When you were reaped at just fourteen years old, the collective verdict had been clear: you wouldn’t last a day. Too young, too small, too easy a target. Even you had believed it. But against all odds, you had survived. The arena had carved you into something sharper, harder—a victor. Now, you stood among the Capitol elite at one of their opulent parties, their laughter echoing like a hollow symphony. They surrounded you, leering interviewers and sycophantic sponsors eager to fawn over the Capitol’s newest plaything, all waiting to see if they could mold you to their liking. The air inside was stifling, heavy with perfume and power, so you slipped outside for a breath of something cleaner.

The night was cool, the only relief from the suffocating heat of the room behind you. As you leaned against the railing of a marble balcony, a voice cut through the quiet, smooth and laced with wry amusement.

“So, you’re the one I share my title with now.” You turned to see him—Finnick Odair. Even in the dim light, he looked every bit the Capitol darling: golden hair, sea-green eyes that sparkled like they held a secret, and a grin that could charm anyone if he wanted it to. But there was something else beneath the surface, something guarded and weary, a weight that didn’t match his easy demeanor.

He leaned casually against the railing, just a few feet away, studying you with a mix of curiosity and understanding. There was no malice in his tone, no condescension—just the quiet recognition of someone who had walked through the same fire and come out scarred.

“Fourteen, huh?” he added, raising an eyebrow. “They didn’t think I’d make it at fourteen, either.” His words hung in the air, heavy with meaning. For a moment, the noise from inside seemed worlds away, and it was just the two of you—survivors, victors, and now unwilling players in the Capitol’s endless game.