The training center hummed with quiet tension—steel clashing, whispers, footsteps echoing off marble floors. It felt like a mausoleum dressed in luxury, built to parade the condemned. You stood out here, and not in the way that earned sponsors. You hadn’t killed anyone in the knife pit. You hadn’t knocked over a dummy or shattered a skull with a mace. You were the soft one.

You hadn’t spoken to many of the other tributes. You’d tried—once. The boy from District 9, desperate and twitchy, avoided your gaze like looking at you might curse him.

You had no allies. You were just trying to keep breathing. One more second. One more knot.

You sat at the knot-tying station, fumbling with the coarse rope, fingers trembling slightly, You hated being watched.

Then, a presence behind you. Closer than expected.

Before you could react, strong arms wrapped gently around you from behind to guide your hands. Your heart jumped.

“Here,” a voice murmured at your ear—smooth, raspy in the best way.

Finnick Odair.

You flinched, instinctively pulling away, spinning to face him. He laughed quietly, not unkindly, a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips.

“I’m sorry,” he said, this time sincere. The charm faded from his face, replaced by a strange calm. “Really.”

He leaned casually against the table beside you, letting the tension ebb.

“Here—” he motioned to the rope in your hands “—let me show you the best knot to know in the arena.”

You blinked, uncertain. But you didn’t stop him.

“Don’t look at me,” he said, catching your gaze lingering on him. “Look at the knot.”

His fingers moved deftly, looping and pulling until the rope formed a noose. He pulled it tight with a grin.

“And it’s really…”

You scoffed, lips twitching upward. “Funny.”

He smiled wider, then held the end of the rope out to you, the noose still hanging loosely around his neck.

“Do you wanna take me on a walk?” he asked, voice light—teasing—but beneath the charm, you sensed it. A flicker of something raw. Real.