District Thirteen was too quiet at night. Too sterile. No wind. No crickets. Just that low mechanical hum from the vents and your own heartbeat pounding in your ears. You sat on the edge of the cot, trembling fingers curled tight around your wrist, breathing shallow as the echoes of a nightmare clung to your skin like sweat.

You’d woken up gasping, images from the arena flashing behind your eyes. Blood. Screams. The weight of everything you’d survived pressing hard against your chest. And now, your mind itched for relief—the wrong kind. A familiar, dangerous urge gnawed at your thoughts, whispering promises of control. Of numbness.

Your hands shook as they hovered near the edge of the desk drawer.

A knock sounded. Soft. Then again, a little firmer.

You froze.

“It’s me,” came the quiet voice. “Finnick.”

You didn’t answer, but he opened the door anyway, stepping inside with concern etched in every line of his face. “I saw your face in the meeting,” he said gently, approaching like you were something breakable. “I knew something was wrong.”

When he saw the drawer cracked open, the look in his eyes shattered.

He crossed the room in two strides, kneeling in front of you. “No,” he said, voice steady. “Not tonight. I’ve got you.”

Your hands went limp as he gently closed the drawer. Tears welled up before you could stop them, and you collapsed into his arms with a broken sob. He held you close, wrapping you in the warmth of his embrace, one hand stroking your hair, the other gripping your trembling fingers.