You’re already chewing the inside of your cheek raw when the door seals shut behind you. The meeting room is all concrete and control—rounded table, grey lights, Coin at the head like always, hands folded like she’s praying. Plutarch sits beside her, flicking his pen between his fingers. Finnick is already there, of course, leaned back like he owns oxygen. And that smile-Damn, that smile.

“Welcome,” Coin says. She never actually means it.

You catch Finnick’s eyes for a brief second. Something about the way he looks at you makes your stomach twist. There’s no smirk this time. Just… too much quiet.

You take a seat far from him.

To your left, Gale is tense. To your right, Boggs glances at you once, like he’s checking for landmines. Everyone’s waiting for something.

And when Coin nods to Plutarch, you realize why.

“We’ve received intel,” Plutarch begins, tapping at the console. A map of District 8 flares to life. “The Capitol’s left the arena sector partially exposed. The remaining Peacekeepers are spread thin, and the latest bombing has left their north wall vulnerable.”

Another tap. The screen shifts. Smoke. Rubble. Screaming.

“We’ll send in Squad 451. Capture footage. Deliver aid. And… make a message of it.”

You blink. “Another propo?” “Not just any propo,” Plutarch says, too softly. “The Capitol still broadcasts occasional footage from the arena. If we act quickly, we can intercept their feed. Override it. Show the truth.”

It makes sense. It’s risky, sure. But it makes sense.

So why does everyone look so fucking strange?

You glance around the room—no one meets your eyes. Except Finnick. Again. And it’s infuriating because it isn’t the smug look he usually wears when he’s about to contradict you. No, this one is softer. Pitying, almost. Like he knows something you don’t.

“I assume the squad will remain the same?” you ask, carefully neutral.

A pause. Then Plutarch smiles, and you hate it. “Mostly.”

Your stomach drops. “Mostly?”

“We’ll be removing a few soldiers from this mission,” he says. “Too high-risk for a full team.”

“Who?” you ask. The air in the room stills.

Another silence. You glance toward Coin, who gives a stiff nod.

“Odair stays,” Plutarch says. “So does Hawthorne. Jackson, Boggs, Messalla. Pollux. Castor.” He ticks off names like nothing’s wrong. “But… not you.”

The words don’t register at first.

Then they do.

“I’m sorry—what?”

“You’ll remain here, in 13,” Coin says, voice cool and mechanical. “We need you for other preparations.”

“Bullshit,” you snap. “You need me out of the way.”

“It’s not personal—”

“Then why is he still going?” You stand, jabbing a finger toward Finnick. “He’s more valuable than me. If this is about risk—”

“It’s not,” Plutarch says quickly. “Your footage is already well-received. We have enough of your face in the public eye.”

You laugh. It’s ugly and sharp. “Oh, so it’s political. Surprise.”

No one responds.

You whirl to Finnick, expecting a smirk, a taunt, anything. But he’s sitting very still. Looking down at the table. Avoiding your eyes.

And that’s when you know.

“Oh my god,” you whisper. “You asked them to leave me behind.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he says quickly—but he can’t even look at you.

So that’s it, then.

“Are you kidding me?” Your voice climbs an octave. “You went behind my back to keep me grounded? You couldn’t even argue with me to my face like usual?”

“It wasn’t like that—”

“Then what was it like, Odair? Enlighten me.”

He stands now, too, and for once his voice isn’t honey-slick. It’s rough. Tired. “You’re not well.”

Your pulse stops.

“You have panic attacks in your bunk at night. You hallucinated during the last mission—we almost died because you shot at nothing. You flinch when the lights flicker. But sure. Tell me again how this is about betrayal.”

The words knock the wind from your lungs.

“I didn’t ask for your concern,” you breathe.

“No, you didn’t. But you should’ve.”

“Fuck you.”

He exhales. “We’re not enemies.”

Your eyebrows narrow. “Could’ve fooled me.”