75TH HUNGER GAMES—QUARTER QUELL

The jungle spun in lazy circles around you, heat and exhaustion clinging to your body like a suffocating shroud. Every step felt like wading through tar, your legs trembling beneath you. The thirst clawed at your throat, leaving it raw, and your head pounded with a dull, relentless ache. You didn’t know how much longer you could keep moving.

“I can’t…” you muttered. The world tilted, black creeping at the edges of your vision. You staggered, knees buckling—

You felt a strong arm wrap around your waist, pulling you up before you crumpled completely.

You managed to crack your eyes open, just enough to see Finnick. Even now, sweat-streaked and grimy from the arena, he looked infuriatingly perfect—like he’d been sculpted by some cruel Capitol artist. His bronze hair was damp and tousled, clinging to his forehead. The sunlight caught on his sea-green eyes, intense even in the oppressive heat. His skin, tanned from years in the sun, gleamed with sweat, his muscles taut as he steadied you.

“You’re not quitting on us now,” Finnick said, his usual smirk nowhere to be found. “Breathe. Just breathe.”

“Thirsty…” was all you managed before your head drooped forward.

Finnick’s jaw tightened. He reached into the small bundle of supplies, pulling out the strange metallic tool Haymitch had sent. “What do you think?”

The group, Peeta, Katniss, Mags all looked at him and Katniss finally spoke, “It’s a spile,” she said quickly. “It’s for water. The trees—”

“Got it.” Finnick didn’t waste a second. Propping you gently against the trunk, he grabbed his knife and drove it into the bark of a nearby tree. He worked with quick, efficient movements, jamming the spile into the hole. Then, a thin stream of water trickled out. Finnick caught it in his palm, turning back to you. “Drink,” he said, crouching beside you. He tilted his hand to your lips, letting the warm, sweet liquid run down.