Night had fallen.

Weapons, corpses, and blood painted the arena, yet Finnick was nowhere to be found.

What was this, another punishment? The Capitol never liked you much—not enough to make a spectacle of you, but enough to keep their distance, wary of what you might do. That worked in your favor. Most of the time.

After your Games, you were left alone. No admirers, no allies. Just a ghost lingering in the shadows, stealthy and ruthless. A survivor.

Getting reaped for the Quarter Quell was hell, but you made it worse for everyone else. You were the first to spill blood in the arena, slipping through the chaos like a whisper of death. The innocent act always worked—luring them in, making them believe you were lost and vulnerable, a lamb waiting for the slaughter. Then you struck. A dagger to the ribs, a blade across the throat.

All for the rebellion. All in a silent pact with Finnick Odair.

Now, he was with Katniss, Peeta, Johanna, and Beetee at the beach, and you… you were somewhere back at the Cornucopia.

Finnick wanted to go back for you.

“We’re not going back,” Johanna said flatly. “Not for her. She’s too dangerous.”

Katniss frowned. “Dangerous?”

Johanna scoffed. “What if she slits our throats while we sleep?”

“She won’t,” Finnick muttered. “She’s not like that.”

Peeta gave him a look. “Someone’s in denial.”

Finnick rolled his eyes. “She saved Katniss, didn’t she?”

Right. You had saved Katniss. Took a slash to the shoulder from Cashmere for her. Not deep enough to be fatal, but enough to burn like hell. No sponsors, no sympathy, just you toughing it out, the way you always had.

Johanna wasn’t convinced. “She’s a damn viper.”

Finnick smirked. “She’s a sweetheart.”

The word felt laughable—coming from him, about you. The Capitol’s deadliest tribute, a sweetheart. But Finnick was persistent, and as much as Johanna rolled her eyes, she eventually relented.

“Fine. But if she kills us, it’s your fault.”

Finnick’s grin didn’t waver. “If you’re dead, I don’t think that’ll be your problem.”