick’s eyes snapped in the direction he indicated, his breath catching sharply in his chest when he spotted her.

Annie.

She was sitting on the edge of one of the exam tables, her legs dangling over the side.  A medical technician was fastening a pressure cuff around her arm, but Annie’s eyes were already scanning the room, her chest rising and falling in quick, shallow breaths.

The moment her eyes found Finnick, the cuff didn’t matter anymore.

Her body jolted, every muscle tightening with a sharp intake of breath, and without hesitation, she yanked at the velcro with shaking hands, ripping it from her bicep and shoving the medic aside. She leapt from the table, staggering slightly on her weak, trembling legs as she took off at a dead sprint.

Finnick barely had time to register the sound of her feet slapping against the floor before she was colliding with him.

She slammed into him with a sharp, desperate sob, her arms locking tightly around his neck, her legs curling around his waist as though she were still half-drowning in the brine of District 4’s seas, clinging to him like she might be swept away again. Finnick’s arms instantly came around her, anchoring her to him, one hand cradling the back of her head, the other gripping her waist with a crushing, desperate hold.

Her face pressed into his throat, her body trembling violently against him, and she let out a shuddering gasp— a broken, guttural sound muffled against his skin.

Her fingers curled tightly into the fabric of his shirt, clenching and twisting it in her grip, as though trying to physically keep herself from slipping away again. Her arms were trembling violently, clinging to him with bone-deep desperation, her face wet against his neck.

“I’m here,” Finnick whispered hoarsely against her hair, his voice barely audible. His hand tightened around her waist, his fingers digging into her ribs, his arms nearly shaking with the strength of his hold. “I’m here, I’m here.”

But even as he whispered the words, his eyes were still searching.

His head lifted slightly, his gaze sweeping the hospital wing over the curve of Annie’s shoulder. His eyes kept moving, kept scanning, his breath hitching faintly every time they landed on someone unfamiliar. His pulse surged in his throat, his heart slamming against his ribs as he kept searching.

And then he saw her.

Ophelia.

She was standing near the back of the room, her back partially turned to him, her posture upright, squared. She was speaking to Boggs, her hair slightly mussed from the helmet that she had worn.

She was standing.

Whole. Alive. Breathing.

And Finnick didn’t know if he felt relieved or if he wanted to tear the entire hospital apart.

His arms tightened slightly around Annie, his breath shallow, fast, his chest clenching violently. His vision narrowed slightly, heat prickling behind his eyes, his hands beginning to tremble faintly. He exhaled shakily against Annie’s hair, his lips pressed to her temple, feeling her breath warm and uneven against his throat.

And then he did the only thing he could.

He gently lowered Annie to the floor. She blinked up at him, dazed, wide-eyed, her legs trembling faintly beneath her. Her fingers tightened briefly around the fabric of his shirt, still clinging to him like she didn’t want to let go.

But Finnick was already pulling back. He gave her hands a fleeting squeeze— soft, brief, almost thoughtless— before releasing her completely.

And then he turned.

Without another word, he stormed across the room, his boots striking hard against the floor with each step. His movements were fast, heated, his body tight with tension. He weaved between the medical staff and rebel soldiers with single-minded purpose, his eyes locked on Ophelia’s profile. His chest was rising and falling sharply, his hands curling into fists at his sides. His breath was shallow, too fast, unsteady.

By the time he reached her, Boggs had already spotted him.

The commander’s eyes narrowed faintly, immediately catching on to the tension brimming beneath Finnick’s stride— the rigid set of his jaw, the wildness in his eyes. Boggs’s gaze flicked briefly between Finnick and Ophelia, clearly assessing the situation, before he silently stepped back and removed himself from the upcoming conversation. Or confrontation. He wasn’t sure which. He didn’t want to know.

Ophelia turned slightly, her eyes following Boggs’s movement— and then she saw him.

Her expression remained unreadable at first— stoic, faintly bewildered by the intensity of his approach. Her eyes widened slightly, her lips parting in quiet surprise, clearly caught off guard. Her chest was still rising and falling from the mission, her breaths slightly uneven, but her expression was calm, steady.

She opened her mouth to speak— to ask him something, maybe.

But the words never came.

Because Finnick was already standing there, in front of her, staring down at her with a look that was utterly blistering— heated and fractured, equal parts livid and broken. His eyes were sharp, wild, burning with something feral and unyielding. His chest was still heaving slightly, his fists trembling faintly at his sides, his knuckles bloodless with tension.

And he just stood there, staring at her. His heart was pounding violently in his ears, too fast, too loud. His blood was hot, his face slightly flushed, his hands trembling faintly at his sides. His breath was uneven, shallow and jagged with adrenaline, catching in his throat every time he opened his mouth, unsure if he wanted to scream or shake her or press his forehead to hers just to feel her.

Ophelia’s lips parted slightly, her eyes softening, her brow furrowing faintly in confusion. She opened her mouth again. “Finni—”

And then, without thinking, without softening, his voice came hard and fast as he cut her off, unsteady with the force of it, cracking slightly from the strain in his throat.

“What the hell were you thinking?”

Ophelia blinked once, her eyes widening faintly, startled by the sheer volume of his voice. Her lips parted slightly, confusion flashing briefly across her face, her brows knitting at the raw, open edge of his words.

But Finnick didn’t stop. He took a half-step closer, his chest rising and falling sharply, his hands curling into fists at his sides. His voice came louder, strained and fraying at the edges, his throat still raw from hours of speaking into the camera. His eyes were wild, heated, sharp as they locked onto hers.

“Why would you go on that mission, huh?!” he spat, his voice tight, breaking slightly on the last word. “Why?” His breath came in quick, uneven bursts, his eyes wide, shining faintly with disbelief and anger. His hands trembled slightly, his knuckles bloodless. “What the hell were you thinking?”

Ophelia’s eyes narrowed slightly, the startled confusion in her expression flickering into something sharper, tighter. Her lips parted slightly, and for half a second, it almost seemed like she was going to take a step back, like she might soften beneath the heat of his voice.

But she didn’t.

Instead, her eyes hardened. Her jaw tensed, her fingers twitching slightly at her sides. She lifted her chin, her expression sharpening with defiance as she took a measured step forward, closing the space between them. Her eyes locked onto his, flashing with something equally frayed, equally volatile, equally wounded.

And then she snapped. 

“Why didn’t you go?” Her voice was low, biting, sharp as broken glass. Her lips parted slightly, her breath uneven, fast, her eyes burning with a sudden heat that matched his. She stared up at him, her face tight with something incredulous, something almost mocking, as though daring him to answer.

Finnick’s breath caught sharply in his throat, his chest tightening at the words. His jaw clenched, his eyes flashing with something that almost looked like pain— barely perceptible, a flicker, fleeting and raw. His hands flexed at his sides, his fingers twitching slightly as they curled into fists again.

He exhaled sharply, quickly, the sound uneven, disbelieving.

“Are you—” he started, his voice breaking slightly, low and rough, before he let out a humorless, bitter sound, something close to a laugh. His eyes narrowed sharply, and when he spoke again, his voice came louder, harder, strained.

“I was filming a propo!” he shouted, his voice cracking slightly at the volume. His breath came fast and shallow, his face flushing with anger. His hands gestured wildly in the empty space between them, as if the very thought of having to explain himself was physically unbearable. “A propo that was keeping the Capitol distracted so the rescue mission could even happen!”

The words left his mouth harder than he intended, louder, more frenzied, but he couldn’t stop them. His voice was sharp, almost vicious, every syllable burning in his throat. He took another half-step forward, his chest nearly brushing hers now.

“The rescue mission that you were on,” he snapped, his voice cracking slightly with incredulity, “without even telling me.”

Ophelia’s eyes widened slightly, startled by the sudden ferocity in his voice, the near-desperation in the way he spat the words, as though they burned on his tongue. Her lips parted faintly, her breath catching softly in her throat. For half a second, her expression flickered— something almost unguarded, something that nearly looked like realization.

But then she recovered. Her expression hardened again, sharpening with something indignant, something bristling. Her eyes narrowed slightly, the incredulity flashing brighter in her gaze as she tilted her head slightly, giving him a flat, deadpan stare.

“Okay?!” she snapped back, throwing her arms out slightly in a sharp, exasperated gesture. Her voice was louder now, heated, the edges frayed with annoyance. “I don’t see what the big deal is!” Her eyes widened slightly with incredulous emphasis, her brows lifting sharply as she stared him down. “I got Annie back here safe and sound!” Her voice came harder, louder, almost mocking. She threw her arms out again in a wide, exaggerated gesture, her tone dripping with sarcasm. “You’re welcome for that, by the way!”

Finnick’s eyes flashed violently at her words. His chest heaved slightly, his breath coming too fast, too shallow. His vision blurred faintly at the edges, his heart slamming against his ribs, his hands trembling violently at his sides. His jaw clenched tightly, his teeth grinding together.

And then his voice came again— louder, harsher, splintering at the edges, almost raw with fury, “You’re missing the point!”

