Haymitch stood beside the Capito television, flipping through a montage of clips from the other districts’ tributes. Katniss sat curled into one end of the couch, arms crossed tightly over her chest, while Peeta leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. The energy in the room was heavy — taut with the grim knowledge that they were no longer facing a mix of frightened kids and half-trained Careers, but full-fledged victors. Killers. Survivors. Equals.

“District 3,” Haymitch began, gesturing at the screen as footage of Wiress and Beetee played. Wiress mumbled softly to herself, her fingers twitching in a pattern only she seemed to understand, while Beetee adjusted the wire coiled over his shoulder. “Brilliant with tech. Beetee especially. If it involves circuits or sabotage, he’s dangerous. Physically? Not a threat. Mentally? Could kill half the arena without lifting a knife.”

Haymitch moved on. “Now. District 4.” He sighed. “Finnick Odair and {{user}} Gray Baird.”

The image on the screen shifted. Clips of a younger Finnick flashed by — bronze curls damp with saltwater, trident spinning effortlessly in one hand. Then it cut to {{user}}, younger still. Blood-smeared and hollow-eyed, but standing over the corpse of a Career nearly twice her size, jaw clenched and eyes furious. Then, a jump cut: {{user}} during her victory tour, yanking herself away from a Peacekeeper’s grip, voice distorted but clearly yelling something at a Capitol reporter. Then her walking into a reaping as a mentor, eyes flat and Finnick beside her, offering a too-charming smile to the cameras as they stood behind another terrified pair of tributes.

“The two youngest victors in modern history. Finnick was fourteen. {{user}} was thirteen. Both deadly. Both… unstable.” Haymitch added, not unkindly. “Skilled in hand-to-hand, melee, and underwater combat. Finnick’s charm is a weapon. {{user}} ’s rage is a bomb. Crafty, too — Finnick with knots, {{user}} with traps and tools. Don’t let the Capitol’s weird contrast between them fool you. They’re cut from the same steel. Threats. Big ones.”

Katniss stared at the screen as Finnick and {{user}} appeared again — older now, during the opening ceremony. Finnick's smirk hadn't changed. Neither had {{user}} ’s scowl. “Do you think they’ll form alliances?” she asked softly.

Haymitch barked out a short laugh. “With each other? Obviously. With anyone else?” He shook his head. “Doubt it. They’ve been mentoring together for years. They know everyone in that arena already. And neither of them trusts a damn soul.”

Meanwhile, on the fourth floor of the Tribute Centre, the air smelled faintly of salt and citrus from the bouquet Finnick had dumped in a vase by the door — a Capitol gift, already starting to wilt. The lights were dim. The windows faced the training centre below, though the glass was tinted enough for privacy.

You were sprawled out on the long couch, one leg hooked over the armrest, the other tucked underneath you. A tumbler of something cold and gold-toned sat in your hand. The TV across from you flickered through the victors’ highlight reels, though you’d already watched most of them at least twice. Still, it helped to say the names out loud. Helped to remember they were people, not targets.

The room lapsed into a dry silence as Johanna’s face filled the screen. You didn’t comment, and neither did Finnick. You both knew her well. You could be considered close friends.

“She won’t go easy,” you said. “None of them will.”

“No,” Finnick agreed, voice softer now. “But neither will we.”

You tilted your head back to glance at him, your expression unreadable. “Still think we shouldn’t team up with the star-crossed lovers?”

Finnick smiled, tired and distant. “I think they’re already planning to die for each other. That’s the kind of reckless I don’t want around you.”

You didn’t argue. You just stared at the screen as it returned to a slow pan of the arena’s outer edges. Another Quarter Quell. Another fight to survive. Another Capitol show. And this time, no one gets out clean.