Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Red's legs swing from the tree she was perched on. 

A soft song escaped her lips.

"Sleep little deer, the pines will sway," 

The giggle that escaped her throat as she watched the last one alive, crawl underneath the tripwire she had set up. She tilted her head, still singing that soft little tune. "I track your steps where shadows play." The artificial sun was setting in the arena. But she knew she wouldn't be in there very long even to see the moon peak it's head hello. "Branches bend and roots will know," She stood on the branch a giggle escaping as the leaves fell from the disturbance, and shocked the tribute still crawling.

Still on his hands and knees, for her.

He was a District Eleven, boy, she noticed. 

She smiled.

She would take no joy in this kill.

"The blood you spill will feed the snow." She sang those words slightly louder as she stared at the camera that was directly attached to the trunk of the tree whose branch she was currently standing on. "District Eleven, oh what a sight to see, when the trees you used to climb with ease, suddenly came with pestilence and disease." She chuckled under her breath, as she begin her dissent down the large tree.

Her ears picked up at the sound of the boy crawling faster, her legs began to propel her forward as she unsheathed a small black dagger from her belt. She watched as the boy, who was much taller than her, clambered up to his feet and began sprinting. "Close your eyes, the wolf draws near," She sang just a little bit louder, and watched with utmost satisfaction as he tripped over his large figure.

He couldn't get back up, and she realized with a slight sadness, that he must've hurt his ankle.

The boy, is staring at her with fear. "Your name is Fore, isn't it?" She whispers, as she sits down beside him. He nods, and she can't help but think to herself that he looks so young, despite the fact she, herself is merely fifteen. "You're the district seven tribute, aren't you?" he asks trying to place your face as he begins to inch away when he thinks she is not looking. She nods slightly. 

"Tonight the forest drinks your fear.” She continues the song as they both sit in silence.

"Fore?" She turned to look at him, and he's shaking now, and she notices something in his hands, small sharp enough rock is what she notices. She sighs. Before he can even think about trying to pound her face in, she's on him in seconds, her black knife turning his face into what can only be described as confetti. He's screaming, but it's quickly silenced. He's thrashing, but his movements quickly stop.

She hears the cannon go off.

"And only shadows will know your name." She whispers the last line of the song, as she stares at her bloodied uniform.

A game-makers voice is echoing, she doesn't remember his name, maybe she would never learn it. "Congratulations to Red Briar, from District Seven, for winning the 66th Hunger Games!" she kneels down next to the now quite dead boy. He was the tenth dead by her hands. She didn't want to find the eleventh. 

--------

The helicopter blades were still ringing in her ears as her stylist went nuts over her appearance. "Hi, Little Wolf." Her eyes flickered upwards, and she saw the one connection to her district standing tall. Maeve Cutter.

She stepped off the pedestal Coralie had put her on, and despite her persistent protests, the victor hopped over to her mentor. She was tall, athletic, freckles danced across her cheeks, and her long French braids fell down to her ankles. The victor knew very little about her mentors game, but her mother had always talked in whispers about the woman. She patted Red's head, and had to turn her back to poor Coralie who simply looked like she was going to faint from annoyance.

"Say sorry." Maeve whispered in her ear. Causing her to quickly, and completely not sarcastically at all (sorta), say "I'm so sorry for running off Coralie, I understand your designs are important to you." she re-positioned her body on the pedestal and Coralie perked up at her half-assed apology. "I accept your apology with grace, darling." and the stylist went back to her work.

Soon enough, she was covered.

The dress seemed white at first, delicate and ethereal, but every time the light caught it just so, it shimmered a deep, unsettling blood red. It hugged her figure like it had been tailored by the forest itself, sharp lines and flowing panels that suggested elegance and danger. Her makeup was bold, the red precise and full, lingering in places she wasn't entirely sure were necessary, but it made her gaze strike harder than any weapon. Black tattoos traced along her collarbone, intricate designs that seemed to have grown from bark itself, twisting and curling like living vines. Over one arm draped a scarf of wolf fur, dark and soft, trailing with her movements like a shadow — a reminder that beneath every flourish, every shimmer, she was still the predator from the trees. The Capitol saw beauty.

She stared at herself in the mirror and focused on the fur for longer than she most likely should have.

"Wolf?" She turned around, Maeve was waiting for her to come out for the interview with Caesar Flickerman. 

She smiled, lightly. "You look lovely, pup." She tried to mess with her victors hair, but said victor very quickly backed up and grumbled. "I will get jumped by four stylists if you even come near me, Cutter." and knew her assumptions were correct when the shrill laughs that could only come out of capital citizens were heard as they proclaimed. "She's finally learning!!"

Cutter, helped her victor balance on the sharp heels she wore. "Couldn't the capital just have given me my boots." Red grumbled. "Kid, I've seen your boots, they put the Mason families to shame."

Red snorted.

Then the cameras began rolling, and she heard Caesar's voice boom out of what felt like every surface in the studio. "Ladies and gentlemen tonight we have a very special guest. We had to pull her off her nightly prowl, the sixty-sixth winner of the Hunger Games, and the wolf that's been stalking all of Panem - you know you love her, Red Briar." The crowd went crazy and she stepped onto stage, plastering a soft smile that now felt foreign as she shook Caesars hand.

Red sat down on the comfortable white couch as Caesar Flickerman began his typical questions.

"So, dear Red, how are you feeling? Now that all is said and done."

Red thanked God every day she had siblings because where else would she have learned how to lie through her teeth so well. "Absolutely lovely Mr. Flickerman, and how about yourself?" She responded in a quiet tone that did not suit her body. The TV host gasped and held a hand to his heart as the audience did a clearly fake laugh. "Oh my, Red, Caesar is just fine to call me. And I'm terrific, thank you so much for asking, my god I can't remember the last time a victor has asked me that." 

"Oh I insist, Mr. Flickerman, my mama always taught me to respect those of the capital." She resisted the urge to laugh at the image that flashed in her mind of her mother somewhere in District Seven, yelling "OI FUCK OFF RED." as she busied herself with cleaning the kitchen. 

If there was one woman, Red knew, would always hate the capital: It was her mother.

"Aw that's absolutely heart-warming." The audience happily clapped at what they saw as blind obedience.

Red's ears perked up at the sound of the music that had been quietly playing early and suddenly got into a quiet tense rhythm, it almost sounded like a predator coming up to its prey. "Now, Red, I've got to say, it really was just absolutely shocking to see your transformation, from just the most angelic personality we've seen, to almost this devilish persona you seemed to adapt to quite quickly in the arena." he leaned in as if he trying to conspire with Red.

The girl giggled, hiding her lips with her hand as if she were a snake trying not to show her fangs. 

"Well, you know what they say about us girls from District Seven: we're just wolves in silk clothing." She winked at the camera, and the audience nearly swooned.

"Surely that must be true, because goodness, the tribute from District Six? Your first kill by yourself? Absolutely a wild thing to see." The second those words Red's eyes narrowed and just for a second the fake persona drooped, and they saw just how angry Red could get. Yet, no one noticed.

"You came in the day, and used one of the rat traps from the sponsor, shot him, and woke him up, letting the rat trap paralyze so he couldn't punch you, before slitting his throat. Jeez, you realize you made sure every single one of your victims were awake before you killed them?" Red stared at the ground as Caesar continued his rambling. 

"No person should die without prayers on their minds, sobs on their lips, desperation in their hearts, and breath in their lungs."  She said in response.

Caesar acted as if he didn't hear her, and maybe he hadn't because he could only ever hear the words he wanted to hear.

“Oh, but in all reality, Red, that little tune you sang for the last boy — wow, absolutely terrifying! I was sitting on the farthest couch, having my dinner, and I tell you, it made every bite shrink in comparison! We're just dying to know where it's from?" Caesar was too excited to ask, Red smiled in response nonetheless as she leaned co-conspiratorially to mock-whisper to the crowd. "In District Seven, it's a tradition to sing that as we haul lumber," She responded lightly.

Caesar leaned forward, grin impossibly wide. “Oh, Red, we simply must hear about your strategy in the arena! Tell us — how did it feel, knowing every single one of your opponents was awake before you… well, dispatched them? Absolutely brilliant, and terrifying!”

The audience leaned in, shivering at the thought, while cameras caught every delicate twitch of her smile, every tiny glint of steel in her eyes.

Red tilted her head, voice soft as silk. “Well, Mr. Flickerman, every forest teaches its wolves the same lesson,” she said, scanning the crowd with predatory calm. “One must always be aware of their surroundings. And sometimes awareness comes with consequences.”

The audience gasped at the ominous phrasing, while Caesar clapped enthusiastically. “Marvelous! Truly, amazing, the Capitol simply adores a victor who knows how to perform. You're practically a wolf in sheep's clothing, our very own wolf of seven!” He said gasping as if he had done something actually worth noting.

The girl in white flinched at the crowds sudden gushing with approval as Caesar unofficially dubbed her that.

An hour passed, and the interview slowly came to a close.

"Caesar, I really must be going," Red finally said as finally realized she had counted to sixty minutes on the dot. "Really? I still must ask about your outfit some more." Caesar nearly begged her to stay. "You must ask Coralie, my lovely stylist," The spotlight fled from her, straight to the painted purple woman sitting near the back of the crowd who somehow appeared to blush underneath all that paint.

The second Red noticed the attention was fully on her stylist, she dipped off the stage, to quickly find the easiest and fastest way home.

Chapter Text

Red told herself she was prepared — or at least, that’s what she kept repeating, over and over, like a mantra she could almost believe.

She was sixteen now. One year out of the arena. Her first full year as a victor, though it felt less like a victory and more like a sentence.

It hadn’t been smooth sailing. Not by a long shot.

Most days, she wasn’t even sure she was real anymore. Maybe she was. Maybe she wasn’t. Maybe the arena never ended — maybe it had simply burrowed inside her, rooting itself into every thought, every twitch of muscle, every silent breath. Maybe she’d just gotten better at pretending the trees were wallpaper, better at walking through the world without letting anyone see the wolf behind her eyes.

And yet, here she was, standing among other mentors, another year of children she had to send to a death she couldn’t stop, her hands twitching even as she tried to fold them calmly in her lap. The Games weren’t waiting for anyone — and neither were the memories.

Across the training floor, Finnick Odair was crouched beside her tribute, Lydon, showing him how to rig a fishing line out of wire and patience. The Capitol’s golden boy, all easy smiles and practiced charm. Red left her station without a word. She shouldn’t have. But she did anyway.

“Hey, Wolfie,” Finnick said without looking up, tone almost playful. His attention stayed mostly on Lydon, his hands steady as he tied a knot.

Red froze mid-step. “How do you know who I am?”

Finnick finally glanced up, sea-green eyes glinting with something between amusement and curiosity. “How would I not? The youngest victor since me — the Capitol hasn’t shut up about it. Every dinner party, every replay, every whisper through the corridors. Quite the feat, little wolf. You’ve got them all howling for you.”