His voice cracked sharply, his breath catching halfway through the words, and it came out louder than he intended— almost a shout, too loud for the hospital wing. His face was flushed, his eyes wide and wild with something almost desperate. His voice wavered slightly at the end, fraying with emotion, with disbelief, with the unbearable weight of the words he couldn’t say. 

He was too close now— his breath coming fast and uneven, his hands twitching at his sides, his face inches from hers. He could feel the heat radiating off her skin, could see the slight tremor of her breath, the faint flush in her cheeks.

And then, just as suddenly, a firm hand shoved Ophelia back, pushing her slightly behind him.

“Enough.”

Haymitch’s voice was low and gravelly, sharp with warning.

Finnick’s chest was still heaving, his eyes wild, his hands shaking slightly as he staggered back a step, barely registering the weight of Haymitch’s arm pressing him away.

“Stop screaming at each other in the middle of a hospital wing,” Haymitch muttered lowly, his voice rough with irritation, his eyes flashing with something hard, disapproving. His hand remained firm against Ophelia’s shoulder, subtly keeping her back, his body angled slightly between them.

Finnick’s breath was still coming fast and uneven, his face slightly flushed, his hands trembling faintly. His eyes were locked onto Ophelia’s, sharp and heated, burning with something raw and wild. And Ophelia stared back at him, her chest rising and falling slightly, her eyes still wide, her lips parted faintly with something incredulous, something disbelieving.

Neither of them spoke.  And then Finnick’s eyes flickered slightly— his breath catching faintly, his expression tightening. For a brief, fleeting moment, something shifted in his gaze— something vulnerable, unguarded, raw.

But it was gone as quickly as it appeared. Without another word, he turned sharply on his heel and stalked out of the room, his boots striking hard against the concrete, his hands still trembling faintly at his sides.

Ophelia stared after him, her eyes still wide, her breath still uneven. She barely registered Haymitch’s voice at her side, low and gruff.

“Good luck with that,” he muttered dryly under his breath before walking away.

The hospital wing was quieter now.

The frantic pace of the previous week had eased, settling into something calmer, more sterile— less raw with chaos, but still heavy with the residue of it. The frantic shuffle of medics had dwindled. The scent of blood and soot that had once clung to the sheets and the gauze and the floors had been replaced with the sharp, biting sting of antiseptic and the faint, lingering bitterness of iodine. The room was still. Quieter.

But Finnick still felt frayed.

He sat in the hard, uncomfortable chair beside Annie’s hospital bed, his legs sprawled slightly, his elbows braced against his knees. His hands were loosely clasped together, but his fingers wouldn’t stay still— fidgeting, restless, endlessly twisting the edge of the blanket draped over Annie’s legs. His thumb kept dragging over the corner of the fabric, over and over, without realizing it.

Annie was asleep.

Her breathing was soft, even, her chest rising and falling in steady, measured intervals. Her face was slack, peaceful, her dark lashes brushing the faint shadows beneath her eyes. The sunlight filtering in from the narrow, grated window caught the delicate curve of her cheekbone, tracing a pale golden line across her skin.

He watched her breathe. Watched the faint, almost imperceptible flutter of her lashes against her cheeks. Watched the slight, steady rise and fall of her ribs. The faint twitch of her fingers against the edge of the sheet.

She looked so small. Smaller than he remembered. And yet, in some ways, she looked more herself than she had in years.

Her face was thinner now, sharper from the weeks in the Capitol’s clutches, but there was color in her cheeks again. Her lips were no longer cracked and pallid. Her eyes, when they were open, were brighter, warmer, clearer. She was back.

And she was safe.

Finnick exhaled softly through his nose, leaning forward slightly, his hands tightening faintly around the edge of the blanket. The tension in his chest didn’t ease, but he closed his eyes for a brief moment, feeling the faint burn behind his ribs, that dull, persistent ache that had been there for as long as he could remember.

The soft hiss of the door sliding open startled him. Finnick’s eyes snapped open, his head turning sharply, his shoulders stiffening faintly as the nurse entered the room. She moved quietly, efficiently, her expression calm but brisk, her hands practiced and steady as she made her way over to Annie’s bedside.

Finnick straightened slightly, sitting up taller in his chair, his hands slowly lowering to his lap. His eyes tracked the nurse’s movements, quietly observing as she checked the small monitor beside the bed, making a few adjustments. She pressed her fingers lightly to Annie’s wrist, measuring her pulse, and then carefully jotted something down on her clipboard.

After a moment, the nurse turned toward him.

“She’s free to be discharged by the end of the day,” she said gently, her tone matter-of-fact but not unkind. She glanced down at her clipboard again, scanning over the details. “No physical wounds. No further signs of mental distress.” Her eyes flicked toward Annie, who was still sleeping peacefully, her breathing slow and steady. “She’s okay.”

Finnick’s throat tightened faintly at the words. He exhaled softly, slowly, his hands loosely clasped in his lap. He gave a small, wordless nod, his eyes fixed on Annie’s face, his expression still, impassive, but his chest was rising and falling just a fraction faster than before.

The nurse lingered only a moment longer before quietly slipping out of the room, the door sliding shut behind her.

For a moment, there was nothing but the faint, sterile hum of the monitors and the soft, even cadence of Annie’s breathing. Then, slowly, she stirred.

Finnick’s eyes softened slightly, instinctively drawn to her the moment her body shifted beneath the thin hospital blanket. Her breath hitched softly, her eyelashes fluttering faintly against her cheekbones. And then, slowly, she opened her eyes.

Her gaze was still slightly drowsy, hazy with sleep, but when her eyes found his, she smiled faintly. A slow, soft, easy sort of smile. The corners of her lips barely lifted, her eyes still slightly hooded with fatigue, but there was warmth there. That familiar, gentle warmth.

“Hey,” she rasped softly, her voice faint and slightly scratchy from sleep.

Finnick’s chest tightened faintly. His throat constricted slightly around the word, but he managed to offer a small, quiet, “Hey,” in return. He shifted slightly in his chair, his hands still loosely clasped, his voice soft, low, as though afraid that speaking any louder might fracture the delicate stillness of the room. 

“I can walk you to your compartment,” he murmured quietly, barely above a whisper. His eyes remained on hers, his voice steady but subdued. “When you’re discharged.”

Annie’s eyes lingered on his face for a moment, searching his expression. And then, slowly, she gave a small, almost imperceptible nod.

“Okay,” she whispered softly.

Her voice was warm and simple and sweet, but after a moment, she tilted her head slightly, her eyes narrowing faintly. Her expression shifted slightly, her brows drawing together as she stared at him with a faint crease of curiosity.

Then, softly, she asked, “Why were you shouting?”

Finnick’s face went still. His lips parted slightly, his breath catching softly in his throat, but no sound came out. He blinked once, twice, his eyes flicking slightly away from hers, his fingers twitching faintly in his lap. His throat bobbed slightly with a silent swallow.

“Was I?” he murmured softly, his voice low, faintly rough, brushing it off without meeting her eyes.

Annie’s gaze didn’t waver. Her expression was calm, quiet, unyielding. She stared at him steadily, her lips slightly parted, her eyes wide and clear. There was nothing sharp or accusing in her face— just quiet observation, soft but steady.

“You shouldn’t be so angry,” she said softly, her voice faint, matter-of-fact, but gentle. “She’s nice.”

Finnick’s eyes lifted sharply to hers. His breath caught slightly, his chest tightening faintly. He stared at her for a moment, his expression perfectly still, his face utterly impassive. “You… you talked to her?”

Annie’s eyes widened slightly, but she nodded faintly, still watching him with that same steady, even expression. “She pulled me from my cell,” she murmured softly, her voice quiet, gentle. “She got me out.”

Finnick’s stomach clenched violently at the words. His chest tightened, his throat constricting faintly, his breath stalling slightly in his lungs. His hands twitched faintly in his lap, clenching slightly.

Annie didn’t notice. “We tied knots on the hovercraft together,” she added quietly, her eyes slightly unfocused, her voice soft with the memory. “On the flight back.”

Finnick’s heart lurched violently in his chest. 

Something hot and splintering cracked down the center of him, something he couldn’t name, something he didn’t want to. And suddenly, it was worse.

Worse that Ophelia had been the one to pull Annie from her cell. Worse that she had held her hand or spoken to her softly or tied knots with her on the flight back. Worse that Ophelia had done everything right.

Because it made it so much harder to hate her.

His jaw tightened faintly. His breath came slightly uneven, sharp and shallow, as he stared at the blanket, not trusting himself to look at Annie. He exhaled softly, slowly.

“Yeah,” he murmured softly, faintly rough. “She’s nice.”

September, 75 ADD

The meeting room in District 13 was as sterile and uninviting as every other part of the underground compound. Ophelia had been here before, she still felt like she didn’t quite belong.

She stood just inside the doorway, shifting her weight slightly before clasping her hands behind her back. Across the table, Coin sat with her usual rigid posture. Heavensbee sat beside her, fingers steepled together in front of him.

"Ms. Hadley," Coin greeted, her voice as measured as ever. "Please, have a seat."

Ophelia hesitated briefly before stepping forward and pulling out a chair.

"First and foremost, I want to commend you for your efforts during the rescue mission," Coin continued, her tone crisp, efficient. "Your performance was exemplary. You are an essential member of the special forces of this rebellion."

