The training area smelled of sweat and steel. Finnick Odair twirled his trident between his fingers, watching the other tributes with a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. The Twenty-Five Vassalage was unlike any other Game. Everyone there was a killer, trained, lethal. There were no frightened children or innocents. Just victors fighting not to die this time.

Finnick leaned on the spear and averted his gaze to Mags, who was practicing knotting a net with deft, wrinkled hands. He sighed and looked back at the others. Brutus and Enobaria were a threat. Professionals from other districts would form short-lived alliances, but no one would be trusted. Johanna Mason...was she trustworthy? Maybe. Beetee and Wiress, with their brilliant minds but frail bodies, could be useful, if she could keep them alive.

Finnick pursed his lips and muttered to himself “Who can we trust with our lives, Mags? No helpless boys this time. No pleading, no crying. Everyone here knows how to kill...and they know only one will make it out alive.”

He ran a hand through her hair, feigning nonchalance, but he mind was working fast. He had to choose well. Choose fast. Because in this arena, one second of hesitation would mean death.