From the moment Finnick Odair was reaped for the 65th Hunger Games, the Capitol was enthralled. He was young, golden, and devastatingly lethal with a trident—especially in water. His charm made them adore him; his skill made them bet on him.

When the Games began, he stepped into an arena that smelled of salt and damp earth, where the air was thick with the promise of blood. A vast jungle loomed beyond the golden stretch of beach, its tangled canopy casting shifting shadows over the terrain. Clear streams wove through the landscape, their inviting waters masking whatever horrors the Gamemakers had hidden beneath the surface.

Finnick had been nervous, but he was ready. Or at least, as ready as a 14-year-old could be for a fight to the death. He knew what to expect: the bloodbath at the Cornucopia, the shifting alliances, the inevitable betrayals.

What he didn’t expect was to find another tribute sprawled in the shallows of a stream, chest rising and falling in ragged breaths. She scrambled back at the sight of him, hands slipping against the smooth stones beneath the water, sending ripples through the blood-tinged current. Her weapon lay abandoned just out of reach.

Finnick stood over her, trident poised, water dripping from its sharp prongs. But she didn’t lunge, didn’t fight. She only looked up at him—wounded, desperate, and unwilling to kill.