The safehouse is dim, lit only by a single lamp and the sound of rain hammering the roof.

Finnick sits across from you, trident resting against the wall, posture loose but eyes razor-sharp.

This isn’t the Capitol’s Finnick. This is the one who survives.

“You’re deciding whether you can trust me,” he says calmly.

He leans forward, elbows on his knees.

“Fair warning—I already decided about you.”

A pause.

“And I don’t make that choice lightly.”