Ophelia kept her face neutral, though inwardly, she almost scoffed.

Essential?

She thought back to the mission— the way she had barely fired her gun, how her only real contribution had been keeping Annie from unraveling with nothing more than a shoelace and a few poorly tied knots. If that was all it took to impress, then District 13’s standards must not be as high as everyone seemed to think.

But still, she nodded and said, "Thank you, ma’am."

Coin studied her for a moment before continuing. "The next course of action is to move our troops into District 2." She folded her hands neatly atop the table. "Given your background, I believe you will be an invaluable asset in the coming weeks. We’d like you to be a part of the propo team for this visit. A voice in swaying your fellow citizens to join the rebellion."

Ophelia blinked. "You want me to... talk to them?"

"Yes," Coin confirmed, her gaze sharp. "Your voice will carry weight in District 2. You know how they think, what they respond to. You are an example for them. We need them to understand that the Capitol’s power is not absolute, that they can take back control."

Heavensbee leaned forward slightly, nodding. "Our Mockingjay will be there as well, with the rest of the propo team. Boggs, Haymitch, Cressida. All will be there to help with whatever you need."

Ophelia frowned slightly. "I thought Katniss was still in the hospital." She didn’t mention why— she didn’t have to. Everyone knew about Peeta’s condition.

"She was discharged this morning," Coin said evenly. "She’s healthy, able, and in good spirits. Ready to move forward with the next phase of our plan."

Ophelia studied the older woman for a moment, trying to decide whether or not she believed her. But then again, this wasn’t exactly a request, was it?

"Okay." She exhaled quietly, nodding once. "I’ll do it."

A brief silence settled between them before Ophelia hesitated, then asked, "Has there been any word on Enobaria? Was she returned to 2?"

Plutarch gave her a lingering look before responding. "As far as we’re aware, Enobaria has been long gone from Capitol holdings. She was of no use to them—she had no information to disclose about the rebellion. It’s likely she was spared immediately after confirming she held no valuable intelligence."

Ophelia nodded slowly, absorbing that information. "Good." She didn’t say anything else. Didn’t mention the real reason she’d asked.

She better be safe, Ophelia thought to herself. She was feeding her dog.

Chapter Text

September, 75 ADD

OPHELIA SAT ON THE EDGE OF HER COT rolling up a spare set of District 13-issued jumpsuits and tucking them into her bag. The small compartment she had been assigned since joining the rebellion was a far cry from the space she once had in District 2, but she had grown used to the cramped quarters, the dim lighting, the way the walls seemed to close in if she thought about them for too long.

She had packed lightly— just the essentials. A few jumpsuits, an extra pair of boots, ration packs, a knife she had managed to slip past the quartermaster’s notice. Heavensbee had been vague about how long they would be stationed in District 2, but he had told her to prepare for an extended period of time. That alone was enough for Ophelia to take his word for it.

As she reached for a fresh canteen, she heard a light knock against the metal doorframe.

Her door was open— she had left it that way, not planning to linger much longer. Still, she wasn’t expecting company. When she turned her head, she was caught slightly off guard by who stood in the doorway.

Ophelia hadn’t spoken to Katniss much since the rescue mission. And even before that, their interactions had been brief at best. Not exactly enemies, not exactly friends, hardly even allies in the arena.

Katniss didn’t say anything at first, just stood there, hands resting at her sides, face unreadable.

Ophelia blinked once before tilting her head slightly. "Hey."

Katniss gave a small nod, barely a greeting, before stepping further inside.

Ophelia wasn’t sure what to make of this visit, but she kept her expression neutral as she turned back to her bag, adjusting the folded jumpsuits. 

A beat of silence passed before she spoke again, voice even, "How’s your... neck? Is it okay?"

She didn’t have to elaborate. The faint bruises along Katniss’s throat, though faded, were still visible. A reminder of what had happened when Peeta had been brought back— hijacked, unrecognizable, broken by the Capitol’s conditioning.

Katniss stiffened slightly but answered in a clipped tone. "It’s fine."

Ophelia nodded, not pressing the issue. She had expected a short answer. Katniss wasn’t one for words. So she reached for another set of clothing, smoothing out the fabric before placing it inside her bag.

That’s when Katniss spoke again. "I’m sorry about Cato."

Ophelia’s hands stilled.

She hadn’t expected that.

For a long moment, she just stared down at her bag, fingers curling slightly into the fabric beneath them.

She could feel something curling hot and sharp in her chest— anger, maybe, but at what? At Katniss? At Peeta? At the two kids who had done what they had to do to survive?

No. She couldn’t be angry, not really. Cato had been trying to kill them. That was the reality of the Games. Katniss had shot the arrow into his hand, and Peeta had pushed him off the Cornucopia, but none of them had truly been in control. The Games weren’t fair. They had never been fair.

Snow. Snow was the root of the problem. It had always been Snow.

Ophelia exhaled slowly before finally looking up at Katniss. Her voice was softer than she expected when she finally spoke, "It’s not your fault."

Katniss’s throat bobbed slightly, her gray eyes searching Ophelia’s. "I know," she said after a pause. "But I’m still sorry. As a sister."

Ophelia hesitated, caught off guard again. She studied Katniss for a moment before something in her expression shifted, and she gave a small nod. "Thank you."

Katniss nodded in return before glancing briefly at the half-packed bag on the cot. "I’ll see you on the hovercraft," she said simply before turning and walking off, her footsteps barely making a sound against the cold metal floor.

Ophelia watched her go before letting out a slow breath and returning to her packing.

Ophelia slung the strap of her bag over her shoulder, adjusting the weight as she stepped out of her compartment and into the dimly lit hallway of District 13. The cold, sterile air pressed against her skin, the scent of concrete and faintly metallic recycled air filling her nose. She kept her strides even, purposeful. There was no hesitation in her movements. She had a mission. She had a place to be.

She was halfway down the hall when she heard it.

"Ophelia."

The voice— familiar, unmistakable— rang out behind her.

Her shoulders tensed automatically. Every part of her told her to keep walking. To pretend she hadn’t heard him. To let the distance stretch between them and keep it there.

They hadn’t spoken since the fight.

Two weeks ago, in the hospital wing, when words had been thrown like knives between them. When they had shouted, both raw and furious, both too stubborn to step down.  She didn’t want to go down that road again. So she kept walking.

Footsteps echoed behind her. She didn’t have to turn around to know he was following. Finnick wasn’t going to let her walk away without a word.

Her jaw tightened.

Fine.

She kept moving forward, determined to make it to the hovercraft bay without engaging, but then— a firm tug on the strap of her bag.

She barely stopped herself from stumbling as the sudden force pulled her back a step. She huffed sharply, whipping around to glare up at him. "What, Finnick?" she snapped, her voice sharp, edged with frustration.

Finnick held onto the strap of her bag for a second longer before letting go, his sea-green eyes studying her, expression unreadable. He exhaled through his nose, running a hand through his tousled bronze hair before finally speaking. "Are you leaving District 13?"

Ophelia exhaled harshly, irritated by the question. "For a propo, yeah. In District 2."

Finnick’s jaw clenched briefly. His silence was heavy, charged. "And you weren’t going to tell me about this either?"

Ophelia scoffed, the sound sharp and humorless. She shook her head before letting out a dry laugh. "I wasn’t aware I had to tell you my every move."

Finnick’s lips parted slightly, something flashing behind his eyes, something unreadable, something Ophelia didn’t want to pick apart right now. Then his expression hardened. "That’s not—" He exhaled sharply, tone shifting, his frustration evident. "Forget it."

Ophelia rolled her eyes. "No, go ahead. Spit it out, Finnick."

He didn’t immediately respond.

So she pressed further. "I don’t see how this matters to you! What I do doesn’t affect you!" Her voice rose slightly, frustration bleeding through. Then, unable to stop herself, she spat out, "Go back to Annie, Finnick. I got her out for you, you know!"

The words landed between them like a slap.

Finnick inhaled sharply, his hands flexing at his sides. His expression twisted— frustration, anger, something else she couldn’t name.

For a second, she thought he was going to fire something back. But instead, he turned on his heel and walked away.

Just like that. Ophelia stood frozen, staring after him, her pulse hammering. 

Something inside her twisted, sharp and painful. He had walked away. And that shouldn’t have bothered her as much as it did. She inhaled deeply, shoving the feeling down, forcing herself to move. Without another glance back, she turned on her heel and headed for the hovercraft.

The hovercraft touched down in District 2 with a mechanical hiss, the ramp lowering onto the cracked pavement of the once-pristine Capitol-controlled stronghold. The air was different here— thinner, colder. Ophelia stepped off with the rest of the team, her boots hitting the ground with a solid thud. The mountains loomed in the distance, jagged and unyielding, standing as a reminder of the place she had once called home.

She didn’t linger. Didn’t wait for orders. Didn’t care if someone noticed her slipping away.

The others were preoccupied— setting up for the propo, discussing strategies, going over their talking points. No one was looking at her. So Ophelia turned on her heel and broke away from the group, weaving through the ruined streets with purpose.

She had to see it for herself.

