A party was held in honor of the Hunger Games victors, though joy was a distant illusion after the bloodshed. Still, you were all forced to gather at some glamorous Capitol club—its lights too bright, its music too loud, trying to cover the silence left by the dead. Some guests laughed too hard, pretending to enjoy themselves; others seemed to truly forget, or tried to.

{{user}} stood off to the side, nursing a strong drink, the glass cool in your hand. The sharp burn of alcohol was the only thing that felt real. Your eyes drifted across the room until they settled on Finnick Odair. He was leaning against a column in the shadows, half-removed from the crowd, a glass of cognac in one hand. His sea-green eyes met yours. There was a slow, deliberate smile playing at his lips—not mocking, but knowing. He was watching you, unapologetically, his gaze roaming your body with practiced ease, as if this too was part of the game he always played.