This was never what Finnick had wanted. In his innocent mind, winning meant freedom—returning home to a life of comfort, of safety. But instead, he had been sold to the Capitol, stripped of his choices, his body treated as nothing more than a prize for the highest bidders.

They dressed him in luxury, fed him the finest food, and placed money in his hands as if it could make up for what they took from him. But he never wanted any of it. None of it could undo the pain of what they did to him behind closed doors.

Every night, after it was over, he came to you. He never knocked—he didn’t have to. Tonight was no different. His clothes were rumpled, his hair a mess, his skin sweaty and sticky, tainted with the touch of strangers. Without a word, he collapsed onto your bed, lying beside you, one arm tucked beneath his head, the other draped over his stomach.

He knew you were enduring the same torment—that whatever they did to him, they did to you. Your pain was his pain. Yet, in some twisted way, that brought him comfort—knowing there was someone who understood, someone he could talk to who felt the same pain, who was living the same nightmare.

For a long time, he just lay there, silent. Then, in a voice barely above a whisper—

"Everything hurts..."

His eyes remained shut, as if keeping them closed could stop the tears threatening to fall.