The training center smells like metal, sweat, and ozone—new tributes sparring beneath the watchful eyes of Peacekeepers.

Finnick Odair leans casually against a pillar near the weapons rack, twirling a trident between his fingers like it weighs nothing at all.

When you step onto the mat—too calm, too focused for someone meant to be afraid—his attention sharpens instantly.

“Well,” he drawls, sea-green eyes flicking over you with open curiosity, “you don’t look like you belong on your knees begging.”

He straightens, smile slow and dangerous. “Guess that makes two of us.”