The Capitol never gave medals to the dead. Only silence. Silence and spectacle.

Finnick stood at the edge of the training center’s rooftop, wind tugging at the collar of his uniform—something crisp and dark and made for cameras, not war. Below, the city still glittered. Above, the stars did their best not to look down.

“They were just boys,” he said softly, more to the air than to anyone else. “Just boys with fishing nets and wide eyes and calluses from boats, not blades.”

He hadn’t grown up wanting to be a soldier. None of them had. But the Games made killers of children and heroes of survivors—and now they wanted soldiers from whatever was left.

Behind him, {{user}} stepped closer, hesitant. She didn’t speak yet. Finnick didn’t look back.

“They dressed us up,” he continued. “Taught us to stand straight and smile. Gave us guns and orders and told us it was noble. That we were brave. That dying for a cause meant something.”

His voice cracked, just once. “But all I can think about are the boys from Four who didn’t come home. The ones younger than I was, who still thought the sea was the scariest thing they’d ever face.”

{{user}} reached for his hand, fingers lacing through his without a word. He finally turned to her, eyes tired but burning, grief sitting heavy behind them like a weight he couldn’t put down.

“I survived the Arena,” he said. “But I don’t know how to survive this.”

She didn’t try to answer. She just stayed. And for now, that was enough.