The Victors’ Village.

The walk was longer than she remembered, or maybe it just felt that way. The roads she once knew, the ones that had always been so pristine, lined with manicured hedges and polished stone paths, were unrecognizable now. Buildings were collapsed in on themselves, the streets littered with debris. Her boots crunched over broken glass and remnants of Capitol banners, torn and trampled underfoot.

Then she saw it.

Her breath caught in her throat.

The Victors’ Village— what was left of it.

It was nearly demolished.

Houses stood in various states of destruction— roofs caved in, windows shattered, walls blackened with scorch marks. Some were nothing more than skeletal remains of what they once were, reduced to piles of rubble. The air smelled of smoke, old and lingering, like whatever had happened here had been burning for a long time before it finally died out.

Ophelia blinked, her heart hammering.

Had there been riots? Had the Capitol done this? Or had the rebellion?

She didn’t know. Didn’t care. Because a new, more urgent fear struck her like a punch to the gut.

Concrete.

Without another thought, she bolted.

Her feet pounded against the ground as she sprinted toward her house, dodging debris, lungs burning with the cold air. The door was barely hanging on its hinges, tilted and cracked, and she didn’t bother with caution. She shoved it open with enough force to make it slam against the wall, stepping into what remained of her home.

"Concrete!" she called, her voice sharp, desperate.

Silence.

Ophelia’s chest tightened, her heart threatening to crack open in her ribcage.

Then came soft, uneven footsteps coming from the stairs. Her breath hitched as she turned her head, just in time to her small scruffy dog limping down toward her.

Concrete. His fur was more tangled than she remembered. He moved slowly, almost hesitant, as if not fully trusting that she was real.

Ophelia felt something in her break. "Oh, my good boy," she whispered, voice trembling as she rushed forward. She scooped him up in her arms, holding him tight against her chest, burying her face in his fur. 

He smelled the same. That same old-dog smell, warm and familiar, mixed with the faint scent of dust and home. "Oh, I missed you. I love you so much," she whispered, pressing a kiss against his scruffy face.

Concrete let out a soft whine, his tail giving a weak wag, pressing his small body against her as if afraid she’d disappear again.

Ophelia closed her eyes, holding him closer. She wanted to stay. Wanted to take him with her, to never let him go again. But she couldn’t.

District 13 had rules. Strict ones. No pets. And if she tried to take him, if someone found out, she knew exactly what would happen.

He’d be executed. Just another casualty under Coin’s rule.

Ophelia swallowed the lump in her throat and pulled back slightly, looking down at him. "I have to go again, okay?" she murmured, running her fingers gently through his wiry fur. "I can’t take you with me. But I will come back for you as soon as I can, okay? I promise."

Concrete blinked up at her, ears twitching slightly, before resting his head against her chest. Ophelia closed her eyes and held him tight.

District 2 wasn’t what Ophelia expected.

Maybe it was foolish to think it would feel different just because she was seeing it from the other side— from the perspective of the rebellion rather than the Capitol. But the truth was, it looked the same. The towering cliffs, the well-built homes, the ordered streets. The only real difference was the atmosphere.

District 2 was split. Some villages had joined the rebellion with barely a second thought. Masonry workers who had suffered under Capitol rule, families who had lost children to the Games and had nothing left to lose. Other villages— wealthier ones, the ones that had never truly suffered, the ones that had benefited from the Capitol’s rule— had remained loyal.

Ophelia wasn’t surprised when she learned that her home village, the one she had grown up in, was among the loyalists.

Of course, it was.

It had always been one of the more productive, wealthier ones. It was the kind of place where people sent their children to the Academy, where Careers were shaped and molded, where Capitol fealty wasn’t just expected— it was a way of life.

She could already picture her parents— her mother clutching her necklace in that nervous way she always did, her father with his hands clasped behind his back, stiff and silent— watching the rebel presence in their district with wary disapproval.

She supposed she should feel something about that. But she didn’t. Or maybe she had just gotten used to pushing it down.

For the first two weeks, Ophelia found herself following Katniss, Gale, Haymitch, Boggs, and the rest of the propo team around, watching, listening, learning. She picked up on the unspoken tensions in the district, on the way the Capitol loyalists eyed the rebels with wary distrust and the way the rebels stood their ground, firm in their defiance.

She heard the speeches, the conversations, the debates. And through all of it, she remained quiet. It didn’t escape her that she hadn’t contributed much of anything. 

Was that why she was here? To be a face? A token? A reminder that the rebellion had someone from District 2 on their side?

She wasn’t sure if she felt used or not. But maybe that was what she had signed up for. Maybe it was what she had always been. A Career in the rebels’ own right.

The thought sat uneasily in her mind as she stood near the back of the room, blending into the background as everyone spoke around her. The holographic display of the Nut hovered above the table, blue light casting faint shadows over the gathered figures.

“You think of it like a wolf den,” she heard Gale say to her left. “You’re not gonna fight your way in, so you’ve got two choices. You trap the wolves inside, or you flush ‘em out.”

Was that what they were comparing her people to now? Animals?

“If we can’t attack straight on, then couldn’t we use our hovercraft to strike around it?” Gale continued. We’ll use the mountains. We’ll hit weak spots in the peaks.”

Beetee spoke up to her right, “You could design the bomb targets in sequence using seismic data.”

“Trigger avalanches,” Lyme added.

Ophelia remained silent. Because in the end, she wasn’t a strategist. She wasn’t a leader. She was just another piece on the board. A soldier. A Career. And she still wasn’t sure where that left her.

The world outside the window burned.

Ophelia stood stiff between Gale and Katniss, her arms crossed so tightly against her chest she could feel her nails biting into her palms. Her eyes were locked on the Nut— the last stronghold of the Capitol in District 2— as the rebel hovercrafts rained down fire upon it.

Explosions shook the mountainside, thunderous and final, collapsing entrances, sealing tunnels, burying people alive.

People who had once been her neighbors. People who had raised their children in the same village where she had been raised.

People like her father.

Ophelia clenched her jaw so hard it ached.

Her father could be in there. Trapped. Crushed under a mountain of rock and fire, suffocating in the darkness.

Good, a part of her hissed. He abandoned her. He and her mother turned their backs on her the moment Cato died. They didn’t mourn her. Why should she mourn them?

But her hands trembled at her sides, and her stomach twisted itself into knots.

She hated it. Hated that she felt anything at all.

Loss pressed in from all sides, wrapping itself around her like suffocating vines.

Hadn’t she lost enough? Hadn’t the world taken enough from her?

Another explosion rumbled through the sky, and her vision blurred around the edges. Her body felt disconnected from her mind, like she wasn’t really standing here, like she wasn’t really watching her home be swallowed by war.

Somewhere, a hand landed on her arm.

Ophelia snapped.

Before she could even register the movement, she smacked the hand away— hard. She didn’t know who it was. She didn’t care who it was. She just wanted everyone to stop touching her.

Without another word, she spun on her heel and stormed away from the window, her boots pounding against the floor as she pushed blindly down a hall she didn’t recognize, away from the sound of the bombs, the weight of the moment, the suffocating press of her own thoughts.

Behind her, Katniss turned slightly, watching her retreating form with unreadable eyes. She didn’t turn back to the window. She couldn’t watch. She hadn’t agreed to this.

But Gale did. And he remained where he was, his gaze still locked on the destruction.

The halls of the Justice Building were eerily silent.

Katniss walked with slow, deliberate steps, her boots scuffing against the smooth flooring as she followed the direction Ophelia had stormed off in. She wasn’t sure why she was following her.

Maybe because she had seen the way Ophelia’s face twisted before she left. The way her hands had trembled. The way she looked like she was breaking apart. Katniss had seen that look before.

She finally found her near the back of the building, sitting on the cold floor with her knees drawn up, hands clamped over her ears, eyes fixed blankly on the wall across from her.

Katniss hesitated. Ophelia didn’t acknowledge her. 

For a moment, Katniss thought about leaving. Walking away and letting her have this moment alone. But instead, she sighed quietly and sat down beside her, pressing her back against the wall, her arms resting on her knees.

Finally, Katniss spoke. “My father died in a mining accident.”

Ophelia didn’t respond. Didn’t move. But she didn’t pull away from her either.

Katniss took that as enough. She leaned her head back against the wall and exhaled, watching as Ophelia closed her eyes, still covering her ears as if trying to block out the world entirely.

So Katniss let her. And she stayed there.

For hours, neither of them spoke. Neither of them moved.

The world outside shifted, time passed, but they remained seated on the floor, shoulders just barely brushing.

Only when Boggs eventually came looking for them did Ophelia stir. She slowly lowered her hands, rubbing her fingers against her temples before exhaling sharply.

Katniss didn’t say anything when Ophelia pushed herself up and walked beside her back into the world that was still burning.

Midnight draped itself over the town square, but the darkness did nothing to conceal the destruction left in the wake of the attack.  The air smelled of smoke and metal, of war and something worse. Something that Ophelia didn’t want to know the source of. She stood near Katniss, watching as the cameras were set up, their bright lenses slicing through the dim light. 

Cressida looked over at Ophelia. “Do you have anything you want to say?” she asked.

