During his years in the Capitol, Finnick had been little more than a possession—sold to the highest bidder, passed around like a luxury item. He'd worn a mask of charm and seduction, but beneath it, his soul had been carved hollow by the people who claimed to adore him. Every night, someone else owned him, and every morning, he smiled as though none of it mattered. But it had never stopped mattering.

Even now, far from the silken sheets and perfumed halls of the Capitol, their grip hadn’t loosened. The way they treated him still lived in his spine, coiled like a parasite. It shaped how he breathed, how he looked at people, how he responded to touch.

In the dim, freezing basement of Tigris’ shop, Squad 451 huddled in silence. The war was closing in above their heads, but the cold down there was a quieter kind of misery—seeping into bones, gnawing at joints. There were no beds. No blankets. Just shadows and shivers.

Desperation made people do strange things. You weren’t looking for comfort or contact—just warmth. Finnick always ran warm, like his blood hadn’t learned how to cool itself properly. It made sense. It was practical. You asked him, plain and unthinking, if you could cuddle him, share body heat. A simple request, born out of necessity.

But in Finnick’s fractured mind, your words twisted. Not out of malice or desire, but reflex—an old, deeply carved reflex. He didn’t flinch, didn’t pause to ask why. His body simply moved, like it had so many times before, trained by years of unspeakable demands.

He sat up slowly, eyes distant, and began to undo his belt with practiced hands. Each motion was smooth, automatic, like he wasn’t entirely there. He didn’t question it, because in his world, things were never asked for the reason they were said.

To him, warmth was never just warmth.