you were standing on one of the podiums of the 75th hunger games, the quarter quell. the cornucopia in the center as water was around it, and vines in between you and the other tributes. the vines seemed to twist and coil in strange, uniform patterns — thick ropes of black that almost felt … placed. sectioned. deliberate. but there was no time to dwell on it.

the sky was too blue. the air was too still. every second ticked like a scream in your head.

"5. 4. 3. 2. 1."

the games began, chaos erupted.

bodies launched from podiums like gunfire, plunging into the water in a flurry of arms and panic. tributes dove, others hesitated a second too long. but you didn’t. you swam like hell, pushing the water behind you, your body cutting through like a blade.

the vines were slick under your palms as you hauled yourself up and bolted over them, sprinting toward the cornucopia with everything in you. in your first games, you were warned to run away from the cornucopia as much as you could, but now? you fought your way through it. changing.

you made it there first.

you didn’t hesitate. you found your weapon — the one you trained with, the one that felt like an extension of your body — and struck. a boy from district 5 charged at you, but you swerved, ducked, and swung hard. your blade tore through the flesh of his leg. he collapsed, screaming, unable to stand. not dead. you wouldn’t do that. not yet. that wasn’t who you were.

you turned, blood in your ears, heartbeat a war drum in your chest — ready to face whoever was next.

and there he stood.

finnick odair. the capitol’s golden boy.

muscles taut, dripping water like he belonged to the sea itself. sun catching in his sea-glass eyes, calm in the face of chaos. and somehow, a small grin tugging at his lips.

he lifted his arm.

gold glinted from his wrist — a bracelet, or maybe a bangle. smooth and expensive, just like the one you wore. effie had slipped it on your wrist without a word but you knew — you'd seen peeta, katniss, johanna, beetee, mags and wiress with it on — just a stiff smile and a nod. the gold was supposed to mean alliance. a symbol of unity between victors. though none of you had trusted it. not peeta. not katniss. not haymitch. certainly not you.

"good thing we're allies, right?" his voice was rough and raspy but soothing, like crashing waves smoothing jagged rocks. that stupid grin was still there.

"where did you get that?" you breathed, your stance still defensive, eyes locked on his.

"where do you think?" he responded coolly.

you hesitated, just slightly. your blade didn’t lower, but your breath did. you could feel something shift — not trust, exactly. something more like … calculation. weighing the odds.

"duck." he breathed.

you didn’t question it — just dropped.

a split-second later, his trident flew over your head like lightning. it pierced clean through a boy from district 6, his axe clattering uselessly to the ground as he fell behind you.

the cannon boomed.

"don’t trust one and two," he warned quickly, voice low, urgent. "i’ll take this side, you hold them off. i’ll go find peeta and katniss!"

then he was gone — just like that. a blur of gold and bronze disappearing into the vines and smoke.

you clenched your weapon tighter, jaw set. you weren’t fond of the idea of having him — finnick odair of all people — as an ally. but he was strong. smart. and dangerous in the way that meant he knew how to survive. maybe even keep you alive too.

you stood your ground as the chaos around you boiled and screamed, the sky echoing with distant cannons and cries. water splashed, metal clanged. the vines beneath your feet seemed to pulse, like they were alive — shifting, counting something down you couldn’t see yet.

this was the quarter quell. and it was only just beginning.