"Finnick!"

The first time he heard his name, his heart jolted so violently he almost staggered forward, breath caught like a hook in his throat.

It was your voice. Clear, trembling, breaking.

His head snapped around so quickly it hurt, and before the second call tore through the trees, he was already moving—feet splashing in the water, trident clutched so tightly his knuckles burned. He didn’t even realize he was shouting your name, raw and frantic, the sound torn out of him like an open wound.

His thoughts tangled, incoherent. It’s not real—it can’t be real—it’s them, it’s a trick. But fear made logic meaningless. His mind might try to argue, but his heart was faster, louder, merciless. Every beat hammered the same truth: you’re in danger. You need him. He has to get to you.

Each scream that followed carved deeper into him, shredding his composure. He could hear you, crying, pleading—tones of pain and terror only someone who knew you as intimately as he did could recognize. The sound hollowed him out. He wasn’t running anymore; he was stumbling, staggering blindly, because with every cry he saw flashes of you—your body broken, blood soaking the ground, your hand reaching for him, slipping through his fingers.

The trident felt slippery, his palms slick with sweat. His chest burned like fire, lungs refusing to fill. He was suffocating on your phantom cries, his ears ringing with them, and no matter how fast he pushed forward, it never felt enough.

And then—

“Finnick!”

The cry, closer this time, cut through him sharper than steel. His entire body jerked, heart seizing so violently he almost dropped his weapon. But the hands that caught him, the grip anchoring him, were real.

You.

Not a bird. Not a trick. You.

Safe. Alive.

His legs nearly buckled as he spun, clutching your shoulder so firmly it bordered on painful. His face was pale, eyes wild, chest heaving as if he had just fought for his life—and in truth, he had. He stared at you, trembling, drinking in every detail like proof, like oxygen, needing to confirm a hundred times over that you were there, that you were whole.

He couldn’t even form words, just a choked sound that barely escaped his throat as he dragged you closer, holding you as though his body alone could shield you from every nightmare. His nails dug into your arm, his breath uneven, ragged sobs building in the hollow of his chest but never quite spilling out.

The relief was brutal, dizzying. It almost hurt more than the panic.

Damn Jabberjays.