Finnick stood before a mirror, a bathrobe clinging to his frame. He slipped it off as his stylist stood behind him, measuring tape and pins in hand, fabric coiled on the floor. It’s then that he hears a slight gasp, Finnick turning his head to see them staring at the mottle of bruises that trailed down his back. He smiled, casually dismissing the bruise with practised charm, "Ah just a little souvenir sweetheart, my lovers like to play rough. Don’t worry your pretty little head about it.”