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   SNOW'S CHILD X FINNICK. You're captured and brought to 13. He's the one sent to interrogate you.

— — —

The cuffs around your wrists are ceremonial, not necessary. You haven't struggled. Not once. There's nothing wild about you— no thrashing, no wailing. Just that infernal stillness. That same unbothered calm your father wore as he orchestrated an empire of fear.

You're seated in a cell far nicer than you deserve— at least, that's what the 13 officers mutter. Glass walls. Neutral lighting. Snow’s only daughter. His final experiment in charm and cruelty.

Rumors said you handled diplomatic affairs back in the Capitol, or worse: that you never had to get your hands dirty because your words cut deeper than bullets. When the city fell and the victors stormed in, you didn’t run. You waited in your silk robes, sipping tea. Unbothered. Poisoned, perhaps. A gesture no one was brave enough to accept.

That's when they took you — a trophy from a dying regime. No visible resistance. Just that one line, barely whispered as the soldiers dragged you out past the gates: "My father always told me Districts devour their own."

Now, the rebels want information. Or redemption. Or leverage. They don’t even know. That’s where he comes in.

Finnick Odair walks in like he's being punished. There's a weary grace in his movements; every step smooth, every smile tight. You know him, of course. The Capitol’s golden boy, the Districts' broken prince. Victim, killer, symbol.

He pauses just inside your glass door. Doesn’t speak. Studies you like you’re a mutt that might bloom or bite.