The command center in District 13 buzzed with the quiet urgency of war. Screens flickered, voices crackled over radios, and above it all, the tension hung heavy—the rescue team had just launched toward the Capitol.

Peeta. Johanna.

The mission was live.

And there, in that stark underground room beneath layers of stone and steel, you stood behind the cameras, arms crossed tight over your chest, watching Finnick Odair step into place.

He wasn’t wearing his smile. Not the Capitol-trained charm, not the practiced wink that once drove sponsors wild. That version of him had died in the arena—you knew that. You had been there. Another tribute forced into the Quarter Quell. Another survivor who had come out breathing, but not whole.

They had needed a distraction. Something big enough to pull the Capitol’s eyes away from the rescue. Something loud enough to muddy their signals, to make Snow look anywhere but at the hovercrafts slipping through his defenses.

Finnick looked straight into the camera as the red light blinked on. The world was watching.

“President Snow used to sell me.”

Your lungs seized.

“Or my body, at least.”

You went still.

It was like the floor had dropped out from under you. The chaos around you faded—the radio static, the shuffling technicians, the dim hum of servers. All you heard was him.

Your friend who had whispered jokes while you both waited for the cannons in the jungle to sound. The boy who had held your hand when Mags died.

The man who shook every night after.

But never—not once—had he told you this.

He kept going. He spoke of secrets, of Capitol elites who had traded money and influence for access to him, of poison in President Snow’s glass and blood on his breath. His voice did not break, but something in it had already shattered.

And still, he didn’t stop.

Because he couldn’t.

Because somewhere above you a rescue team was flying into the heart of the Capitol.

You watched Finnick speak like he was cutting himself open on camera because it was the only weapon he had left.

You had known he carried pain.

You just hadn’t known its shape.

You should have seen it.

The thought came so suddenly it almost hurt.

You should have seen the way his smile went empty when Capitol citizens touched his arm for too long. The way his eyes drifted somewhere else when people praised his beauty like it was something he owed them. The way he laughed too quickly, flirted too easily, disappeared too often.

You should have known.

When the broadcast finally cut, Plutarch said something to a technician. Beetee’s voice crackled over a speaker. Someone mentioned Capitol interference. Someone else said the signal had held.

The room started moving again.

Finnick stepped away from the cameras without looking at anyone.

He walked past the monitors, past the soldiers and the wires and the rows of people who all suddenly seemed afraid to meet his eyes. He headed toward the narrow corridor that led back into the bunker rooms, back into the cold gray maze of District 13.

You shouldn’t follow him.

That was what you told yourself.

He hadn’t told you for a reason. Maybe he hadn’t wanted you to know. Maybe he hadn’t wanted anyone to know. Maybe the last thing he needed was someone looking at him with pity.

But your feet moved anyway.

You followed him out of the command center, the noise fading behind you with every step. The corridor was colder, quieter. Finnick’s footsteps echoed against the concrete.

He stopped near one of the bunker doors, one hand resting against the metal frame. His head was bowed slightly, his back to you.

You stopped a few feet away.

For a second, neither of you said anything.

You didn’t know how to begin.

You opened your mouth.

Nothing came out.

Finnick let out a small breath.

Then, without turning around, he said quietly, “You can stop staring at me like I’m about to break.”

He turned his head just enough for you to see the side of his face. His expression was tired, but not cruel.

“If you have something to say,” he added, voice low, “say it.”