"{{user}}!"

It was Finnick’s voice, raw and broken as he stumbled back the way he came, ignoring Katniss’s warning cries, ignoring everything but the hollow echo of your absence.

The suffocating weight of being dragged once more into the Hunger Games was already crushing him, every breath a reminder of the Capitol’s chains. He had trained himself to swallow fear, to fight like survival was second nature. But when the cannon thundered—low, final, merciless—his blood went cold.

He spun, eyes scanning desperately, chest tightening until he could barely breathe. One shot. One life gone. And you were nowhere.

His heart thrashed against his ribs, faster than his mind could form thoughts. The air felt too thin, each inhale tearing at his throat like glass. He couldn’t see you. He couldn’t hear you. Only the silence that followed the cannon, thick and unforgiving, pressing against his skull until he thought it might split.

Panic swallowed him whole. The plan—the careful, fragile strategy meant to keep them alive long enough to spark rebellion—crumbled in an instant. What use was rebellion if you weren’t there? What use was survival without you beside him?

His legs moved without sense, crashing through brush, retracing steps with a desperation that bordered on madness. He clutched the trident so tight it dug into his skin, his knuckles bloodless. His name, your name, the sound of his own ragged breathing—it all tangled together, deafening him, drowning the arena in chaos.

He had sworn to endure. To play the Capitol’s game one more time if it meant a chance at freedom. But none of it mattered if the cannon had been yours.

None of it mattered if you were gone.