Ophelia inhaled sharply, parting her lips to speak—

And then the sound of grinding metal filled the square. Heads turned. The train pulled through, its heavy wheels screeching against the tracks as it came into view.

The Nut survivors had arrived. The train had barely come to a stop before they began to stumble off. The door to the freight car clattered open with a screech of steel on steel, and the first wave of survivors spilled out onto the platform— disheveled, bloodied, and swaying unsteadily on their feet.

Their faces were streaked with soot and grime, their uniforms torn and tattered. Most of them were still coated in fine layers of ash, their skin smeared with dirt and sweat, their eyes bloodshot and wild with the hollow, disoriented look of shell shock.

Some staggered onto the platform with their arms raised, their hands trembling faintly in the air. Others clung to their wounded comrades, their arms draped heavily over one another’s shoulders, their legs nearly giving out beneath them with each step.

The rebel soldiers surrounding the platform were barking orders. 

“Get on the ground!”

“Drop your weapons!”

“Get your hands in the air!”

The barrels of their rifles were steady, unwavering, aimed directly at the heads of the men and women staggering onto the cracked stone.

Several of the survivors flinched violently at the sight of the drawn weapons. A few dropped their guns immediately, letting them clatter loudly against the platform before falling heavily to their knees, their hands raised, trembling, in surrender.

But some of them didn’t. Some of them hesitated. Some of them still had enough fight left in them to grip their rifles too tightly, their eyes still narrowed with defiance despite the blood trickling down their temples.

And the rebels didn’t hesitate. They lunged forward, yanking the rifles from their grips, driving them down onto their knees, pinning them to the platform floor with forceful hands. The sharp clatter of rifles hitting the stone echoed in Ophelia’s ears, the sound hollow and metallic, vaguely muted beneath the steady ringing that still throbbed behind her temples.

She stood still. Perfectly still. Her boots were heavy against the cracked stone floor, her arms stiff and motionless at her sides.

Someone grabbed her arm— fingers clamping firmly around her bicep, tugging her roughly backward, trying to pull her out of the way.

Maybe it was Haymitch. Maybe it was Boggs.

She didn’t know. She didn’t care. She jerked her arm sharply out of their grip, twisting her shoulder, yanking herself free. And then she kept walking.

Her boots struck hard against the platform with each step, her eyes narrowing faintly as she scanned the crowd. Her breath was steady but shallow, short and sharp against the back of her throat. Her jaw was tight, locked with tension. Her eyes flicked quickly over the survivors’ faces, scanning each one with a sharp, hawkish focus.

Where is he?

The thought struck through her mind like a hammer against steel, repetitive and cold, over and over again.

Her eyes dragged sharply from face to face, flicking over the unfamiliar, soot-streaked expressions of men she didn’t recognize— men who were too old, too young, too unfamiliar.

And then she saw them.

Her father’s friends. She recognized them immediately. The men who used to sit at her father’s table, their voices loud and slurred with alcohol, their laughter clumsy and crude as they drained their glasses and leered too long at her mother. The men who used to slap her father’s back with calloused hands, who used to clap him on the shoulder and call him by name, their voices hoarse with admiration.

She saw them now, stumbling off the train. She saw the blood streaking the side of one man’s neck, his hand clamped heavily over the gaping tear in his uniform. She saw another staggering slightly to one side, his ankle bent at an odd angle, a splintered bone half-poking through his calf.

She saw them all. But she didn’t see her father. 

Her eyes flicked over the crowd again. Once. Twice. And still, she didn’t see him.

And slowly— finally— the realization sank in. He wasn’t here. Her father was dead.

She knew it without needing to be told. And she didn’t feel anything. Her face didn’t change. Her chest didn’t tighten. Her hands didn’t tremble. There was no pang of sadness. No cold rush of grief. Just a hollow stillness.

Because she knew. She knew that her father hadn’t loved her. Not really. He had only loved her when it had benefitted him. When it had suited him to put a hand on her shoulder at a dinner party, to introduce her to his colleagues with a warm smile and a proud, boastful hand at her back.

He had only loved her when it could be worn like a medal. The same way her mother had only loved her when she could be paraded in front of the other women— “Look at my daughter, the Victor of the Games.” So she didn’t mourn him. Because there was nothing to mourn. 

Her breath came steadily, shallowly, almost too slow in her chest. Her face remained still, cold, expressionless. And then she heard her name.

Someone was calling her again, their voice sharp and distant, almost hoarse with urgency. She barely heard them. Her eyes remained fixed on the crowd of survivors, searching them numbly, detached, her gaze flicking over the soot-streaked faces.

And then she saw Ovid. He was clutching his ear, his hand smeared with blood, staggering unevenly across the platform. The tan skin of his face was pale, slightly dazed, blood seeping sluggishly from a deep tear along his temple. His uniform was torn and stained with soot and ash, one of his sleeves half-ripped at the seam, the fabric flapping slightly as he stumbled forward.

And then he went down. His knees buckled. He hit the ground hard, his hand slipping slightly against the blood-slick stone. His breath came in short, shallow gasps, his bloodied fingers pressed to the side of his head.

Her throat tightened sharply. For a moment, she stood still, her boots locked in place against the stone. And then, slowly, she turned. She turned to face the rebel team. To face the cameras.

Pollux was aiming the camera directly at her, the heavy lens glinting faintly in the dim light, its cold, glassy eye trained sharply on her face. And she saw Cressida watching her. Ophelia stared back. 

Her face was pale, her eyes hard, cold. Her jaw was set with sharp, rigid tension, her lips pressed into a thin line. Her breath was slow, steady, almost measured. But her eyes were filled with contempt. Dark. Sharp. Smoldering faintly with restrained anger. Because she knew. She knew exactly what they were waiting for. She knew that Coin wanted this.

Wanted her— her rage, her grief, her fury— delivered in a neat, palatable statement, plated perfectly for the cameras. They wanted her to be angry. They wanted her to let the heat rise, to let the bitterness drip from her voice, to let the betrayal crackle against the walls of the Nut’s rubble.

They wanted her to be their weapon. And she was going to give it to them.

She stared at Cressida, her face expressionless, her eyes cold and sharp and filled with contempt.

“My father is dead.”

The statement landed with no ceremony, no grief— just a simple, clinical fact, spoken as easily as if she were relaying the weather. Her lips parted faintly afterward, but she offered nothing more. She simply stared, unmoving, as though she herself were unsure whether she intended to say anything else. Her eyes— wide and eerily unblinking— looked darker than usual, made almost inky by the poor lighting of the broadcast room. The only sign of life on her face was the faint rise and fall of her chest, steady and unhurried, but her expression remained cold and unyielding.

There was a pause, heavy and deliberate, long enough that anyone watching might have thought her done. But then, softly, almost dully, she added: “And I don’t care.”

Her voice was flat, absent of guilt or remorse, but the silence that followed made the words more chilling. She didn’t clarify or explain. She simply let them hang there, weighty and defiant, before dragging in a breath that was barely audible through the comm device on her collar.

She glanced away from the camera then, her eyes landing briefly on Katniss, who sat stiffly on the far edge of the shot. Katniss's brow was faintly furrowed, her lips slightly parted, as though she wanted to say something— to interrupt, perhaps— but she remained silent. Her eyes were wary but not judgmental, simply observant, cataloging Ophelia’s every move with the same wary caution one might show a caged animal that had been pushed too far.

Ophelia’s gaze lingered for only a moment before she turned back to the lens. Her hazel eyes locked on the cold, unblinking eye of the camera, expression steady, almost defiant, as she took another slow breath.

“My father and mother only showed me love after I won my Games at sixteen.” Her voice hardened slightly. The words, while still even and controlled, were laced with a sharper edge. Her lips barely moved as she spoke, her tone clinical and matter-of-fact, making the confession sound all the more damning.

“They only loved me after we moved into the big house in the Village," she continued, her eyes narrowing slightly, "when my winning checks started to arrive on the doorstep… when I was worth a passing glance.”

Her hands, which had been loosely hanging at her sides, curled faintly into fists. The words came more quickly now, spilling from her lips as though she were pulling a thread that had been threatening to unravel for years. The bitterness in her tone sharpened, slashing against the steady cadence she had maintained moments before. Her voice grew quieter but more forceful, as though she were grinding the truth into the faces of her parents and the Capitol alike.

“Only, it didn’t last long,” she muttered darkly, almost as if speaking to herself. She exhaled sharply through her nose, her voice trembling faintly with the effort of keeping it steady. “When I failed to bring my brother home alive from the Games last year—” she spat the words with a sharp, bitter sneer, “another prize pony and a second winning check in the mail, my parents returned to our home in the mountains. Because they could no longer stand to look me in the eyes.”

Her breath hitched faintly, but she forced it down. She was speaking faster now, her words tumbling out in sharp, clipped bursts, barely giving herself time to breathe between them. Her eyes were burning, but she didn’t blink, didn’t look away. She took a step forward, closing the distance between herself and the camera, her shadow stretching and distorting across the cracked tile floor.

Her voice rose— low and seething, thick with venom and years of repressed fury.