Lydon looked between them, wide-eyed, like a child who’d stumbled into the space between two wild things. Even he could feel the air shift — that faint, invisible hum of danger that seemed to cling to both of them. Red tilted her head, lips curling just slightly. “Are you mocking me, golden boy?” she asked, her tone soft, almost playful, but her voice carried that razor-thin edge that only killers earned — the kind that made even laughter sound like a threat.

Finnick smirked, leaning back on his palms. “Never. I think you’re the most interesting girl I’ve seen in a long while.”

“Lydon,” Red said softly, “mind if I borrow him?”

The boy blinked, then nodded, uncertain.

Before Finnick could respond, Red’s hand shot out and grabbed him by his hair. He yelped, half-laughing, as she dragged him away from the crowd. The sound of their boots echoed against the marble until she shoved him against a quiet stretch of wall.

His smile never faltered.

“Stay away from my tribute, golden boy. I don’t trust you not to fill his head with Capitol fairy tales.” Something flickered behind Finnick’s grin — hurt, maybe. Or exhaustion. “Do you think all I care about is keeping my own tributes alive, Wolfie?”

She didn’t answer.“He’s twelve,” Finnick said, voice dropping. “You really think I want a kid that age to die?”

“Well, Odair,” she said, mocking the weight of his name, “who’s to say what the Capitol truly wants.”

Her words cut cleaner than any blade.

She turned to leave, but he reached out, catching her wrist and she flinched.

Hard.

Not the kind of flinch that comes from surprise. The kind that’s born in cages.

Finnick froze. He knew that reaction too well. So he let go. Immediately.

Red’s breathing hitched, shallow and sharp.

“Hey—hey, look at me,” Finnick said quietly, stepping just close enough to guide her toward the nearest door — a maintenance closet stuffed with unused jungle foliage. He kept his hands to himself, nudging her forward with his elbow.

She didn’t resist, but she didn’t look at him either.

The second the door shut, the outside noise vanished. Just the soft hum of air vents and the quiet, ragged sound of her breathing.

“Breathe, Red,” he murmured. “In through your nose. Out through your mouth.” Her nails dug into her palms. “Don’t tell me what to do.”

“Then just… do it anyway.”

He crouched beside her, leaving a few feet between them. No touch. No questions. Just presence.

"Shut up, Odair." She was scratching at her skin, at her face. "Hey, Hun, I need you to not do that." he said, looking around the room for some fabric he could cover his hands with and his eyes quickly falling onto the gardening gloves that the avoxes frequently wore and he slid them on his hands as he grabbed her hands away from her already bleeding cheeks. A soft sound fell out of the girl's mouth as she flinched once more but didn't try to walk away as she did just a mere moment ago.

"Who'd he threaten?" Finnick whispers, and for a moment Red doesn't know if she actually heard it.

"My brothers, he said he'd make sure they were my tributes till every one of them were dead." Red whispers and it's almost mistaken for a breath. "You?" She says her hands twitching uncontrollably in Finnick's grasp. "I tried to stop it for the first six months, then mother dearest went whoosh, and then he threatened Mags." Finnick sighs moving his hands in a way that could almost hide the fact they were talking about the selling of their souls.

Red's breathing wasn't evening out, in fact, the more they talked about the prostitution they were threatened into, tears were forming at her eyes.

Finnick couldn't handle people crying, shit, Red could barely handle herself crying.

"I don't know if you remember me, but I was at your first games," Finnick begins, lowering himself to the floor causing her to momentarily pause in confusion as she stares at the boy.

"I was just shocked by you and your entirety, I wasn't expecting someone who appeared to be so angelic participating in something like the Hunger Games." He said the word 'Hunger Games' in mock horror as he wiggled his fingers at the girl causing a small laugh to leave her throat. She sat down next to him, still maintaining her distance, her leg shaking in anxiety but she was no longer hyperventilating. 

"God, but damn, I remember I was freaking the fuck out, it was my first year as a mentor, and one of the tributes, you, were the same age as me. It was weird, like a child sending another child out to war." Both of the victors sighed at those words, feeling the 'war' settle deeply into their bones.

Red closed her eyes, humming softly as he continued. Finnick leaned back against the wall, his expression softening in a way that startled her. “I watched you, you know,” he murmured. “That night in your Games. You’d already taken out both my tributes by then.” Red went still. Her fingers flexed like claws, the skin of her palms raw and restless. For a moment, she braced — certain he’d lunge for her, furious over their deaths.

“They were brats,” he said, voice low and strange. “Not killers. Just scared.” He hesitated, then smiled faintly. “You sang to them.” Her eyes snapped up, defiant. “I sang to the forest,” she said flatly. Finnick shook his head. “No. You sang to them. And it was the same tune my mother used to sing when the nets came back torn and the boats didn’t. You remember how it goes?”

Red’s breath hitched. She hummed, low and unsteady, before the words slipped through her teeth like sea foam:

“Sleep, my pearl, don’t fight the tide,
The sea will take what men denied.
Rest in her arms, where dark things gleam.
Dream, little one, just dream.”

Finnick laughed, but the sound cracked halfway through. He scrubbed a hand over his face like he could hide the way the sound had undone him. “I thought I was mad,” he said, his voice breaking into a smile. “How could you have known a song only the drowned know?”

“It was my mother’s favorite,” Red murmured, her voice barely above a whisper, trembling like a leaf caught in the wind. Her fingers traced the edges of the small, worn fabric of her sleeve, almost as if holding onto the memory itself. “She said the woods and the waves sound the same when they’re angry.” The words hung in the air, delicate and fragile, yet laden with weight—the kind of weight that presses into your chest and refuses to leave.

Finnick leaned back slightly, golden hair catching the light in a halo that felt too perfect, too deliberate, even for the Capitol. His lips quirked into that mischievous half-smile, the one that usually preceded a teasing comment or a wink, but it didn’t quite reach his sea-green eyes. They were sharper now, deeper, reflecting an understanding that went far beyond the playful, charming persona the Capitol adored. There was something protective there, something tethered to pain, memory, and something else that wasn’t entirely dissimilar to affection.

“I couldn’t help but feel grateful it was you,” he said quietly, his voice soft enough to let the words linger between them like smoke in the stillness. “You… laid them in the water. Let them have a District Four death. Sang them home.”

Red’s chest tightened at the words, her fingers curling into the fabric of her pants as though trying to anchor herself to the present. She could almost feel the cool brush of the river against her skin, the gentle weight of the water cradling them, the whisper of the forest around them, alive and untamed. It was a memory she had kept tucked away, locked behind countless layers of survival and vigilance, yet Finnick unearthed it effortlessly.

She remembered those tribute deaths, every night. She had studied the other districts for years, and was well versed in their cultures.

He leaned forward slightly, eyes glinting, that familiar spark of mischief trying to pierce the tension, just enough to make her pulse hitch. “I have to admit,” he said, voice teasing, low, curling around her like a ribbon of warmth, “I didn’t expect you to sing to them. Not like that. Not like… a song meant to soothe even the water itself.”

Red tilted her head, a flicker of irony crossing her features even through the sorrow in her gaze. “You think anyone else would have?” Her voice was sharp but soft, a paradox that mirrored her entirely. “You think any other victor would have taken the time to… care?”

Finnick’s lips twitched into a smile, almost wry, almost flirtatious, but held in check by the gravity of the moment. “I don’t know,” he admitted, tilting his head with that playful tilt that made the impossible feel effortless. “But I know one thing for certain—you do it better than anyone I’ve ever met.” His hand hovered just slightly near hers, careful not to touch, teasingly close, as though the space between them itself was a conversation.

Red’s eyes narrowed slightly, a mix of exasperation and reluctant amusement, but she didn’t pull away. She could feel his presence, the way it filled the space without imposing, warm and teasing, dangerous and comforting all at once. It was infuriating. It was grounding. It was Finnick Odair.

“The river,” she whispered, “it was the only thing I could give them that the arena tried to ruin for them. The only part of home I could carry in the midst of all the… everything else.” Her fingers trembled as she spoke, the words dragging through the air like slow, measured strokes of memory. “I sang and I hoped… I prayed to the Gods, I did not believe in. That it would carry them gently. That it would remember them better than anyone ever could.”

Finnick’s chest tightened subtly, and for a moment, the teasing charm slipped entirely. He let the gravity of her words settle over them, the silence thick, almost sacred, punctuated only by the faint hum of the building around them. His usual smirk softened into something almost reverent, his eyes searching hers as though to convey everything his voice could not.

“You’ve got a way,” he murmured finally, voice low, intimate, “of making us all remember. Not for the spectacle, not for the Capitol, not for the people who think it’s all a game. But for the little guy.” He let the word linger, weighty and deliberate. “For the ones who deserved to be remembered, who deserved the gentleness, even in the middle of all that horror.”

Red’s breath hitched, small, uneven, as she struggled against the lump forming in her throat. Her hands fisted again, not in anger this time, but to steady herself, to give shape to the torrent of emotion threatening to spill. Finnick leaned just a fraction closer, a teasing tilt to his head, a whisper in her ear that made her pulse quicken. “You have no idea how infuriatingly, impossibly remarkable you are,” he said, voice dripping with that half-flirtatious, half-awed tone that could disarm anyone, even in moments like this.

Red wanted to roll her eyes, wanted to bite back a sarcastic remark, but instead she found herself shivering, the memory of her games mingling with Finnick’s teasing cadence, and for the first time in days, maybe months, she felt… something that wasn’t grief. Something that wasn’t fury. Something fragile and terrible and alive.

“The woods,” she whispered again, this time a fraction steadier, “the water… they know now. I hope they know now.”

Finnick tilted his head, smirk playing at the corner of his lips once more, eyes glittering, teasing and sharp. “If they don’t,” he said softly, brushing a strand of hair from her face in a motion just shy of contact, “I’ll make sure they do. You’ve set a standard I’m not sure anyone else could ever touch, Briar. Not even me. And believe me, I’ve tried to charm a lot of people in my day.”

Red let out a quiet laugh, bitter and sweet all at once, the sound threading through the stillness like a fragile ribbon. She let herself lean back against the wall, letting her pulse slow, letting Finnick’s presence anchor her in a way she didn’t quite realize she needed. There was weight here, yes. Pain and sorrow and memory, heavy as stone. But also a strange, delicate beauty—the beauty of being seen, understood, and, somehow, teased gently even through the storm.

“I still hate you,” she muttered, voice low but playful, the words carrying both accusation and acknowledgment.

Finnick’s smirk widened, mischievous and victorious. “Good,” he said, voice soft, flirty, a whisper and a promise all at once. “It’s the only thing I ever wanted you to feel about me besides gratitude and awe.”

Red rolled her eyes but didn’t move away. And for a fleeting, impossible moment, the chaos of the world outside—the arena, the Capitol, the deaths, the grief—dissolved into the quiet pulse of memory, song, and shared understanding.

