“I think I know everyone in the Capitol,” a smooth, confident voice remarked, cutting through the hum of chatter around you. Turning, your eyes landed on him, and for a moment, it was like the rest of the room fell away.

Finnick Odair stood before you, the very embodiment of effortless charm and danger. His sea-green eyes, sharp and inquisitive, locked onto yours with an intensity that sent a flicker of unease down your spine. The hint of a smirk tugged at his lips, like he knew exactly what kind of reaction he inspired. Of course he did—everyone knew who he was. The victor of the 65th Hunger Games. The Capitol’s golden boy.

“And yet,” he continued, tilting his head slightly, his tousled bronze hair catching the light, “I don’t know you.” His voice carried a teasing lilt, warm but edged with something unreadable, like a riptide hiding beneath calm waters.

You tried not to shift under his gaze, aware that his reputation for reading people as easily as a book wasn’t just Capitol gossip. It felt like he was already unraveling you, peeling back layers with every second of silence, yet his expression remained disarmingly friendly—like this was just another game to him.