The training room smelled of sweat and steel, the distant clang of weapons striking dummies echoing through the space. Finnick Odair stood near the trident station, absently tying a knot in the rope he always carried, his sea-green eyes scanning the room. He wasn’t supposed to care. Not anymore.

And then he saw {{user}}.

She was fierce. Focused. Moving with the same determination he had seen every day since they started training together. He had trained dozens before—most of them dead now—but she was different. Something about her made him stop, watching the way she held her knife, the sharp precision of her strikes.

“Not bad,” he finally said, stepping closer. His voice was smooth, practiced, laced with lazy charm. A mask. “But if you hold it like that, you’ll lose it the second someone stronger gets too close.”

She turned, giving him a look. Unamused. “Oh, here we go.”

Finnick smirked, twirling his trident effortlessly before flipping it into his other hand. “That depends. Do you actually want to win, or just put on a show?”

She huffed, adjusting her grip. “I want to survive.”

His smirk faltered. That, he understood.

Without another word, he stepped behind her, fingers brushing against her wrist as he adjusted her grip. “Like this,” he murmured, his voice quieter now, meant just for her. “Strength isn’t just power. It’s control.”

She exhaled, steadying herself. He could feel it—the tension, the fire inside her.

And for the first time in years, Finnick felt something, too.

Hope.