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.

Chapter Text

Finnick Odair hauled her down the winding flights of stairs, each step echoing sharply against the marble walls like gunshots. His grip on her arm was unyielding, firm enough to remind her that he wasn’t about to let go, yet careful enough not to bruise her already tense muscles. His jaw was set like carved stone, lines of determination cutting across his golden face as he navigated the maze of corridors with practiced ease.

Finnick Odair dragged her down the flights of stairs, his grip iron and his jaw locked, muscles taut as he navigated the gleaming corridors. Every few steps, they passed an avox or two, their blank faces flickering with momentary confusion as Red thrashed over his shoulder. Finnick’s grin tugged at the corners of his mouth, a mischievous sparkle lighting his sea-green eyes. “Hey there, beautiful people,” he called smoothly, letting the words slide over them like a ribbon of charm, before muttering under his breath, “Don’t even think about asking.”

Red flailed, her voice a raw, broken scream that bounced off the walls, but Finnick held firm, steady, almost teasing in his careful ease. The avoxes blinked, bewildered, then turned away, resigned—classic Capitol business. (Not that they could’ve asked anything even if they wanted to. Tongues—or lack thereof—always did that to you.)

Finally, floor four loomed ahead. Finnick’s hand went to his pocket, fingers brushing the badge he needed to open the door, a flash of relief crossing his features. But the smirk never left his face—half-flirty, half-warning—as he prepared for the chaos that would follow inside.

The door to the floor, for District Four, opened up with a swish.

He let the girl slide from his shoulder, and she hit the floor with a sharp stomp, the kind of stomp that belonged to toddlers demanding attention, toddlers furious that the world dared to exist without their consent. Her fists curled tightly, knuckles red and trembling, and the seams of her sleeves rode up as her arms flailed in rhythm with her pounding chest. Every movement seemed too big for the room, too loud for the delicate, whispering air of the District Four floor, but the echoes didn’t matter. Nothing mattered.

Finnick didn’t flinch. He caught her again, not because she would fall—she was all chaos and muscle and fury—but because he knew the storm inside her needed containment. He let her fists slam into him once, twice, a few more times, before they softened, her blows losing their fury, transforming into trembling pushes against his chest, as though she could expel the grief by transferring it into his body. Her entire frame shook, knees bending and straightening, toes scraping against the polished floor, and even he had to swallow against the tightness forming in his throat.

“Red…” he murmured, voice low, careful. Not gentle, not coaxing, just the barest tether to the human world. But she didn’t hear him, didn’t register the words. Not yet. She was lost in the sound of her own heartbreak, in the raw taste of rage and despair, in the memory of a boy she had tried so hard to protect.

He could feel the sting of the tears running down her cheeks even before he looked. He could see it in the wild tilt of her head, the flare of her nostrils, the sharp rise and fall of her shoulders. And in that, he saw something he couldn’t shield her from. Something no one could.

Her fists gradually stopped striking him altogether. They floated just above his chest now, trembling hands caught between rage and emptiness. She was shaking, yes, but she was no longer angry at him. Not really. She was unraveling, thread by thread, letting every bit of anguish she had been holding in for weeks—or months—spill out.

The Capitol’s laughter and clinking glasses, though distant, seemed like a physical pressure against the walls of the room. They were alive out there, feeding off death like insects, enjoying a spectacle that to Red had always been grotesque, now seared into her soul. She had watched children die for sport. She had trained and prepared and survived in an arena that had made monsters out of everyone. And now she carried the weight of all of it, a burden that bent her back and made her knees scrape against the cold floor.

Finnick ran a hand down his face, golden hair sticking to his damp skin. He felt every pang of grief that she couldn’t yet articulate, every silent scream she had swallowed until it tore out of her in jagged, ragged sobs. He wanted to tell her that it wasn’t fair, but he also knew that telling her that would mean nothing. Nothing could make this fair. Not apologies. Not promises. Not even time.

“You wanted him alive,” he said softly, almost a whisper. “You tried.”

Red’s head lifted, one eye glimmering through the mess of tears. “Tried?” she spat the word out like a curse, voice breaking. “Tried? Finn, he was twelve. Twelve! How the hell—how the hell do you teach a twelve-year-old to survive… to die… like that? And they… they all laughed!” Her fists balled again, this time at the cushions, shredding the fabric as though she could tear the memory apart.

Finnick swallowed, chest tight. He had seen the boy, Lydon, die. He had felt the grotesque satisfaction radiating from the District One tributes and their mentors, the careful precision of their killing, the pride in their eyes as they displayed skill without mercy. And yes, he had felt anger, too. But now, watching Red twist herself into a storm of grief and fury, he realized he had never seen pure, unfiltered heartbreak like this. Not even his own.

He let her vent, let the tremors ripple through her body, the cries racking her throat. He stayed close, hand hovering near her shoulder, close enough to guide if necessary but never restraining. She wasn’t a child to protect; she was a hurricane, and he had to weather it, survive it, be the anchor while she tore apart everything in her path.

Red’s voice grew quieter then, the screams softening into ragged, broken gasps. Her hands rested on her knees, fists slowly unclenching. Her shoulders shook, and she tried to draw in a steady breath, but each inhale rattled out in small, quivering bursts. The rawness of her grief seemed to echo in the space between them, in the air they breathed together, a presence heavier than any physical weight.

“HE'S TWELVE, ODAIR, AND THEY KILLED HIM LIKE HE WAS A MUTT.”

Red’s voice shattered the quiet of the room, ragged and jagged, slicing through the air with the weight of a hurricane. Tears streamed unchecked down her cheeks, blurring her vision so that Finnick could only make out the glint of fury and heartbreak in her eyes. She pounded against his chest with frantic desperation, fists clenched as if by hitting him she could somehow wrest back the life that had been stolen from her tribute.

Finnick let her, arms steady around her, but inside, his chest tightened painfully with the knowledge of her loss—and the boy’s. Lydon, barely twelve, full of nervous hope and trembling courage, snuffed out like a candle in the wind. He pressed his palms against her back, not to hold her back, but to give her something solid, something to collide with that wouldn’t break under her grief.

Her blows were relentless at first, sharp and angry, striking his chest with the force of pure, unfiltered anguish. Each hit echoed in the quiet room, a heartbeat of grief he could feel in his bones. But gradually, they weakened, and the force in her strikes gave way to trembling pushes, little shoves that seemed almost automatic, like her body didn’t know how else to expel the pain. Her knuckles grazed his jacket, leaving smudges of red from where her nails had dug into her own skin, the small wounds evidence of her fury and helplessness.

“He was twelve, Finnick,” she whispered this time, her voice barely audible, breaking in half like a snapped branch. “He was twelve.”

The words hung between them, sharp enough to bleed on.

Finnick caught her wrists gently, careful not to touch skin, fingers closing around her trembling ones. He didn’t say I know. He didn’t say I’m sorry. Those words were useless here—empty, hollow things that the Capitol loved to feed to the victors like candy coated in poison. “Breathe,” he said instead, voice low, steady, the same tone he’d used the first time she’d fallen apart after her Games. “Just breathe, Red.”

She shook her head, a choked sound clawing its way up her throat. “How am I supposed to do this, Finn?” Her voice cracked on his name, soft and sharp all at once. “I can’t—” She tried again, but the words dissolved into a broken laugh, half sob, half disbelief. “I can’t do this for the rest of my life.”

Her knees nearly gave out, the weight of everything pressing down until her body trembled under it. “Every year, it'll be the same. They'll send me children—children—and I’m supposed to train them, watch them smile, tell them they have a chance. And then I sit there and watch them die.” She dragged in a jagged breath. “I tell them to fight smart, to keep their heads down, to run when they can, and it doesn’t matter. It never matters.”

"Finnie, we're the same age and today we saw people three times our age, who should never know what our bodies look like, yet they do," She laughed out her eyes horrified as she stared at the boy in front of her. "What am I supposed to do?" Red whispered, and she looked on the edge of collapse as Finnick finally took in the anxiety inching in her every move. She needed answers, and he had none.

Finnick stood a few feet away, his expression unreadable in the low light. His hands were balled at his sides, the faintest tremor in his knuckles. He wanted to move closer, to steady her, but he knew better—touch was a dangerous thing for both of them.

“You think I know?” he said finally, voice rough and hoarse. “You think I’ve figured out how to live with it?”

Red’s head snapped up, eyes wet and burning. “You make it look easy,” she hissed, the words a mixture of accusation and grief. “You sit there and smile, you flirt with them, you laugh. You act like it doesn’t touch you.”

Finnick let out a hollow laugh, the kind that didn’t reach his eyes. “That’s the point, sweetheart. That’s what they pay for. The Capitol doesn’t like reminders that their victors are still bleeding underneath all the glitter.”

She flinched at his tone—bitter, sharp, self-loathing. He dragged a hand through his hair, pacing once across the room, his steps heavy on the marble.

“They want charm. They want fantasy. So I give it to them. Because if I stop—if I let it crack, even for a second—they’ll take Mags. Whoever they can.” He met her eyes then, and for the first time, she saw the same hollowed-out exhaustion she felt reflected right back at her.

Red’s lips parted, her chest heaving. “I just want it to stop,” she whispered. “I want to be a kid.” it was a plea to a God that had long since forsaken Panem.

Finnick moved closer this time—slowly, carefully, like approaching a wounded animal. “You can’t stop it,” he murmured. “You can only survive it. That’s the part they don’t tell us when we win.”

She let out a strangled sound, somewhere between a sob and a laugh, and turned away from him, pressing her palms against the cool glass wall. The city glittered below, bright and monstrous, every light a reminder of someone who would never see home again.

He took a step back, as if distance might dull the sting. His fingers raked through his hair, trembling faintly as he tried to steady his breathing. The room felt too small, the air too heavy—like grief itself was pressing against the walls, demanding space it would never stop taking.

When he finally spoke, his voice was low, raw, threaded with something that almost sounded like an apology.
“Red…” he began, the name catching in his throat. He swallowed hard. “We can’t save them.”

The words hung between them like smoke, bitter and undeniable. His eyes flicked toward the wall screen, dark now but still echoing with what they’d both seen—blood, panic, the flash of a blade. He dragged a hand down his face, exhaling through his teeth.

“If we could’ve,” he said, softer now, “we already would have.”

It wasn’t harsh. It wasn’t even meant to comfort. It was just the truth, the kind that gutted you clean.

He let out a bitter laugh, though it wasn’t laughter at all—it was something fractured, jagged, a noise that scraped along the edges of memory and regret. Finnick’s eyes, normally sparkling with mischief and that infuriating, playful light, were dull in the harsh fluorescent glare of the Capitol floor. “I was horrified when I saw you last year,” he began, voice low, gravelly, almost reverent in the hush of the small room they had barricaded themselves in. “Someone who actually looked like they accepted they wouldn’t win. Someone who carried the knowledge of their own mortality on their shoulders without flinching.”

