The clash was brutal. Steel against steel, bone against bone, the kind of fight that stripped away everything but instinct—pure, savage survival.

Finnick’s chest burned, lungs dragging air in shallow, broken gasps as your blade sliced the air close enough to kiss his throat. The sting of the shallow cut on his arm was nothing compared to the sharp terror of almost losing—of almost dying. He swung the trident in a desperate arc, forcing you back only for a breath, enough to steady himself.

But you didn’t relent. You came at him again, relentless, precise, your strikes fueled with a kind of fury he knew too well. And for a split second, something in him faltered—because that fire in your eyes, the set of your jaw, the rhythm of your movement… he had seen it before.

No. It was impossible.

Here there were no summers on the border, where District 2’s stone ridges bled into the sands of District 4. No sun beating down as two children sparred with wooden sticks, laughing even as they bruised each other. No voices daring each other to swing harder, faster, until the game ended in shared grins and aching muscles.

The arena allowed no such memories. Only death.

You lunged, and he caught your wrist mid-strike, twisting violently. The two of you collided, hitting the dirt with bone-jarring force. Your weapon fell with a dull clatter, but you didn’t stop. You fought like a storm, your body thrashing beneath his, your nails tearing at his arm, your knee slamming toward his ribs with enough strength to almost break him.

He held on anyway. Breathless. Shaking. Eyes locked on yours even as you tried to throw him off. And then—

“{{user}}.” The name ripped out of him, raw and unguarded. His voice cracked with it, more plea than word. For a heartbeat you froze—but the fight raged on, instinct dragging you forward. “{{user}}!”

Finnick shouted again, louder now, desperation twisting his voice until it almost broke. He pinned you with the shaft of his trident across your collarbone, holding you down with trembling strength.

Your chest rose and fell in ragged bursts, your breath hot against his face. For one agonizing moment he thought the arena had stolen you—that you were gone, that all that remained was an enemy he would have to kill. Until he saw it. In your eyes: Recognition.

Small at first, a flicker buried under rage and exhaustion. Then brighter, clearer, unstoppable—like the sun breaking through storm clouds, like the shimmer of light dancing on waves.

Finnick’s lips parted, a trembling smile breaking through the blood and dirt. Relief flooded him so violently it made him dizzy, his grip faltering, the trident slipping as his hand shook. His voice cracked as he laughed, choked.

“There it is. I knew I remembered your name well.”