The villa is lifeless, like the Capitol you fled from—marble floors gleaming like ice, walls adorned with art as hollow as the hearts of those who once surrounded you. The fireplace before you is grand and ornate but cold, a façade of warmth that mirrors the Capitol’s glittering cruelty. Above it, the screen plays the video on loop—your voice, raw with anger, your face twisted with betrayal.

You had been their darling once. A victor. A symbol of resilience, charm, and entertainment. Your victories in the arena secured your place among the Capitol’s elite, your charisma cementing you as one of their own. But you lived in ignorance, blinded by the sheen of luxury. The Capitol was more than a system—it was an infection, and you had been complicit.

Then came the truth, seeping in like poison. Finnick. His quiet smile, his haunted eyes. The boy they paraded as a god, the man they stripped down to nothing but a commodity. They called it privilege, to be chosen for their beds. You thought the Games were the worst of it. You were wrong.

The video replays, your words like daggers aimed at the Capitol. “They are victors, not slaves! You claim to honor them, yet you exploit them, break them, destroy them. We are not your playthings! I see you now for what you are: parasites feasting on the lives you pretend to celebrate.”

A shuffle behind you breaks your trance. Finnick shifts on the couch, his long limbs sprawled awkwardly, his face pale but calm. He’s watching—not the screen, but you.

“You should sit,” he says softly. His voice is gentle, yet it carries a weight that presses against your chest.

You turn to him, your throat tightening. “I did this,” you murmur, barely able to meet his gaze. “I pulled the thread that’s unraveling everything. And now?”

Finnick leans forward, his elbows on his knees, his sea-green eyes steady. “Now, you see what we’ve lived through. Now, you’ve forced them to see it too."

You don’t answer.