Red’s hands had stopped trembling for just a fraction of a second as she stared at him, wet and raw, mascara smudged and cheeks streaked crimson from tears she didn’t realize she’d been shedding. The weight of his words pressed against her chest like the ocean itself.

“And we were the same age,” Finnick continued, jaw tight, voice catching on the memory. “I watched your mentor, helping you. Every instruction, every pause, every flicker of hesitation it wasn’t just survival, Red. You didn’t move like someone afraid to die, you didn't move like the other tributes, you moved like someone aware that life itself was a choice they weren’t being given.” His hand lifted almost unconsciously, brushing a lock of damp hair from his face, as if he could wipe away the past with a gesture. But the past wasn’t gone. It never left.

God, Red. Just for a moment—just for a second—he remembered the image vividly, so clearly it almost burned behind his eyes. He saw her, standing in that arena, small and sharp, eyes wide with awareness, lips pressed tight, every muscle coiled like a spring ready to snap. And he saw something that no one should ever see in a child, no one but him had witnessed: the graceful, terrifying acceptance of a world that wanted her dead.

“And… God, Red…” he whispered, voice trembling with the impossible weight of memory. “Just for a moment, I saw another life. One that should have existed. One where the Capitol never touched us, never dragged children into cages, never made us watch each other die for their amusement.” His lips pressed into a thin line. He closed his eyes briefly, and the world shrank until it was only the echo of the past.

“I saw you watching TV somewhere. A school, maybe. Somewhere safe, warm, smelling of books and chalk dust, not gunpowder and blood. A life where you were laughing at some joke, maybe spilling milk on your shirt, maybe arguing over a seat by the window with some friend who didn’t understand why you always chose the aisle. I saw a Red that belonged to a world that never existed. And I thought… I thought maybe, just maybe, I would’ve been there too. Watching you, not preparing for your own death, not calculating every move to survive some twisted game. I would’ve watched you, Red… and we would have been just two ordinary kids.” He couldn't help but laugh ridiculously at that.

"Hell, maybe in another life then, right, pretty girl?" He bumped shoulders with her.

His voice cracked then, low and quiet, the kind of vulnerability he rarely let anyone see. The tension in his jaw melted into something fragile, almost human. Finnick had spent years perfecting the mask of charm and flirtation, using it to navigate the horrors of the Capitol, to distract from what he’d seen and done. But right now, in this suffocating, grief-drenched room, there was no mask. Only memory, only grief, only awe and heartbreak at the girl in front of him who had survived what he hadn’t thought anyone could.

Red’s tears had started again, slow and silent, her chest heaving as her fingers dug into her own arms. She swallowed hard, trying to catch her breath, trying to understand what he was saying. And though she wanted to be angry, to lash out, to scream at the unfairness of it all, the raw honesty in his voice cracked something open inside her. Something old, something buried under layers of anger and survival instinct, something that had once imagined normalcy, safety, laughter in a world where people didn’t die for sport.

Finnick’s eyes never left hers, and for the first time since he had seen her last year, he felt that terrible, aching swell of hope and despair simultaneously. He saw in her a flicker of what could have been, and it hurt more than any weapon ever could.

“You…” he breathed, leaning just a little closer, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, “you shouldn’t have been in there. Not like that. Not then, not now, not ever. And yet… you survived. Not because of luck, not because of the Capitol’s mercy… because you are Red. And… you still are. You still are that girl I saw.”

Red’s hands trembled, curling into fists that rested on her knees, shaking with the weight of everything—the loss, the anger, the grief, the memories, and the strange, unbearable beauty of being seen. Seen not as a killer, not as a victor, not as a tool of the Capitol—but as a person.

Finnick swallowed hard, the words coming slower now, more measured, as if each syllable was a lifeline he was throwing across the chasm of trauma between them. “I’ve… I’ve watched so many kids disappear, so many tributes swallowed up by the arena, and I thought I knew what horror looked like. I thought I understood despair. But then I saw you. And it wasn’t despair, Red. Not really. It was… awareness. Awareness that you could die at any second, and yet, somehow, still be more alive than anyone else in there.”

He swallowed again, chest tight, and he reached forward, hand hovering over hers, hesitant. “You should have been allowed to live a normal life. You should have been allowed to eat ice cream on a sunny afternoon, to have silly arguments over homework, to fall in love clumsily, to scrape your knees and be kissed better. But instead… they made you perfect at survival, Red. They made you someone the world should have protected, and instead they taught you to protect yourself by becoming untouchable.”

Finnick’s hand fell back to his knee, curling into a fist. His golden hair caught the light in jagged streaks, and for a second he looked less like the Capitol’s golden boy and more like the boy he had been, standing in the shadows of an arena he had survived and survived alone. “And I…” he said, voice breaking, almost a whisper that could have been lost to the air, “…I envied that. That you could be so small and so lethal at the same time. That you could carry the weight of the world on your shoulders and still move with that… that grace. And I hated that. Hated it and… loved it all at once. Because I knew I wouldn’t have survived like that. Not like you.”

Red’s lips parted slightly, the anger fading, replaced by something raw and fragile: grief, yes, but also understanding. She blinked, struggling to make sense of the jumble of words, of memories, of the ache between them. She saw in Finnick something she hadn’t expected: a vulnerability that matched her own, a mirrored reflection of the weight they had both carried through the arenas, through the Capitol, through lives that were stolen before they even began.

He exhaled slowly, running a hand down his face, and for a moment, silence fell over them, nothing but the silence of his quiet laughter. Thick, sacred, almost reverent in the way grief often demanded. The world beyond the closed doors of the room seemed to vanish—the Capitol’s laughter, the chimes of glasses, the hum of televised games—all of it disappeared, leaving only this small sanctuary of shared pain and fleeting understanding.

“I’ve thought about it, Red,” he murmured finally, softer now, almost lost in the gravity of the confession. “I’ve thought about what could have been, what should have been. And then I see you. And I realize… maybe it doesn’t matter. Maybe the only way to survive this world is to keep seeing the possibility of what could have been… even if it’s fleeting. Even if it’s gone. Even if it hurts so much that you want to scream until your lungs give out.”

Red’s head tilted slightly, as though finally letting herself feel the weight of that possibility. And though tears blurred her vision, though her chest heaved with the impossibility of reconciling grief with survival, she whispered, barely audible, “…I would have… wanted that. I would have wanted it too.”

Finnick’s lips quirked into the faintest, broken smile, the kind that only came when the heart had been shattered and pieced together again, a little askew but still whole. “Then,” he whispered, voice trembling, “we carry it for them. We carry the lives that never had a chance, and we carry… the lives that barely survived. And if we do that right, Red… maybe one day, someone will remember what it looked like to be free, if only for a moment.”

The room seemed impossibly still after that, a fragile bubble of space and time where grief and memory and fleeting hope all coexisted. And Red, for the first time since she had been thrust into a world of death and chaos, allowed herself to imagine a life she might have had. A life where she could have eaten ice cream in the sun, argued with friends over trivialities, laughed without fear, and watched the horizon without counting seconds to her own end.

Then silence again—thick, unrelenting, the kind that filled the space where hope used to be.

Red stumbled backward, knees hitting the edge of her palm with a dull scrape. Her fingers dug into the flesh as if anchoring herself to something solid. Her chest heaved, ragged breaths cutting through the oppressive quiet. “So what… so what, Finnick?” she gasped, voice cracking. “We just… let them die? That’s it? We just… watch?”

Finnick’s jaw tightened, his eyes darting away to the floor, the wall, anywhere but hers. His hands clenched into fists at his sides. After a long pause, he exhaled, voice low, weighted with the kind of honesty that could both wound and sustain. “No,” he said, not gently, not softly—not with false comfort. “We… we make sure they’re not forgotten.”

The words hung in the air like smoke, and silence swallowed them whole. Thick, suffocating, almost reverent. Outside the floor-to-ceiling glass, the Capitol glittered and roared, oblivious, alive with indulgence. Inside, there was only the sound of Red’s broken breathing, uneven and trembling, and the echo of grief that refused to dissipate.

Her hand lifted to her face almost unconsciously, fingertips dragging across her cheek. Mascara streaked into the raw redness left from where her nails had dug too deep. She pressed her palm harder against her jaw, trying to hold herself together, and failed. “Then we make sure they remember his name,” she whispered, voice barely more than breath, but edged with fire that refused to die.

Finnick’s gaze met hers at last, steady and ready. He nodded once, deliberately, letting the weight of the gesture speak louder than words. “Lydon,” he chuckled, low and reverent.

“Lydon,” she echoed, voice trembling but firm, as if saying it aloud could carve it into the world itself.

“I just…” Red  now whispered, voice ragged, “I wanted him to live. Just a little. To come back to District Seven just enough to taste apples from the orchard, to catch fish in the river, to laugh without being terrified. Just enough…” Her words trailed, swallowed by the room, by the shadows, by the echo of loss.

Finnick’s hand hovered near her shoulder, not touching, but a tether, a grounding force in the chaos. He let her lean, let her let go, let her grief take the shape it needed. “He did taste the orchard,” he said softly, almost reverently. “He did catch the fish, laugh when he could. Those moments… they existed. And they always will. Not in the arena, not in the Capitol, but in memory. In ours. We keep him alive, Red. That’s what matters.”

Her breathing hitched again, small, ragged gasps punctuating the silence. Her lips pressed into a thin line, her body coiled and uncoiling with every tremor of grief. Finnick stayed near, patient, steady, allowing her to ride out the storm without trying to fix it. Some things could not be fixed. Some things had to be endured, felt fully, and remembered.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity and yet passed in a heartbeat, she lifted her gaze, eyes red-rimmed, wet but clearer. “We… we can’t let them forget him,” she whispered. “We have to make sure they remember.”

Finnick nodded, gently this time, firmly in agreement. “We will. Lydon. His name will live, and they will know what he was. Not how he died. But what he was. How he tried. How he lived, even for twelve short years.”

She repeated the name, a fragile chant, and it hovered in the room like a prayer, a memory, a quiet rebellion against everything that had tried to erase him.

“Lydon,” she said, louder this time, allowing the word to anchor her, to solidify the fragile, trembling pieces of her.

“Lydon,” Finnick echoed, voice steady, deliberate, reverent.

The name lingered, stretching between them, a bridge over grief, a tether to memory, a fragile light in the darkness of what the Capitol wanted to erase. The hum of the ventilation, the distant sounds of the city, the faint clicks of high heels on polished marble—all fell away in the presence of the moment, the shared understanding, the weight of what it meant to survive and remember.

Red’s trembling slowed, her fingers unclenching fully. She rested against the couch, letting herself sink just a little, letting herself exist without pretense. Finnick stayed near, his presence a quiet counterbalance to the storm she had carried into the room. Outside, the Capitol continued its grotesque celebration, but here—here, in the quiet, broken light of their shared grief—there was a sanctuary.

