Chapter Text
Red sank into the edge of the couch, letting the plush white fabric swallow her just enough to feel separate from the chaos around her. The lounge itself was a spectacle, high ceilings crisscrossed with golden beams, chandeliers dripping crystals that refracted the light into a thousand tiny rainbows, and walls of impossibly smooth glass revealing dizzying views of the city below.
But it wasn’t the opulence that twisted her stomach—it was the people.
The Capitol’s elite lounged around her, moving like insects, flicking between laughter and bites of food that seemed more like experiments than sustenance: gelatinous hors d’oeuvres shimmering like jellyfish, foaming drinks in impossibly tall glasses, desserts more akin to art installations than anything edible. Their painted faces were stretched into grotesque masks of pinks and whites; hair sculpted into towering, gravity-defying shapes; eyes glittering unnaturally, enhanced with dyes and lenses that made them resemble creatures rather than humans. Red’s gaze swept the room, noting the way they cooed and gasped at the screens as if watching children die were a performance worthy of applause. Her stomach tightened at the sight, craving something real, warm—like the crusty loaves baked fresh in District Seven, or the smoky mushrooms she’d found in the forest last autumn. Even the memory of a salted root, roasted over a campfire, made her mouth water, a pang of longing she couldn’t quiet.
When Red dreamed, she dreamt of the death of the Capitol.
Beside her, Finnick Odair lounged with the effortless grace of someone utterly at home in a world that thrived on excess. One leg draped casually over the other, golden hair catching the light in just the right way, glinting like sunlight on water. His laugh, soft and low, brushed against her ear as he watched an elderly woman in towering pink feathers prattle on about some absurd spectacle. Leaning closer, his sea-green eyes sparkled with that infuriating, magnetic charm, the kind that could make anyone simultaneously laugh and feel slightly cornered. “Look at these maniacs,” he murmured, voice teasing but edged with something sharp. “Every year, same song and dance, yet they act like they invented terror. Can you believe it?”
Red let a small, humorless laugh slip past her lips, a sound half amusement, half bitterness. “No one knows real terror till you’re in the arena,” she said, her eyes narrowing slightly as they crinkled at the corners. She nudged her shoulder lightly against his, a flicker of camaraderie in the midst of the grotesque chaos surrounding them. “Oh, but may the odds be ever in your favor, Wolfie.”
Finnick’s grin widened, just enough to mock the pale, snow-like Capitol elite across the room, tilting his head in silent agreement with her jab. The way he leaned back, the ease in his posture, the faint curl of amusement in his lips—it was impossible not to feel both grounded and slightly unsteady at once, like standing at the edge of water both thrilling and dangerous.
Her gaze stayed on the screens: the second day of the Games, six children already dead, most fallen at the Cornucopia like clockwork. Her fingers flexed in her lap, curling like claws, gripping her trousers to resist striking anyone—anyone—right there in the middle of this ridiculous fantasy. "Hey,” Finnick murmured, nudging her shoulder with his elbow. “You okay, love?” His voice was soft, playful, threading danger with charm as only he could. “You’ve got that look—you know, the one that says you’re about to turn this into a war movie.”
Red’s lips twitched, almost a smile, almost a snarl. She didn’t respond, inhaled deliberately, and exhaled.
The crowd roared at some child’s misstep, glasses clinking, laughter spilling like cheap perfume. Her tension coalesced into something sharp and solid, teeth grinding. A quiet sound escaped her lips, barely audible—a sigh swallowed by the din.
“I need a shot,” she muttered finally, voice flat.
Finnick’s head tilted, eyes glittering with amusement. “Bring me one too, pretty girl?” he teased, mock-pleading.
She didn’t wait. Sliding off the couch, she weaved through the grotesque Capitolites, their painted faces twisted in grins as they noticed her departure calling out for her to come talk to them. Finnick leaned back, corners of his mouth twitching with concern and his signature charm. “Don’t drink the pretty ones,” he called lightly after her, voice carrying just enough for her to hear.
Red grabbed a glass from the refreshment table. The cold alcohol burned on the way down, grounding her. Shoulders loosened for the first fraction of a second since entering the lounge. Then, set jaw, steady hands—she turned back to the screens, toward the chaos that would demand more than restraint. Returning, Red found Finnick already alert, lounging with infuriating ease, but the moment he noticed her approach, his eyes flicked sharply toward the screens. Protective. Calculated.
Then he was standing in front of her in a blink of an eye.
“Red,” he said quietly, sliding one hand along her waist in his careful, non-intrusive way. “Maybe don’t—just… don’t look yet.”
Her jaw tightened but she did laugh because who did this boy think he was. “Don’t look? What are you—my babysitter now, golden-boy?” She pushed lightly against his grip, sensing the subtle resistance without him holding her back entirely. “I can handle a screen, thank you very much.”
“Just trust me,” he said, tone teasing yet firm. “I don’t want you losing it before you even see what they’ve done.”
Red’s patience snapped. She pushed past him, the platter of shots nearly tipping. The room contracted as she turned toward the screens.
And there it was—Lydon, her tribute, lying motionless.
The camera lingered, agonizingly slow. A Career tribute—Augustus, she thought, though the name didn’t stick—stood over him, blade gleaming. In one brutal arc, Lydon’s head fell clean from his shoulders. Blood pooled beneath him. The Capitol elite clinked glasses, laughing, cheering as though watching some grotesque theater performance.
“Oh, come on! I had half a carat on the boy from Seven dying last! Such a good hider!”
Red’s lips parted—not in shock, but fury. Her angelic composure evaporated instantly, replaced by something cold, predatory. She lunged instinctively toward the District One mentors who’d taught their tributes to revel in slaughter.
Finnick reacted instantly, catching her by the waist in that delicate, non-intrusive grip. His eyes scanned hers, lips brushing her ear. “Briar, love, please—calm down.”
Before she could argue, a chilling sound drifted across the lounge: a faint hum, carried above the din, familiar and twisting. One of the District One mentors was humming a song—the song meant only for District Seven deaths. The air froze.
Red’s body halted mid-stride. Her mind sharpened, instincts screaming recognition.
“The trees will whisper, the roots will bend,
The forest keeps your final friend.
Sleep, little log, the pines will weep,
Your journey ends where shadows creep.Branches cradle, leaves sigh low,
The wolf will know where children go.
Dream, little timber, the saw won’t bite,
Rest in the soil until the night.”
Her hands curled into fists, muscles coiled like springs, the tension in her neck tight enough to crack.
Finnick knew the moment he needed to act. He slung her over his shoulder with practiced ease, swift and precise, eyes scanning the room for any interference as he aimed for District Four’s floor—the closest sanctuary they could find.
The Capitol elite continued to chatter and clink glasses, laughing at the storm now carried through the hallways. Red’s mind was only half there, blood rage and instinct taking over, but the lullaby, the connection to her home and her losses, anchored her just enough.