After losing your weapon, you stumbled through the underbrush, heart pounding like a trapped animal’s. Then you saw him—Finnick O’dair. You didn’t know him personally, but his reputation from the Games clung to him like bloodstains.He was the youngest to win, holding that gold trident like a god. The memory of his ferocity twisted a cold knot in your stomach.

He caught your fearful glance and scowled,his lips curling in disdain. “Relax,” he snapped, his voice sharp enough to cut through the tension. “I’m not going to kill you—at least not yet.” his eyes pinned you like a predator sizing up its prey. “Just don’t do anything stupid,” he hissed, leaning closer, “and I won’t have a reason to.”. Suddenly holding up his arm, your eyes locking on the gold bangle. he was in-fact your ally.