A sanctuary built from memory, from whispered names, from unspoken vows. Lydon would live, not in the arena, not in the Capitol’s spectacle, but here, in the hearts of the two who had loved him enough to mourn fully, to rage fully, to remember fully.

Chapter Text

The 71st Hunger Games ended with an axe to the throat and a girl screaming victory through blood-spattered teeth.

Red had never cheered so hard in her life.

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Red had been an anxious wreck from the very moment Johanna Mason’s name had been called. It wasn’t a simple worry, a fleeting flicker of concern; it was a deep, gnawing anxiety that settled into her bones, creeping like frost through every joint, every muscle, every thought that dared to wander near the edge of what was happening. Her stomach had twisted itself into knots she didn’t even know were possible, and her chest felt perpetually tight, as though the air itself had been replaced with ice and thorns. Since that single moment, she had not slept more than an hour at a time—if she was lucky enough to doze at all. Every shadow in her room seemed alive, every whisper of wind against the windows a sinister echo of the arena. Every time her eyelids closed, she could see Johanna stepping onto the platform, hear the crowd’s roar, feel the cold bite of the arena before a single step had even been taken. The images replayed, over and over, in loops that refused to be paused or rewound. Her body had become a kind of tense coil, wound so tight that she worried one wrong thought might make her snap entirely.

The Capitol hated long Games. They thrived on speed, on excitement, on watching the death of the young unfold in sharp, dramatic bursts. There was nothing that could kill their mood faster than a Game that dragged on, a story that refused to deliver blood on schedule. It wasn’t cruelty that motivated their frustration; it was boredom. They were entitled to a show, to satisfaction, to the art of watching, and waiting for children to maneuver through traps or evade death in an icy wasteland was apparently anathema to their tastes. And this year, this particular iteration of the Games, was proving worse than most—not because the tributes were weaker, or the arena less lethal, but because the circumstances had become a kind of living, breathing torment for those who cared.

Red, of course, cared. She could feel the weight of seventeen days pressing down on her like a glacier, slow and inexorable, crushing any semblance of calm she had left. Her hands were perpetually clammy, her teeth clenched until the muscles of her jaw ached, her nails dug into the palms of her hands as if she could root herself in the real world through sheer force. Every sound from the Capitol—every distant cheer, every harsh laugh, every slap of glassware on polished tables somewhere above her, somewhere far from the arena—made her flinch. Her mind could not rest. Her heart could not rest. She could not rest, because Johanna’s life was in constant peril, measured in seconds and frozen moments. Every day, she feared, might be the last.

And the arena. God, the arena. It was a frozen wasteland, the kind of place where beauty and terror existed in the same, impossible plane. To an outsider, someone who looked from a satellite feed or from the balconies above, it could almost be mistaken for art. The white expanses of snow, the silvery shimmer of ice reflecting the pale sun, the angular frost formations that looked like crystal sculptures—someone could mistake it for elegance, for serenity. But Red knew better. She had seen it all before. She knew that every slope, every jagged shard of ice, every deceptive shimmer in the distance, was a potential death trap. A frozen smile hiding the sharp teeth of the Capitol’s cruelty. And the wind—it was not just cold; it screamed. It cut through layers, sliced through muscle and bone, howled across the plains of white with a keening shriek that seemed almost alive, almost sentient, as if the arena itself had learned to hate.

The snow was not soft, not forgiving. It could conceal traps, hide crevices that opened into chasms of ice, cloak predators that were faster, sharper, hungrier than any human child could anticipate. The wind, slicing and merciless, could freeze extremities in minutes, steal the heat from lungs and bones with merciless efficiency. And the arena was designed to look pretty from above—deliberately, perversely pretty, like a painting meant to distract and disarm. That kind of beauty was lethal. That kind of prettiness killed you if you looked at it too long, if you allowed yourself even a moment to marvel instead of survive. Red knew it. She could see it in her mind’s eye, could feel the icy embrace of the arena as if she were standing there herself, boots slipping, hair whipped across her face, heart hammering in her chest, lungs freezing mid-breath.

The Gamemakers’ cruelty was in the details. They had not only made it visually captivating—they had made it psychologically torturous. Every glittering expanse of ice, every elegant but deadly formation, every misleadingly gentle slope was designed to toy with the tributes’ perception. Look at this, they seemed to whisper. Marvel at it. Let it captivate you. And then, kill. The children would stumble into traps, falter under pressure, fail under the weight of their own fear—and the Capitol would applaud, would cheer, would gasp in delight at the orchestration of panic and death.

Red thought of Johanna constantly. She thought of the way the girl moved, the careful precision, the flickers of instinct that had kept her alive for the past seventeen days. She thought of her reactions to traps, to enemies, to the sudden, brutal deaths that had already peppered the arena. And yet, she could not breathe properly for fear, could not sleep properly for worry. Her mind, overworked, replayed every moment she had witnessed, every tactical decision, every gamble Johanna had taken. Red imagined the girl stepping through the icy biome, each step a calculated risk, each breath stolen from the wind a precious commodity.

And still, the Capitol was restless. They hated waiting, hated seeing time pass without the satisfaction of witnessing another life extinguished. Red could almost hear them, in her mind, sitting in their gilded chairs, raising glasses of sparkling drinks to their lips, sneering at the slow pace of death. She could imagine their faces—painted, elaborate, grotesque in their vanity—and their impatience gnawed at her, a poison that mingled with her own fear and anxiety. Every day that the Games went on was another day Johanna was in their hands, another day she had to endure the torment of watching, knowing, fearing.

Red shivered, not from the cold but from the weight of it all. Seventeen days in, and she was on edge, a taut wire ready to snap. She had counted every hour, every minute, every heartbeat. She had measured the ice formations, estimated the wind speeds, calculated the risk for every move Johanna might make. She had tried to anticipate the Capitol’s cruel interventions, their insatiable hunger for drama, for chaos, for fear. And still, she felt powerless. She could not intervene, could not step into the arena herself, could not shield Johanna from the white death that awaited at every turn.

The arena was a frozen, glittering trap, a deceptive paradise of lethal beauty. Red could see it in her mind’s eye even when she closed her own. She could hear the howling winds, see the silver and white landscape, imagine the glint of ice under the pale light. She could almost taste the cold, bitter air, feel the sting of frostbite on her fingers and toes. Every second, every heartbeat, was a countdown. Every misstep could be fatal. And yet, for all its terror, it was mesmerizing, cruelly seductive in its deadly elegance.

Seventeen days. Seventeen nights of near-sleepless torment. Seventeen days of fear gnawing at her from within. Red’s muscles ached from tension, her mind reeled under the constant barrage of anxiety, her heart was a drum in her chest that never slowed. She had been an anxious wreck from the moment the Games began, from the moment Johanna’s name was called. And she would remain so until the very last second, until the final moment when the Capitol’s sick spectacle was complete, and the frozen wasteland of white and silver was nothing more than a memory of terror, of beauty, and of a deadly, unrelenting game.

The mutts were wolves, or at least, they used to be. The Capitol had turned them into something meaner, faster, smarter. Their eyes burned electric blue, and their fur shimmered like frostbitten glass. Red had seen one tear a camera drone out of the air on the first night. She could still hear the sound of metal shrieking when she closed her eyes.

And then there was the “freeze zone.” The Gamemakers loved that part. It would go off without warning, turning everything—trees, rocks, people—into solid ice. It was supposed to be “beautiful.”

Right. Beautiful.

Now, she sat on Finnick’s bed, legs folded beneath her, biting at a hangnail while her heart thudded like it was trying to dig its way out of her chest. She wasn’t supposed to be down here, obviously. This was District Four’s floor, not Seven’s. But Red had long since stopped caring about what she was or wasn’t supposed to do. Finnick had gone to get her food, probably something stupid and decadent like sugared oysters or gold-flecked soup. He said she looked like she hadn’t eaten in a week (which wasn’t entirely false). She hadn’t told him that she couldn’t eat while the Games were still running, not when she knew Johanna was probably freezing, or starving, or worse.

The avoxes on the floor avoided her. She could feel their eyes on her sometimes—curious, maybe even pitying—but they never said anything. Couldn’t, really.

The room around her felt too alive. Everything gleamed like it had just been polished—gold, glass, soft blue lights flickering from under the floor. It even smelled expensive: sea salt and something citrusy that made her stomach twist.

On the screens across from her, Johanna was still breathing. Still fighting.

The boy from Two was circling her now. Tall. Smug. Built like he thought he was born for killing. The kind of tribute the Capitol ate up—blood and grin and confidence.

Red’s fingers dug into the sheets. “Come on, Jo-Jo,” she muttered, barely breathing the words. “Don’t let him close in. Don’t—”

Then it happened.

Johanna moved faster than the cameras could follow. The axe came down once. Clean. The boy’s head hit the snow, rolling to a stop like some kind of sick ornament. The anthem hadn’t even started yet. Red was on her feet before she realized it, yelling so loud her throat cracked.  Her heart was pounding so fast she thought she might actually throw up.

The elevator chimed, soft and oblivious.

Finnick walked in holding a tray stacked with food, eyebrows raised. “I leave you alone for five minutes, sweetheart, and you start a riot?” Red spun around, still trembling, a wild grin splitting her face. “She won." Red was shaking, she was overjoyed, she jumped at Finnick and as if he could have predicted her thoughts he had already set the food on the table in his room and had caught her with awaiting arms. "I knew she would," Finn let her cling to him, her entire body wrapping around his frame as if she was meant to be there, and maybe she was.

For a long moment, neither of them said anything. The room was filled with the low hum of Capitol air vents and the echo of distant celebration somewhere on the upper floors, but it all felt far away—like another world. Red didn’t let go. Her fingers fisted in the back of his shirt, the fabric wrinkled from the way she was holding on, like if she loosened her grip, Johanna’s win might unravel, too. Finnick didn’t say a word about it. He just stood there, not even touching her. Just went and eased himself on his bed as he still held her, and he watched the new victor get pulled out of the arena.

When she finally pulled back, her cheeks were damp, her breath still uneven. “She actually did it,” she said, and this time it wasn’t wild—it was disbelief, reverent almost. “She did it.”

Finnick’s smile was tired but soft, that rare kind of warmth he didn’t show often, like sunlight through sea glass. “Of course she did. She came from the woods sweetheart, just like you."

Red huffed something that might’ve been a laugh or a sob. “You make that sound poetic.”

He tilted his head, smirk tugging at his lips. “Everything sounds poetic when you’re half in shock and I’ve got my arms around you.”

“Don’t ruin it,” she muttered, but there was a smile ghosting on her mouth now.

------

It was around midnight, there was an after party happening on the rooftop, but there were two people missing Finnick noticed as he took a sip of the drink he had been offered. Red Briar, Johanna Mason, were both missing from a party that literally was for them.

He slipped out of the party before anyone could notice his absence and had made sure to reschedule his client for that night for tomorrow.

