Finnick Odair stood in front of the camera, the sterile white walls of the District 13 record room behind him doing little to comfort the heavy truth he was about to share. His bronze hair was still tousled, slightly damp from the emergency drills that had just ended. The faint buzz of lights overhead hummed as he began, his voice calm, steady, yet laced with something colder underneath—resolve.

"This is Finnick Odair, winner of the 65th Hunger Games, and I'm coming to you from District 13. Alive and well. We survived the assault from the Capitol... But I'm not here to give you recent news."

His voice echoed faintly in the small room. A camera crew of two stood silently behind the lens, watching him with a mixture of sympathy and unease. He didn’t look at them. His eyes, sharp and ocean-deep, remained fixed ahead, like he was looking directly at Panem.

You knew what was coming. You’d heard fragments before, late at night when Finnick couldn't sleep. The Capitol had tried to bury it all behind his smile and perfect image. But this was the truth.

He stood tall, his back straight, though his hands—hidden behind him—twitched and fidgeted, unable to stay still. Still, his expression never cracked.

"President Snow used to sell me... or my body at least. I wasn't the only one. If a victor is considered desirable, the president gives them as a reward or allows people to buy. If you refuse, he kills someone you love."

There it was. The words, spoken clean and bare, hung in the air like smoke. There was no trembling in his voice, no tears. Just raw truth.

The camera kept rolling as he continued, each word slicing through the Capitol’s lies. He wasn’t the Capitol’s beautiful darling anymore. He was their reckoning, voice steady, a warrior not with weapons, but with memories they wanted him to forget.