“And doesn’t that sound a lot like the Capitol?" she demanded sharply. Her lips curled into a mirthless half-snarl, her teeth flashing. "What they do? What Snow does to us? We are only worth what we provide to him. When we fail to provide, we get fed scraps. But when we win big," she spat the words, her voice trembling with fury, "when we bring in enough to turn heads, we reap the benefits until we don't know life without it.”

She stepped forward again, her eyes wild with the feverish rage that had begun to bubble over. She was panting softly now, her breaths uneven and rapid, her fingers twitching faintly at her sides as though she couldn’t quite contain the shaking. She opened her mouth again, her chest heaving slightly, as if she were about to shout more— about to bare her throat and bleed herself dry for the whole world to see.

But then— a sound. The sudden, unmistakable clatter of boots against stone.

Her voice caught in her throat. She stiffened, her breath catching sharply, and whirled toward the noise, her hands half-raised as though preparing to defend herself. Her heart kicked violently in her chest at the sight of the shadow moving rapidly toward her, and she barely had time to register the barrel of the gun before it was pointed directly at her.

Her feet froze beneath her. Her breath stopped short.

The man surged forward, but she didn’t need to see his face to recognize him. One of her father’s friends— one of the loyalists who had once visited their home in the mountains. His arm was steady, his grip sure, and his finger was already tightening on the trigger.

For a moment, Ophelia’s limbs refused to cooperate. Her feet wouldn’t move. Her hands remained at her sides, trembling faintly. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t—

A sudden, violent jerk yanked her backward.

A sharp cry escaped her lips as she was wrenched off her feet, a powerful arm locking around her middle and throwing her roughly to the ground. Her shoulder struck the stone floor with a sharp crack, and the impact rattled her skull. She didn’t register the burn of her skin against the grit, nor the rough hands forcing her down. She didn’t register Homes’ voice barking orders, nor the frantic shuffle of boots as the others scattered into defensive positions.

All she knew was the sound of the first gunshot.

Her arms flew up over her head instinctively, curling protectively around her skull as she flattened herself against the ground. She squeezed her eyes shut as the shots rang out in rapid succession, echoing like whiplash against the cold stone walls. Her breath came in shallow gasps, short and panicked, but she stayed down, clamping her hands over her ears as though that could block out the crack of gunfire.

It was over in seconds.

The shots stopped, leaving only the sharp, ringing silence in their wake.

Ophelia remained where she was, trembling faintly against the stone, her hands still clamped over her head. Her body refused to move. Her chest heaved with shallow, uneven breaths, but her limbs were leaden and useless.

Someone grabbed her.

Her first instinct was to fight— her fingers spasmed, searching blindly for a grip on a knife or a weapon— but then she registered the familiar weight of the arms around her. Strong, steady hands. Homes. She allowed herself to be pulled up, her limbs sluggish and uncooperative, her knees barely able to hold her weight.

When her eyes opened, the first thing she saw was the man’s body.

He lay slumped on his side, unmoving, blood pooling rapidly beneath him. His eyes were still half-open, fixed on nothing, his hand still loosely clutching the gun he had aimed at her.

Ophelia stared.

She didn’t move. She didn’t breathe. She simply stared, unblinking, as though her brain had frozen mid-thought, unable to process the image before her. Her eyes remained locked on the vacant, glassy stare of the dead man, even as her breath began to return in shallow, uneven gasps.

A choked sound somewhere to her left made her head snap around.

Katniss was on the ground, curled halfway onto her side, clutching her ribs with both arms. She was grimacing faintly, the strain of pain etched into her face, but she was moving— slowly pushing herself upright with a faint hiss of breath.

Ophelia’s hands were still trembling faintly as she stared, her heart thundering painfully in her chest. Her throat felt tight and raw, her skin clammy with cold sweat, but she still couldn’t move. Couldn’t look away. Couldn’t breathe.

All she could do was stare at Katniss, and the blood pooling beneath the man’s body.

Finnick had seen Ophelia angry before— she was from District 2, after all. She knew how to snarl and bark and bite when she needed to. But what he was seeing on the screens of 13’s Command was different.

This was something else entirely.

Finnick's lips pressed into a thin line as he watched the live feed of Cressida’s camera.

"And doesn’t that sound a lot like the Capitol? What they do? What Snow does to us? We are only worth what we provide to him. When we fail to provide, we get fed scraps. But when we win big, when we bring in enough to turn heads, we reap the benefits until we don't know life without it."

The sharpness in her voice struck him like a slap.

His lips parted faintly, but he said nothing, his breath catching almost imperceptibly in his chest. His brows furrowed, and a faint line creased between them as he leaned slightly forward, his gaze sharpening. 

There was no surface-level annoyance in her expression, no performative outrage. This was raw. Bitter. Ugly. This was the kind of anger born from something deeper— from grief and betrayal that had been left to fester for years. It poured out of her with a jaggedness that made Finnick's stomach tighten.

Her voice was shaking now, trembling with the effort to contain itself. He watched as she leaned closer to the lens, as though daring it to swallow her whole, and he could see the tension in her throat, the tremor in her breath. He could almost feel the heat of it— the years of guilt and self-loathing that she had clearly swallowed down until now. And she was unleashing it without restraint.

Finnick’s eyes narrowed faintly. He wasn’t entirely sure why, but something in his chest tightened unpleasantly at the sight.

And then— without warning— she stilled.

Her entire frame went rigid, her head snapping sharply over her shoulder. Finnick’s eyes caught the blur of movement on the monitor—the man coming at her from behind. His boots pounded against the stone floor, his gun already raised.

Finnick’s breath caught in his throat.

The screen filled with the flash of the gun’s barrel, aimed squarely at Ophelia’s back.

Finnick’s hands dropped from his arms. His knuckles whitened slightly as his fingertips dug into the edge of the control panel. His breath stalled as he watched her turn, eyes widening in delayed shock, her limbs frozen for half a heartbeat. Too slow. She wasn’t going to move fast enough—

His pulse thudded heavily against his ribs, but he didn’t blink. His chest tightened, his jaw locking as his throat constricted. He couldn’t breathe.

Then, suddenly, she was wrenched backward.

Homes’ arms slammed around her middle, hauling her violently to the ground just as the shot was fired. Ophelia’s body was thrown into the dirt, her arms flying up to shield her head as the gunfire cracked through the room.

Finnick’s breath came back in a sharp, almost pained gasp. His fingers spasmed slightly against the edge of the console, gripping it tighter as he leaned forward, his eyes wide and sharp with a flash of alarm. His heart thudded against his sternum, the heavy rhythm ringing in his ears as he watched her small, curled frame on the ground, trembling beneath the force of the shots.

His hand twitched faintly at his side, fingers curling inward almost instinctively, as though some part of him expected to feel the familiar weight of his trident in his grip. His knuckles flexed faintly with the urge to do something— to protect her, to shield her. But he was here, standing uselessly in the command center, unable to do anything but watch.

When the screen flickered faintly and showed the body of her attacker slumped on the ground, unmoving, Finnick's breath left him in a shallow, uneven exhale.

Ophelia remained where she was on the ground, unmoving, until Homes dragged her back to her feet. Finnick’s eyes remained glued to the screen, locked on the barely perceptible shake in her hands. The look on her face— numb and disoriented, her eyes wide and unfocused— unsettled something in him. Her breath was short and uneven. Her limbs were trembling.

He swallowed hard.

“Impressive speech,” Heavensbee remarked beside him, crossing his arms over his chest. His voice was casual, almost offhand, but not entirely dismissive. There was the faintest note of satisfaction beneath the veneer of disinterest, as though he were already envisioning how they could use the footage for the next round of propos. “She got more out of them in five minutes than Katniss did in five months.”

Finnick’s hands clenched into fists at his sides.

He didn’t respond. He didn’t look at Heavensbee. He didn’t tear his eyes away from the screen, even as the footage flickered back to the control room’s tactical overlay. His jaw was so tight his teeth ached faintly. Without a word, he turned sharply on his heel and began to pace, his boots scraping faintly against the concrete floor.

He could feel the blood rushing in his ears.

That had been reckless. Stupid. So stupid. She should have kept her head down, finished the broadcast, and gotten out. But instead, she had made herself a target— taunting the Capitol on live footage, painting herself with a target on her chest.

His jaw tightened as he dragged his hands down his face, exhaling slowly through his nose, but it did little to loosen the tightness in his chest. His fingers scraped briefly over the sharp bristle of his stubble before lowering back to his sides.

His throat felt tight when he finally spoke, his voice low and tense. “When’s the team getting back?” His voice was clipped, flat, barely restrained.

Heavensbee glanced at him briefly. “Tomorrow afternoon,” he replied, almost boredly, already half-focused on something else. He gestured toward one of the technicians without looking at Finnick. “If they keep their course. There shouldn’t be any delays.”

Finnick didn’t answer. His eyes remained trained on the screen, though his gaze was slightly unfocused, his jaw clenching faintly. His throat bobbed subtly as he swallowed back the residual weight sitting heavy on his chest.

Tomorrow afternoon.

Finnick hadn’t left the warehouse since the propo team’s arrival had been confirmed. He’d been here for two hours now— pacing in uneven, restless circles, feeling the weight of time pressing down on his chest with every passing minute. 