Finnick found the stairwell and made his way down to the seventh floor, and when he knocked, he saw an exhausted Johanna Mason open the door. "Briar, your whore is here." Johanna yelled out to the room, and suddenly Red appeared with a makeup wipe in her hand as she wiped off the hours of work her stylist had put into the tattoos on her collarbone. "Hello to you too, Mason." Finnick said a clear mocking tone.

"Yeah go fuck yourself, sailor boy." 

Without thinking, Red tossed the makeup wipe she’d been holding onto the side, letting it flutter to the floor. It seemed almost symbolic—casting aside the small remnants of the Capitol’s polished façade, of the hours of styling and pretense, for just a moment of normalcy. She wanted, desperately, to step back into something familiar, something that smelled like home, like the chaos of District Seven—but soft, safe chaos.

“Jo,” Red began, her voice calm now, though still carrying the edge of concern, “do you want to go lay down on the couch? I can have the avoxes whip up some dinner from home.” She tried to make it sound casual, almost like a suggestion, though the worry in her chest made her words tremble slightly. Her mind raced ahead, imagining Johanna curled up under a blanket, the faint smell of woodsmoke or roasted meat from their district drifting through the room, anchoring them both to a memory of safety.

Finnick’s gaze, sharp yet unreadable, lingered on her. He leaned slightly against the doorframe, as if to silently gauge the moment, measure the tension in the air. His eyebrows lifted ever so slightly, but he said nothing—he knew better than to interrupt when Red was in that subtle, quietly commanding state, the one that often hid more than it revealed.

Red watched as Johanna’s body stiffened, small but noticeable. The girl’s brows drew together, her lips parting just enough to let a faint, hesitant voice escape. “Could you make something, Red…” she murmured, low and careful, almost embarrassed. “…tastes different when Seven makes it.”

Red’s chest gave a small, unconsciously relieved twitch. She smiled softly, her hand brushing the stray hair out of Johanna’s eyes, the gesture automatic and tender. “Of course,” she replied, the words gentle but firm, weighted with the comfort of promise. She let herself imagine the rich, smoky aroma of a familiar dish—something hearty, something messy, something that tasted like home. Perhaps the roasted birds from the district forests, slow-cooked with roots and herbs, tender enough to fall from the bone, or the thick stew they called Fallowfowl Ragout, the name itself a subtle reminder of the woods, of warmth, of memories the Capitol could never understand.

Johanna’s lips twitched slightly, an almost imperceptible curve, and for a fleeting moment, Red allowed herself to believe that maybe, just maybe, she had given the girl a sliver of comfort in the middle of all this madness. Finnick, still leaning against the doorway, caught the movement and allowed himself the faintest of smiles, a soft exhale escaping him as he noted the small victory in Red’s expression. He always noticed the tiny victories; he had to.

Once Johanna had shuffled quietly toward the couch, her posture still tense, shoulders tight as if carrying invisible burdens, Red watched her settle into a heap of blankets and pillows, pulling the soft fabrics close around her. Her fingers flexed briefly, anxious and protective, before she finally turned her attention back to Finnick.

With a playful grin, Red stepped toward him, brushing past the lingering scent of the Capitol’s artificial perfumes, the faint bite of his cologne that she knew he’d slathered on to appear more appealing, more untouchable. She leaned up, catching his cheek in a quick, deliberate kiss—not soft, not tender, but meant to remind him that she existed outside of this contrived world, outside of whatever performance the Capitol had demanded of them.

Then, with a small dramatic gag, she pulled back, mock-wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

"You taste like the capital please go take a shower before you even think about staying over here."

"Ah, so you just want me to taste better? You pervert." Finnick shook his head hiding his smile at the girl who gasped. 

Finnick did agree though, he could feel his makeup and the excessive amounts of cologne digging into his very skin, so he did as he was told- well not before he watched the girl turn around and he wrapped his arms around her waist and kissed her cheek. 

Neither of them knew exactly what they were...

They laid together in each other's beds, had gone out together, and spent a good chunk of their time together. Yet, all they could do was hug and kiss the other on the cheek, because if they were to do anything more, both of them would utterly keel over.

Red noted that it had been twelve hours after Johanna’s victory, she found herself crouched in the vast kitchen corner of the seventh floor, sleeves rolled up, stirring a pot that smelled like home.

The stew was simple, rustic—far from the sugar-slick, neon-colored nonsense the Capitol considered gourmet. The dish had a name in District Seven—Ashwood Broth—and it tasted of smoke and wind and the forest floor. Thick, hearty, and honest, it reminded her of her mother’s kitchen and the wild gardens where she had once roamed free. Johanna sat on the couch, legs tucked beneath her, arms crossed as she watched a show flicker across the screen. Her eyes were still sharp, still gleaming with that gleeful defiance that had carried her through the arena, but fatigue tugged at the corners of her features. She had won her Games with blood on her hands and fire in her veins, yet now she leaned slightly forward, focused on the flickering colors, silent but alive.

Red ladled a generous portion of Ashwood Broth into a bowl, setting it carefully on the small tray she had arranged with care. “Here,” she murmured, sliding it toward Johanna. “Eat. Don’t think, just eat.” The older girl grunted, shifting her weight to glance at Red through lashes half-lowered. “You make it sound like I can’t feed myself, Briar.” There was humor in her tone, light and jagged, the kind that came from adrenaline and exhaustion rather than actual amusement.

Red’s lips quirked, resisting the warmth that threatened to bloom in her chest. “I’m just making sure you don’t inhale it all before it cools.” Her voice was soft, measured; a rare quiet between them that made the clatter of the Capitol feel miles away.

Johanna snorted and took the first bite, tilting her head so her hair spilled across her shoulder. “Not bad, Briar. Tastes like home.” Her tone softened, almost hesitant. “I forgot what that even felt like.”

Red sat beside her, legs tucked under her, as Johanna ate in deliberate, slow bites. The girl’s head kept darting to the screen, but her body gradually leaned closer, drawn to the warmth that Red exuded, the calm steadiness of her presence. When a small yawn broke through Johanna’s careful mask of bravado, Red tilted her head, brushing a stray lock of hair from the girl’s eyes.

“Don’t fight it Jo-Jo, sleep won't come easy again.” she murmured, and Johanna leaned a fraction closer. By the second bowl, Johanna’s head had found its place on Red’s lap, hair tumbling across the fabric of her trousers. She sighed, a long, quiet surrender, and closed her eyes. Red’s fingers moved almost unconsciously through the strands of hair, tracing patterns that left Johanna shivering slightly, still half-alert to the world around her.

Outside the kitchen, the apartment hummed with silence—no party, no noise, no judgment—just the soft clatter of spoons, the muted hiss of the stew, and the gentle, almost imperceptible rise and fall of Johanna’s breathing.

Red’s own shoulders slumped, fatigue threatening to pull her down into the same serenity, but she resisted. She let Johanna rest, her own hands tracing the rim of the bowl, savoring the aroma that made her chest ache with longing for the forests she’d left behind. The taste of smoke, root, and wild bird—Ashwood Broth—was a reminder of where they had come from, who they were beneath the Capitol’s painted masks.

The bathroom door creaked open before either of them noticed. Finnick stepped out, water droplets glistening along the strands of his golden hair, which clung damply to his forehead in uneven, tempting lines. His skin still held the faint warmth of the shower, the subtle, sharp scent of soap mingling with the lingering tang of cologne that was distinctly him—hot, earthy, almost magnetic in its intensity. The loose silk pajama bottoms swayed slightly with his movement, cinched just enough at the waist to hint at the lean strength beneath, the casual ease of a boy entirely at home in his own body.

His gaze swept across the dimly lit room, amber lights reflecting softly off polished surfaces, catching in the glimmer of glass and metal. Then his eyes settled on Red, bent slightly over the couch, her form quiet, intimate, focused. Her hands moved with a slow, absent-minded precision, tracing gentle, tender patterns along the curve of Johanna’s back, who lay asleep beneath the comfort of blankets. Every motion of Red’s fingers carried a weight of care, a softness that seemed to pull the edges of the room in closer, draw it into this private, suspended bubble.

Finnick’s chest tightened imperceptibly, caught between admiration, desire, and that protective edge he always carried, as he took in the delicate scene before him. He let out a quiet breath, almost silent, savoring the gentle intimacy without disturbing it, aware of the way the shadows flickered against the curve of Red’s shoulders, the curve of her hair brushing against Johanna’s blanket.

“Hey,” he said, voice low, teasing, but not breaking the delicate balance of quiet. “Looks like someone’s claimed the prime real estate.”

Red tilted her head, lips curling just enough to acknowledge him, but didn’t shift. She only gestured slightly toward Johanna with her free hand. “Don’t wake her. She’s finally taking a break from being a murder machine.”

Finnick laughed softly, the sound like liquid silk sliding over glass, and knelt down beside them. “Not gonna. You two look like you’re the only normal things in this apartment right now.” He rested a hand lightly on the back of the couch, careful not to disturb either girl, eyes flicking to Red with that familiar, infuriating smirk that suggested he knew exactly the effect he had. Red’s lips twitched, resisting the urge to poke him or tease him back. Instead, she returned to adjusting the blanket over Johanna, smoothing it carefully. Every motion was deliberate, small acts of care that felt monumental in their quiet, stolen sanctuary.

Finnick leaned back against the wall, wet hair glinting under the soft lights, his gaze never leaving them. “You're a cook too, huh?” he asked, voice teasing. “Tastes like the woods made it themselves. Not bad, wolfie.”

Red looked up, meeting his eyes, a small smirk tugging at her lips. “Don’t act like you wouldn’t kill for a bowl right now.”

“I might,” he said, half-serious, half-laughing. “But I think I’d rather have you making it for me than anyone else.” His eyes flicked to hers, brief and fleeting, but enough to make her chest tighten.

Red shifted slightly, careful not to disturb Johanna, and leaned back against the couch’s armrest. “You’d better not be flirting right now,” she muttered, though her voice held the faintest warmth that he knew well. “Flirting?” Finnick tilted his head, wet strands falling across his face. “I wouldn’t dare. Not in front of my least favorite little murder angel.” He winked, and Red’s lips twitched.

Johanna stirred slightly but didn’t wake, nestling deeper into Red’s lap. Red’s fingers absentmindedly combed through her hair, brushing strands from her face, feeling the steady, slow rhythm of the girl’s breathing. It was peaceful, fleeting, and perfect.

Finnick settled onto the floor at Red’s feet, propping an arm lazily on the couch, his wet hair still glinting in the light. “This,” he murmured, “this is the life you don’t get to show anyone. Quiet. Safe. Real.” His voice was soft, layered with that playful edge that made every word shimmer. “And somehow, you make it feel… homey. Even with all the insanity surrounding us.”

Red smiled faintly, eyes half-closed as she continued to stroke Johanna’s hair. “Home is a concept, Finn. Something you carry. Not a place.”

