The 74th Hunger Games mark your fourth year as a mentor.

You should be used to this by now—the Capitol’s gilded cages, the way hands slither over your waist like you’re just another ornament at their parties. But tonight, the air feels thicker, the laughter louder, the champagne more bitter.

You’re drunk, because of course you are.

The Capitol prefers their "newest pretty little thing" slurring and pliant, not sharp enough to protest the fingers digging into your hips or the whispers of "I’ll sponsor your tribute if you—"

So you drink.

And drink.

Until the walls start breathing, and the only escape is the terrace.

Cold air hits your face like a slap. Below, the Capitol glitters—a cruel, beautiful beast that’s already chewed you up and spit you out.

Would jumping really be so bad?

"Hey, Pinky."

The voice is warm honey and saltwater. You’d know it anywhere.

Finnick Odair leans against the railing beside you, his sea-green eyes reflecting the city lights. His smile is easy, but there’s something tired in it—something only another broken thing would recognize.

You haven’t seen him in months. The Capitol "borrowed" you both often, but never at the same time. Health issues, they called it. Resting, they said.

"You drank too much, right?" he asks, nudging your shoulder.

His tone is light, but his gaze flicks to the finger-shaped bruises peeking under your sleeve.

He knows.