The distant clang of metal echoed faintly every time he neared the storage racks, but he barely noticed. His hands were trembling slightly, his fingers twitching and flexing in restless, agitated movements at his sides. The salt of his sweat was drying on his skin, but his chest still felt tight and hot, his breathing sharp-edged and uneven. The adrenaline hadn’t left his veins, hadn’t drained from his muscles— not after watching the footage of Ophelia standing on that goddamn stage, staring down a loaded gun like she didn’t care whether it went off.

He scrubbed a hand down his face, dragging it roughly over the line of his jaw before scraping it through his hair. His palm lingered there, gripping at the roots, pulling sharply as though trying to anchor himself. But he couldn’t. 

The image kept flashing in his head. Her face, impassive but determined, the barrel of the rifle leveled at her chest. She hadn’t flinched. Hadn’t ducked. Hadn’t even fucking moved. She had just stared at the man, staring death in the face with a quiet, unshaken defiance, like it didn’t scare her at all.

And Finnick didn’t know if he wanted to scream or rip apart the nearest metal rack or—

He dragged in a sharp breath, closing his eyes tightly. His throat bobbed heavily as he swallowed down the rising frustration— the unfathomable terror that had twisted through him as he’d watched the scene unfold.

He didn’t know what he was going to do when he saw her.

Would he shout at her? Would he grab her by the shoulders and shake her until she understood that she couldn’t keep doing this, couldn’t keep standing on the precipice of death like she had nothing to lose? Or would he simply pull her close and cling to her with shaking hands— just to prove to himself that she was still alive?

Finnick exhaled sharply through his nose, his chest burning. His fingers curled into fists as he stared at the floor, jaw clenching. He didn’t know.

The heavy clang of the outer hangar door jolted him slightly, and his head snapped up, his eyes narrowing toward the runway. The faint, rhythmic thrum of the hovercraft’s engine vibrated in his chest as it slowly descended, kicking up a spray of dust that caught the dim, yellowish light. The bay doors groaned as they began to lower, and the stale scent of ozone and fuel wafted into the tarmac.

Finnick’s breath stalled slightly. He stopped pacing.

The ramp lowered. And then, he saw her.

Ophelia descended the ramp behind Katniss, who was immediately surrounded by medics and ushered away, her hand clutching the spot on her ribs where the bullet had bruised her. But Finnick’s eyes didn’t stray from Ophelia. Not for a single second.

Her boots struck the tarmac heavily, scuffing faintly with each step. Her hair was damp with sweat and clung in unruly strands around her face. There was dirt smeared along her jaw, the collar of her shirt askew, and her hands were still trembling faintly as she unfastened the straps of her tactical vest. She walked with stiff, determined steps—mechanical and unflinching, as though she hadn’t just stared death in the face.

Finnick’s chest squeezed sharply, his throat tightening at the sight of her. He didn’t know what he was feeling. Anger? Relief? Terror? All he knew was that he wanted to grab her by the shoulders and shake her and hold her all at once— because the moment he had seen that rifle aimed at her chest, he had felt like he was suffocating.

She kept walking, her hands still pulling at the straps of her vest. And then, her eyes lifted.  She saw him.

Her hands stilled slightly at her waist, the unfastened strap falling limp at her side. Her steps faltered for the briefest of moments, and she stopped a few feet away from him. Their eyes locked.

Finnick stared at her heatedly, his gaze unwavering. He couldn’t breathe.

Her eyes searched his face, confusion flashing in her features at the tension in his posture, at the way his chest rose and fell sharply with every breath. She didn’t understand— didn’t understand why he was looking at her like that, his jaw tight, his lips slightly parted like he was about to speak but couldn’t find the words.

Her brow furrowed faintly, confusion flickering behind her eyes. Why was he angry? Was it residual grief? Had she not screamed loud enough at the Capitol? Had she not been cruel enough to her father’s memory? Had she not exorcised enough of her rage?

Her lips parted slightly, as though about to speak.

But she didn’t get the chance.

Because Finnick moved. Without thought, without hesitation— he surged forward.

She barely had time to register the heat in his eyes before his hands were on her.
His fingers curled roughly around her face— too rough, too desperate— his hands trembling faintly as his thumbs pressed into the hollows of her cheeks. And then his mouth was on hers.

The kiss was not gentle. It was not soft or slow or cautious. It was hungry, forceful, and wild— driven by raw, unrestrained desperation.

Finnick kissed her like he was trying to brand her into his memory— as though he was still terrified she might disappear beneath his hands. His lips crashed against hers with bruising force, and when she made a faint, startled sound against his mouth, he only kissed her harder.

His hands tightened in her hair, his fingers threading through the damp strands at the base of her skull, anchoring her to him. His lips were feverish and uneven, catching on hers with almost violent intensity, and his breath was uneven and shaking through his nose as though he were still trying to swallow down the adrenaline in his veins.

Ophelia’s hands were caught between them, trembling slightly, pressed against the front of his shirt. Her mind barely registered what was happening— barely registered the bruising intensity of his mouth on hers, the sharp catch of his breath, the way his hands shook faintly against her jaw.

When she started to kiss him back, her fingers fisting weakly in the fabric at his chest, he let out a faint, shaky sound— a half-broken breath against her lips, almost pained. He pulled her closer. Harder. Like he was trying to pull her beneath his skin.

But then, just as suddenly as it had started— he tore himself away.

Finnick wrenched his hands from her face, stumbling back slightly as though he had just burned himself. His chest was heaving. His lips were parted, still slightly swollen from the force of the kiss. And his eyes were wild— wide with disbelief at himself, at what he had done.

He stared down at her. At the parted curve of her lips, at the faint flush that had bloomed across her cheekbones, at the confused and dazed look in her eyes. And he hated himself for wanting nothing more than to do it again.

But he didn’t. He just stared at her for a beat too long, his breath sharp and uneven. And then, without a word— he turned and walked away.

His boots scuffed heavily against the tarmac as he left her standing there, trembling slightly, still wide-eyed and disoriented in the middle of the warehouse. She didn’t move. She didn’t say a word. She just stood there, her hands still shaking faintly at her sides, her lips still parted in shock— staring after him.

Finnick knew when people needed him for something.

It was an instinct that had been sharpened over years of exploitation— the subtle shift in a voice, the measured glance, the stiff, expectant pause. He could spot it from across a crowded room, could feel it pressing against his chest before a word was even spoken. The Capitol had made sure of that. They had trained him for it.

So, when the door to his quarters slid open and a pair of somber-eyed guards appeared with orders to escort him to Command, he knew. Knew he was being summoned to serve a purpose.

For a brief moment, he considered not going. But then, he heard Annie’s name. And he knew he didn’t have a choice.

The meeting room was stark and impersonal. It had the same utilitarian design as the rest of District 13— gray walls, steel panels, and glaring white overheads that seemed to drain the room of all color. The long conference table was scattered with schematics, holo maps, and stacks of hastily scribbled reports from the most recent field operations.

But Finnick barely noticed any of it.

His eyes were on Annie.

She sat at the far end of the table, her hands folded loosely in her lap, her face illuminated by the sharp, sterile light overhead. She was staring at nothing in particular— her gaze distant, unfocused. Her expression was soft and vague, but Finnick recognized the thin, barely perceptible tension in her hands, the faint tremor of her fingers as they brushed against one another.

She was slipping. Again.

Finnick felt the familiar tightness in his chest, the sudden press of guilt against his sternum. And despite everything— the anger still burning in his throat, the residual adrenaline still coursing faintly through his veins— he moved toward her.

Her eyes flickered faintly when she saw him. And when he sat beside her, her hand immediately found his. Her fingers were cold.

He squeezed them gently, even though he knew she probably wouldn’t feel it.

She glanced at him briefly, her blue eyes wide and vulnerable. “I’m okay,” she whispered. It was barely audible, but he nodded anyway.  Because he had no idea what else to do.

“Thank you for coming.”

Heavensbee’s voice was its usual cadence of smoothness as he entered the room, but Finnick heard the slight edge beneath it— the too-casual cordiality that always preceded a request.

He didn’t acknowledge it. He just stared at him impassively, his hand still wrapped loosely around Annie’s.

Heavensbee gave a faint, oily smile as he settled into his chair across from them, hands clasped loosely atop the table. Coin sat beside him, her gaze moving evenly between the two Victors. Finnick felt the weight of her attention— clinical and precise, like a medic assessing a patient’s worth in resources.

There was a brief pause. Then Heavensbee cleared his throat, shifting slightly in his chair. Finnick braced himself.

“We’ve been strategizing next steps for the propos,” Heavensbee began, his voice slow and deliberate, like he was guiding them into something, “particularly in light of recent events.”

His eyes flicked toward Finnick meaningfully, and Finnick’s jaw tightened. He knew what he was referring to— the broadcast of District 2, the footage of Ophelia’s rage. The sudden gunfire. The blood on the concrete. Katniss barely making it out alive. It was all anyone had been talking about.

But Finnick said nothing. He just waited.