Finnick’s eyes darkened with a gleam that was all his own, equal parts amusement and something sharper, almost protective. “I’ve seen a lot. And I’ve learned when to step back and when to… hold on.” His hand twitched slightly, as if he wanted to reach for hers but didn’t. Red let her fingers linger over Johanna’s hair for a moment longer before sliding them gently down to the girl’s shoulder, adjusting the blanket to cover her more fully. The stew, Ashwood Broth, had cooled slightly, but the smell still filled the air, smoky and warm, carrying a memory of forests and distant winds. Red silently thanked the little victory of finding the ingredients and making it herself—it felt like reclaiming a sliver of the life she’d lost to the Capitol.

“Smells good,” Finnick said finally, breaking the quiet. His voice was casual, but there was an edge to it, an appreciation that only someone who had seen too much could give. “Even the Capitol couldn’t ruin that smell.” Red allowed herself a tiny, almost imperceptible laugh. “They try, believe me. But some things… some things don’t bend to their madness.” She glanced down at Johanna, whose chest rose and fell steadily, hair catching the light. “Like this one.”

Finnick tilted his head, watching her with that smirk that seemed to read thoughts Red didn’t even voice. “You’re good with her,” he said softly. “Better than anyone I’ve seen in a long time.”

Red’s chest tightened at the words. She wanted to look at him, to see the earnestness behind the smirk, but her attention stayed on Johanna. Still, a small part of her allowed herself the thought—he’d fight, in his way, for this stolen moment of calm, for her, for Johanna. It was… comforting. Dangerous, in the best way.

Hours passed like this. Red adjusted blankets, humming quietly under her breath—soft, melodic, almost like a lullaby. Johanna’s head occasionally tilted in her sleep, nudging closer to Red, and each time Red’s fingers would instinctively move, brushing hair from the girl’s face or resting lightly on her arm. Finnick watched, silent but present, his wet hair now drying in loose waves, his eyes reflecting the soft glow of the lamp and the faint shimmer of the city below.

Eventually, the steam from the stew faded, leaving the room heavy with warmth and memory. Finnick shifted, leaning against the couch, arms draped casually over his knees, and let his gaze sweep over Red. “You’ve got that look again,” he said softly, that playful lilt coloring his words. “You’re thinking. Planning. Or brooding.” Red’s lips twitched, barely, as she adjusted Johanna’s blanket once more. “Brooding isn’t exactly inaccurate,” she said. “But it’s fine. I can handle it.”

Finnick’s smirk deepened, golden teeth flashing. “I know you can. But that doesn’t mean I won’t stand here and watch.” His eyes flicked to the girl sleeping on Red’s lap, then back to Red. “Watching you take care of her like this… it’s… something else.”

Red’s fingers lingered in Johanna’s hair a moment longer before she whispered, more to herself than to anyone else, “It’s what we do when the world can’t.”

Red looked up, finally meeting his gaze. For a moment, everything outside—the Capitol, the city, the Games, the endless demands—slid away. All that remained was this: Johanna asleep, Ashwood Broth’s lingering smoke, and the faint, tantalizing warmth of Finnick Odair, golden and teasing, and maybe, just maybe, safe. She let herself lean back, resting against the couch, fingers still tangled lightly in Johanna’s hair. Finnick moved a fraction closer, careful, measured, and the distance between them held a tension that was both fragile and electric. It was a stolen peace, a quiet moment in a life that demanded chaos, and Red let herself savor it.

Because in this room, for this hour, there were no rules, no expectations, no Capitol. Only the warmth of stolen moments, the taste of smoke and forest, and the subtle promise that some things—some connections—could survive even here.

Red tilted her head, letting a tiny smile slip, soft enough that only he could catch it. And for a long while, none of them spoke. They simply existed in the quiet: Johanna asleep in Red’s lap, the faint smell of Ashwood Broth lingering in the air, and Finnick—wet, golden, dangerous, impossibly alive—watching, waiting, and somehow fitting perfectly into their stolen little world.

Finnick shifted again, letting the heat from his body brush closer to Red’s without actually touching. The corner of his mouth quirked upward in that signature smirk that always seemed to balance mischief and danger in perfect harmony. “You know,” he murmured, voice low, almost a tease, “you sitting there all serious and brooding like that… it’s really not fair to the rest of us.”

Red’s eyes flicked up at him, a faint smirk tugging at her own lips. “Not fair?” she asked, voice dry, teasing back. “Please, golden boy, I’ve seen you flirt with half the Capitol without breaking a sweat. I think you can handle a little… unfairness.”

Finnick’s grin deepened. “Ah, but I’m not just the Capitol’s golden boy tonight,” he said, letting the words roll slow and deliberate. “I’m your golden boy.”

Red rolled her eyes, but the corner of her mouth betrayed her. “Your lips are awfully confident for a man wearing wet silk pajamas,” she said, letting her fingers gently brush his. “Not that it matters…” Her voice trailed, soft and almost conspiratorial.

Finnick leaned back slightly, letting his head tilt toward her, gold hair damp and sticking just enough to frame his face perfectly. “Not that it matters, huh?” he echoed. “Because you already think I’m trouble, don’t you?” Red’s lips twitched into a smile. “Trouble is an understatement,” she murmured. Her hand brushed lightly against his forearm—just enough contact to make him stiffen slightly, but not pull away. “But… you know I like trouble. Just don’t make me regret it.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t dream of making you regret it,” Finnick said, voice dipping, teasing, dangerous in that way that made Red’s pulse spike. “I mean, I’ve seen you handle worse. I’ve seen you in the arena. And let’s be honest, Briar… you’re kind of irresistible when you’re angry.”

Red’s smirk turned into a laugh, soft but low, as she tucked a strand of Johanna’s hair behind the girl’s ear. “You think I’m angry now?” she asked lightly, letting her hand linger over the edge of the sleeping girl’s shoulder. “You have no idea.” Finnick let out a chuckle, low and gravelly. “Oh, I have an idea. And I’m kind of hoping to find out.” He leaned a fraction closer, letting his arm hover near hers, the air between them charged with something almost unbearable. “Careful, though. I might have to respond in kind.”

Red raised an eyebrow, letting a playful glint slip into her eyes. “Respond how?” she asked, letting her fingers brush his wrist ever so lightly. “I don’t usually lose.”

Finnick’s lips curved into a slow, teasing smile. “Oh, I know,” he said. “Which is why I’m intrigued. How do you handle someone like me who refuses to lose?”

Red’s chest tightened, pulse racing, as she realized how close he had shifted—just close enough that she could feel the warmth from his body and the faint scent of the shower soap lingering on his skin. “Careful, Odair,” she murmured. “I might just…” Her words trailed off, her fingers lingering over his wrist longer than necessary, brushing, tracing lightly. “…surprise you.”

Finnick’s grin faltered just a fraction, golden eyes darkening with something unreadable. “I’m counting on it,” he said softly. “But remember… you’re not the only one who can play games, Briar.”

Red felt heat creep up her neck as she let herself inch closer, just a fraction, her knees brushing against the edge of his. “Games, huh?” she whispered, voice low. “I’m really good at winning, golden boy. Don’t forget that.” Finnick leaned back slightly, letting his hands rest casually, but his eyes never left hers. “Oh, I don’t forget anything,” he said smoothly. “Especially when it involves someone like you. Someone who… catches my attention in ways the Capitol would hate if they knew.”

Red’s pulse raced, but she kept her tone steady, teasing, controlled. “The Capitol doesn’t need to know,” she murmured. “Some things… are ours alone.” Her fingers brushed his hand again, lingering just long enough to make him shift slightly, almost imperceptibly.

A soft laugh escaped Finnick, low and flirtatious, as he let a strand of damp hair fall into his eyes. “Yours alone, huh?” he echoed. “I like the sound of that. Makes a man feel special.” Red tilted her head, letting her gaze linger, sharp and playful. “Well… don’t get used to it. Special doesn’t mean safe.” Finnick leaned closer, letting his voice drop even lower, teasing her with that warm, confident tone that always made her pulse spike. “Safe’s boring,” he murmured. “I’m more interested in thrilling. Exciting. Dangerous. You know, exactly like you.”

Red’s smirk softened, almost fondly, as her fingers grazed his arm. “Dangerous, huh?” she said, letting her words hang in the air, teasing him back. “Maybe I like a little danger.” Red let her eyes drift back to Johanna for a moment, brushing the girl’s hair gently, heart lightened by the trust between them. Then she looked back at Finnick, the smirk returning. “You realize,” she said softly, voice almost a purr, “that even right now, you’re flirting with a girl who could probably snap your neck if she wanted.”

Finnick laughed, a soft, low, flirtatious sound that sent warmth crawling through the room. “I know,” he said, leaning closer just enough that his arm brushed against hers lightly. “And I like that about you. Keeps me on my toes.” Red’s chest rose and fell slowly, pulse steadying, but every so often, her fingers lingered just a moment longer on his arm, and every so often, Finnick’s golden eyes caught hers, glinting with something unspoken, something intimate and dangerous.

Hours could have passed like this, Red thought, her hand absently tracing the edge of the blanket over Johanna, Finnick just close enough to feel alive without ever overstepping. The quiet was a fragile, stolen moment. One she could savor because soon, the Capitol’s chaos would demand them again.

And yet, for now, there was only the warmth of stolen touches, soft laughter threading through the room, the faint scent of Ashwood Broth lingering in the air, and the golden, teasing, infuriating presence of Finnick Odair—hot as fire and impossible to ignore—right there, and somehow, maybe, just maybe… safe.

“You make it look too easy,” he said, voice teasing, inching closer with a measured confidence that made Red’s pulse skip. “Like a proper angel of mercy, feeding a warrior.” Red’s lips quirked, barely suppressing a laugh. “I’m not an angel,” she murmured, her voice low and even. “I just… know what she needs. You could try it sometime, Odair, if you can keep your ego in check.”

Finnick’s grin widened. “Oh, you wound me,” he said, letting the words linger, teasing and light. He leaned just a little closer, the faintest scrape of fabric brushing Red’s arm as he reached for a glass on the table. “Maybe I should help, see if I can earn a little grace from you.” Red tilted her head, eyes narrowing in mock suspicion. “Grace? From me?” Her fingers brushed his wrist casually, but the contact sent an unexpected warmth straight to her chest. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

Finnick let out a low chuckle, leaning back slightly to give her a faint, playful shrug. “Flattery isn’t the point,” he said, eyes glinting. “You’re distracting enough without me trying.”

Red’s pulse quickened, and she realized with a start that she had allowed her hand to linger just a moment too long against his arm. She pulled it back subtly, brushing her fingers against the blanket instead, pretending to focus on Johanna. But Finnick noticed, of course. He always noticed.

“Here,” he said suddenly, holding up a glass from literally who knows where. “For the heroic nurse.” His smirk was soft now, teasing but warm, a little dangerous in the way only Finnick could be. “Drink up before I finish this without you.” Red let herself take the glass, letting her fingers brush his as she accepted it. The touch was fleeting, but enough to make a spark of awareness flicker between them. Her lips quirked as she set the glass down and returned to Johanna, adjusting the blanket to cover the girl’s shoulder. “She’s asleep,” she whispered softly, almost reverently. “Finally.”

