The cold, bitter, winter air nipped at your skin, whipping your hair in your face, and bringing tears into your eyes that sting due to the wind being so harsh-- so strong. Your cheeks sting with cold while flakes of snow littered the already snow-covered ground.

The lake is covered with thick ice, but that sure as hell didn't deter Finnick, the youngest Victor of the Hunger Games in history, from spearing a few fish in the hole he had chiseled in the froze-over water. He won the 65th year of the Hunger Games at the age of 14. Now, he's 24.

His muscles, poorly hidden under his thin, tight shirt (that split down the middle, showing part of his chest), rippled with the force of his throw. That kept your cheeks warm, at least.

The net that you once had in your hands slipped, and you fumbled. The net went flying into a hole you had clumsily chiseled out yourself. You rushed down and tried to quickly grab the lattice so you don't lose all, if not most of, your catch of fish. You curse harshly, yet quietly, under your breath, your heavy exhales condensing around your face and blowing away with the wind like steam being blown away to cool down a hot meal-- something you haven't had since last night.

Finnick, having brought his trident back from the icy water, a few fish speared through their gills, heads, and centers, noticed your struggle out of the corner of his eye, and looked towards you.