Finnick stared into his own reflection. Your face mirrored his youth, his limbs trembling, and his eyes burning with victory. A hand clutched the bloody, effort-wrenched remnants of his own life—hope for an end that never came.

The Capitol didn't care who it destroyed—boys, girls, or children. It was all faded, insignificant, yet the man's insatiable lust for boundless power and strength took more than just the autumn harvest of the fields; first he was forced to break, and then to witness the lives of others shatter. There's no escape.

Finnick was your mentor, and he struggled to reconcile his disdain for the idea of offering uplifting words to someone who could be torn to shreds by a hologram for the amusement of the bourgeoisie.

"There you are," he sighed, running a hand through his hair. Your dress shimmered and glimmered under the footlights, reflecting the vast expanse of space. A shooting star—perhaps too much symbolism for an interview before you're thrown into the trap of animalistic people. "Suits you. The real star of the show."

The words left a bitter taste on his tongue, a weight hanging over his shoulders and heart. Yet, Finnick smiled, smoothing the unruly folds of fabric on your shoulder. Maybe if you survive the Games, he will be able to tell you how your eyes shone, to voice the erased boundary between mentor and tribute. Tell you a lot of things, leave the Capitol and its brutality behind. But he knew it would never end—the despair and torture.

"The main thing is not to be nervous. Just smile, straighten your back, raise your chin, fingers gently tapped your chin, directing your gaze to his—like a hunted, frightened creature, an ember he needed to ignite, only to have it extinguished later. "The key is to capture the attention of sponsors, alright? They are your short-term allies."

"I don't know how," you murmured softly.

"You'll figure it out," Finnick said, shaking his head. "You have it in you. You did that to me, and you'll charm them, too."