Heavensbee leaned forward slightly, folding his hands on the table. His expression was earnest and mild— the polished face of a man who made a career out of convincing people to perform for him. “We have a proposition.”

Finnick felt Annie’s fingers twitch faintly against his, her brow furrowing ever so slightly.

Heavensbee’s gaze sharpened faintly with the kind of manufactured gravity that came with every pitch. “We want to stage a wedding,” he said plainly. His eyes cut briefly to Annie. “Yours.”

For a moment, there was only silence. No one spoke.

Annie blinked slowly, her expression vague and unfocused, like she wasn’t entirely sure she had heard correctly. And Finnick— for half a second— didn’t move.  And then, he let out a sharp breath through his nose, a brief, incredulous exhale that barely resembled a laugh. Because surely he had misheard. Surely.

“Excuse me?” His voice was low and flat, barely above a murmur. And despite the stillness of his tone, there was a razor-thin edge of disbelief beneath it.

Heavensbee’s eyes remained steady, his voice patient and calm, like he was explaining something perfectly reasonable. “We believe that a propo featuring your wedding would be—”

“What?” Finnick’s voice was sharper this time, clipped and cutting. “You want us to get married?”

“For the propo,” Heavensbee clarified smoothly, “yes.”

Finnick stared at him. His throat tightened. His fingers flexed faintly against Annie’s, his knuckles going white around her hand.

“No.” It came out sharper than he intended.

Heavensbee blinked, slightly taken aback. Finnick didn’t care. He only felt his chest tightening, felt the heat creeping into his throat.

He shook his head faintly, his voice low and rough with disbelief. “Annie and I—” he exhaled sharply through his nose, the words catching in his throat, “we’re not a couple.” He gestured faintly between them with a sharp flick of his free hand, his fingers trembling slightly. “We’re not—” he shook his head again, “you don’t get to decide that.”

Heavensbee opened his mouth slightly, but before he could respond, Coin’s voice cut in.

“We do.”

Finnick’s eyes snapped toward her sharply, and his breath stilled. She met his gaze evenly, her expression impassive. “We do decide,” she said plainly. Her voice was steady, firm. Matter-of-fact. “This isn’t about you.” Her gaze shifted smoothly to Annie, her tone measured. “This is about morale.”

Finnick’s throat tightened, his lips pressing into a hard line.

“After District 2,” Coin continued calmly, “after Katniss’s attempted assassination, the Capitol is trying to convince the districts that we’re crumbling. That we’re weak.” She gestured faintly to Heavensbee. “We want to show them that they’re wrong.”

Her eyes moved between the two of them, clinical and unwavering. “Your wedding would do that.”

Annie’s voice was faint when she finally spoke, trembling slightly as she exhaled. “It—it wouldn’t be real.” Her eyes were wide, distant and vulnerable, her voice barely above a whisper. “It wouldn’t be real.”

Finnick’s throat tightened sharply at the quietness of her voice. Her smallness. Her fragility.

“It wouldn’t,” he agreed quietly, his voice rough. Then, he turned back to Heavensbee, his eyes hardening. “Wasn’t Ophelia enough?” His voice came out sharper, louder than he intended. Accusatory. “Wasn’t that the point of her speech? Wasn’t that the statement you wanted?”

Heavensbee held his gaze, but his eyes were unwavering. “It was compelling,” he admitted simply. Then, with a slight shrug of indifference, he added, “But it was heavy.”

Finnick’s eyes narrowed sharply. He felt the muscles in his jaw flex, the heat rising sharply to the back of his neck. “Isn’t that what you wanted all along?” he snapped. His voice was low and harsh. “A statement. Despite the repercussions.”

Coin’s gaze was cool and measured as she replied evenly. “Ophelia’s efforts are appreciated.” Her eyes didn’t flicker. “But they are not enough.”

Finnick’s breath caught slightly. His hands clenched into fists on the table. “A staged wedding won’t fix anything.”

His words lay a heavy sheet of silence over the room. But, despite that, Coin did not seem phased. “Do you need time to consider your options?”

Finnick’s eyes snapped up to her face, but he didn’t speak. He only stared at her. Stared at the way she worded it. As if this were a choice. As if there were any options at all.

“Because you should understand,” Coin continued smoothly, her voice cool and practical, the faintest edge of authority threading through it, “that any delays in the rebellion’s efforts could prove… detrimental.” Her eyes narrowed faintly. “And we cannot afford further hindrances.”

The threat was veiled but unmistakable. And Finnick felt his stomach turn.

There it was again. The same Capitol tactic, just with a different face. The subtle manipulation. The unspoken consequences. Coin wasn’t Snow—not yet—but she knew how to twist the blade just the same.

His throat tightened.

Heavensbee leaned forward slightly in his chair, his hands loosely clasped on the tabletop. “Finnick,” he began evenly, his tone gentler, almost soothing, as though speaking to a child, “it’s only for the propo.”

Only.

Finnick’s jaw clenched tighter.

“It won’t be legally binding,” Heavensbee added quickly, tilting his head faintly, as though offering some kind of mercy. “It’ll be nothing more than a performance.” He gave a casual shrug, his expression disarming, like he was offering a practical solution. “A symbol. That’s all.”

Finnick’s gaze didn’t move from Coin. His voice was hoarse when he finally spoke. “A symbol.”

Heavensbee gave a small, bland smile, clearly pleased that Finnick was at least still responding. “Exactly.”

A symbol. That was all. It wouldn’t be real.  And yet, the word hollowed out his chest like a blade.  Because he knew that symbols mattered. He had been one for years— paraded, admired, possessed. A glittering idol for the Capitol’s pleasure, molded into a product of their making. And now, they wanted him to do it again. To dress the part and sell the fantasy, just in a different arena.

His eyes flicked toward Annie.

She was staring at her hands, her fingers twisting faintly in her lap, rubbing over the small, raised scars at the base of her knuckles. She was very still, her shoulders barely moving with each shallow breath. But he could see the faint tension in her throat, the slight stiffness in her posture, and the faraway haze behind her eyes.

She was slipping away. Even before she agreed to it, she was already retreating into the quiet, safe place in her mind— the place where nothing could reach her.  And for the briefest moment, Finnick almost refused again. Because he wanted her to be safe. Because he wanted her to stay real.  But the words caught in his throat. Because he knew— deep down— that his reluctance wasn’t about Annie. Not entirely.

He knew what had made him hesitate. He knew why he had snapped at Heavensbee, why his fists were still clenched against the edge of the table.

It wasn’t the rebellion. It wasn’t the Capitol. It wasn’t the wedding. It was her.  Ophelia.

Her name seared through him before he could stop it. Her voice, raw and unrestrained, still rang faintly in his ears. The hoarseness from shouting. The crack in her voice when she spoke of her family’s betrayal. The fire in her eyes when she screamed at the camera, at the Capitol, at everyone— the fury she had never shown him before.

And then— then he had kissed her.

Ophelia. On his mouth. On his hands. Everywhere.  He had kissed her like he was angry, even though he wasn’t. No, he wasn’t angry at all. He was terrified.  Because what he felt when he kissed her hadn’t been fleeting. Hadn’t been reflexive or impulsive or desperate. It had been real. Too real.  And he hadn’t been ready for that.

So when he stood on the tarmac with her mouth still hot on his lips, he had walked away. Because he had no idea what he would have done if he stayed.  And now— now he sat in this cold, sterile room with her ghost still clinging to his skin, with the memory of her trembling breath still in his chest— and they wanted him to wed another woman.

Real or not real. It didn’t matter. Because either way, it could ruin what was beginning. And he didn’t know if he could stand that.

But then he glanced at Annie’s hands again, the faint tremor in her fingers, and he knew.

It didn’t matter. Because his feelings didn’t matter. Not now.  Because Snow was still breathing. Because he was still free. And because the rebellion was still fighting for its life.

Finnick pressed his knuckles against the edge of the table, his fingernails biting into his palms. And he resigned himself to it. He buried it.  Buried the memory of Ophelia’s lips, the shape of her mouth, the taste of her breath, somewhere deep and unreachable. Because he couldn’t derail the rebellion over a kiss. His freedom— Snow’s defeat— for good— over a kiss. He couldn’t.

He exhaled sharply through his nose. And before he could talk himself out of it, he gave a single, stiff nod.  “Fine.” The word came out rough and low, barely above a whisper.

Annie’s head turned sharply toward him, her eyes wide and startled. And he felt her stare. Even though she didn’t say anything, he could feel her expression tightening— the slight crease in her brow, the faint downward pull at the corner of her mouth.

Because she knew. She knew what he was feeling. And she knew that he didn’t mean it.  And it killed him.  But he didn’t look at her. He only stared at the table, his hands pressed flat against the surface.

Heavensbee’s voice was warm and grateful as he stated the timeline of events and planning, giving a rough estimate of five days if his budget is approved, but Finnick didn’t look at him either. He only nodded curtly as Coin rose from her chair, satisfied, and dismissed them.

Finnick rose stiffly from his chair before he turned toward the door. And he didn’t look back. Because he couldn’t. Because if he did, he knew he’d see Annie’s eyes. And he knew he couldn’t handle that.

Not after what he had just given up.