Finnick’s gaze softened as he crouched slightly, his knees brushing the edge of the couch. He leaned close, just enough that his shoulder lightly grazed hers, careful not to overstep the fragile barrier of proximity. “She’s lucky to have you,” he murmured, voice low, warm, teasing, as though the words themselves were a secret meant only for Red.

Red let her fingers linger over Johanna’s hair as she murmured, “She’s too stubborn to know she’s lucky.” Her lips twitched, soft, amused, though the corner of her mouth betrayed her pride. “Maybe,” Finnick said, voice dipping slightly, the flirtation threading through the warmth. 

Red felt the words like heat crawling through her. She didn’t look up immediately, letting her fingers brush through Johanna’s hair with deliberate slowness. “Focus is overrated,” she murmured softly, voice low, teasing. “You might need to be careful, Odair. I’m not exactly harmless.” Finnick chuckled, low and slow, letting the sound vibrate against the quiet of the room. “I’ve dealt with worse,” he said, leaning just slightly closer so that his arm brushed hers again. The contact was light, teasing, and yet it made Red’s chest tighten. “But I admit… you’re a challenge I’d gladly accept.”

Red smirked faintly, tugging the blanket a little tighter around Johanna and letting her fingers rest on the girl’s shoulder. “Challenge accepted,” she said softly, almost to herself, but loud enough that Finnick caught it, and his grin broadened.

The room settled into a fragile silence, broken only by the faint hum of the city beyond the glass and Johanna’s gentle breathing. Red felt herself relax slightly, leaning back just enough that her shoulder brushed Finnick’s. The contact was small, almost accidental, but charged with a quiet tension neither of them addressed. Then Johanna stirred. Her eyes fluttered open slowly, grumbling softly, voice rough with sleep. “She’s too good for you, Odair,” she muttered, turning slightly and letting her head flop back against Red’s lap. The words were half-coherent, laced with her typical biting humor, but the sentiment was clear. She was back in her element, even if just briefly.

Finnick froze for just a moment, letting the softest, warmest laugh escape him as he moved slightly lower to meet Red’s eyes. “I take it she’s… awake?” he murmured, smirk teasing, voice soft.

Red’s smile was slow, deliberate, warm. “Briefly,” she said. “And already asleep again. She has a gift for judging men in seconds.”

Finnick leaned slightly closer, letting the softest brush of warmth graze her arm. “Yeah,” he said quietly, voice low, teasing again, “I guess I’m in trouble, huh?”

Red let out a soft laugh, her chest warming. “Maybe,” she said, voice light, teasing back. “But don’t worry, golden boy… I’m easy on my prisoners.”

Finnick’s laugh was low, flirty, and full of that mischievous charm that always made her pulse quicken. “Good,” he murmured, leaning just enough to let his shoulder brush hers again. “Because I have no intention of escaping.”

Red smirked, fingers lingering gently in Johanna’s hair as she tilted her head slightly toward him. “Neither do I,” she said softly, almost a whisper. “Not tonight, anyway.”

The room settled back into quiet, fragile and warm. Johanna’s soft breathing filled the pauses between Red and Finnick’s playful glances. The city outside carried on obliviously, but here, in this seventh-floor haven, there was only stolen warmth, soft laughter, and the kind of tension that burned slow and steady, the kind that promised more than either of them dared to say aloud.

Finnick leaned against the arm of the couch, silk pajama bottoms clinging to damp legs, damp golden hair still falling messily across his forehead, and a towel casually draped over his shoulder. He caught Red’s glance and quirked an eyebrow, his smirk soft but teasing. “You look too serene for someone who’s holding a loud obnoxious hurricane in her lap,” he murmured, voice low, smooth, playful.

Red gave a small, almost imperceptible sigh, brushing a stray curl from Johanna’s face. “She’s not a hurricane right now. She’s… quiet. Peaceful.” Her hand brushed over Johanna’s shoulder once more, and then it lingered on the small of her back for just a moment longer than necessary. “Unlike certain people I know,” she added, eyes flicking to Finnick.

Finnick chuckled. He slouched slightly so that the golden light from the city fell across his damp skin in streaks, highlighting the lean curves of his muscles, and the smirk never leaving his lips. “Are we talking about me? Because I don’t see any chaos.” His tone was flirty, teasing, and he leaned just enough toward her to let the tip of his shoulder graze hers ever so lightly.

Red felt her pulse skip, heat creeping up the back of her neck. She tilted her head down slightly, watching Johanna’s chest rise and fall in steady, soft rhythm. “You’re chaos in silk pajamas,” she murmured, voice low, teasing, yet threaded with something sharper, something that made him straighten imperceptibly, eyes glinting.

Finnick’s grin widened. “Is that a warning or a compliment?” He let his fingers brush over the back of the couch near hers, just close enough that the contact was felt but not intrusive. “Because I’m pretty good at taking compliments.” Red smirked, leaning slightly back into the couch so their shoulders brushed, letting him feel the subtle shift of her weight. “Depends on the kind,” she said, letting her words hang in the air like a teasing challenge.

Finnick leaned closer, just enough that their faces were inches apart. The room smelled faintly of ashwood broth and roasted herbs from the meal she had prepared earlier, the warmth of Johanna on her lap mingling with Red’s own pulse of heat. “Then I suppose I’ll take my chances,” he said softly, voice low, just enough for her to catch the hint of something unspoken.

Red’s breath hitched, a small smile tugging at the corners of her lips. She let her fingers brush over Johanna’s arm absentmindedly, feeling the faint tremor of sleep shift beneath her touch. “Careful, Odair,” she murmured, teasing, though the underlying tension in her voice betrayed the sudden thrum of awareness in her chest. “You might find yourself in more trouble than you can handle.”

Finnick’s eyes sparkled, leaning just enough closer that the faintest warmth of his chest pressed toward her shoulder. “Trouble’s my specialty,” he said smoothly, the flirty edge in his voice impossible to ignore. “And I’ve been known to survive far worse than a slightly angry Red Briar.”

Red rolled her eyes, though the twitch of her lips betrayed her amusement. “You really have no shame, do you?”

Finnick laughed softly, letting the sound resonate against the quiet of the suite, the golden light painting his features in soft contrast. “Shame is wasted on me,” he murmured. “But you… you might make me reconsider.”

Red let her fingers linger just slightly closer to his as she brushed Johanna’s hair back again, smiling faintly. “You’re way too confident,” she said softly, almost a whisper. “And it’s infuriating.”

Red let her fingers trace lightly along Johanna’s hair once more, then let them rest gently against the back of the couch near Finnick, just enough that the contact was fleeting but palpable. “You’re lucky,” she murmured softly, almost teasing, almost serious. “I don’t usually let people this close.” Finnick’s smirk softened, warm and genuine now, as he let himself lean slightly closer. “I’ll take my chances,” he murmured, voice low, smooth, the teasing edge still there but tempered by a rare, quiet sincerity.

Red tilted her head, watching him carefully, letting the tension stretch, elongate, savoring the quiet intimacy of the moment. “Good,” she whispered. “Because I’m not letting you go anywhere just yet.” Finnick’s grin returned, playful, but soft, his eyes glittering in the golden light. “Then I guess I’ll just have to survive being held captive by Red Briar,” he said, letting his voice lower into a whisper. “And I think I can manage.”

Red let herself smirk, letting her fingers linger in Johanna’s hair and just slightly brush against Finnick’s hand, her pulse quickening, the warmth and tension of the room wrapping around them both like a secret. “We’ll see,” she murmured, voice teasing, low, intimate. “We’ll see.”

-----

Red’s eyes finally fluttered shut, the weight of the last few days pressing down on her like a stone she had carried for far too long. Johanna’s soft breathing and the quiet flicker of the city lights through the floor-to-ceiling windows were the only sounds that lingered in the room. The stew—now cooling in its clay bowl—still smelled faintly of roasted herbs and earthy bird, comforting in a way that made the brutal world outside the suite vanish for a little while. Red let her head tilt slightly, Johanna’s warmth pressing gently into her thigh, and felt the tension in her body unravel, strand by strand, as sleep claimed her.

Minutes—or maybe hours—slid by. Red’s dreams were quiet, hazy, colored by the faint glow of the city below and the warmth that pressed against her side. She didn’t notice Finnick who was now standing, a towel draped carelessly around his neck, silk pajama bottoms slipping slightly at the waist. His expression was soft, eyes flicking between Johanna and Red as he assessed the scene: Johanna asleep on the couch, her hair a tousled halo around her head, and Red curled protectively around her friend. A quiet, almost imperceptible smile tugged at Finnick’s lips.

“Looks like trouble finally took a nap,” he murmured softly, voice low enough not to disturb them, but threaded with that signature, playful charm.

Finnick reached down, brushing a lock of hair from Red’s face, careful not to disturb her slumber. His fingers lingered at the side of her cheek, warm and reassuring, before he gently scooped her into his arms. Red stirred immediately, her sleepy brain flickering between consciousness and dreams, and a muffled, half-formed groan escaped her lips.

“Mm… baby,” she mumbled, eyes still half-closed, her words soft and unthinking.

Finnick froze for half a heartbeat, the corners of his mouth twitching into a mischievous grin, though his tone softened immediately. “Noted,” he murmured, brushing past the slip like it was the most normal thing in the world. “Baby it is. Don’t worry, Red, you’re safe.” He adjusted his hold, careful not to jostle her, her weight settling against him naturally as though she belonged there, soft and warm and heavy in all the right ways.

Red’s half-conscious mind tilted into a smile, her arms draping loosely around his neck, tugging at him slightly as if demanding he stay close. “Don’t put me down, Finnie,” she murmured, voice thick with sleep, her meaning vague but clear enough to make him chuckle quietly.

“I’m not putting you down,” he said softly, the playful edge in his tone undercut by a tenderness that made her heart thrum even in her groggy state. “I’m just… relocating you to more appropriate sleeping quarters.” Her lids drooped again, the words spilling from her lips half-formed, dreamy, and impossibly trusting. “Mmm… good…” she murmured, nuzzling her face into the crook of his shoulder.

Finnick walked slowly, carefully navigating the space between the couch and her bed, the faint hum of the city outside a gentle, constant rhythm. He could feel the subtle rise and fall of her chest against him, the soft weight of her limbs relaxing against his, and he suppressed the shiver that ran down his spine at just how effortless it was to hold her like this.

Red let her hand drape across his chest, fingers brushing against the damp silk of his pajama top, and he felt the warmth of her skin through the thin fabric. She didn’t say anything more, but her small sighs, the little noises that came in her sleep, spoke volumes. Finnick leaned his head down slightly, brushing his lips against the crown of her hair, whispering softly, “Almost there, sweetheart. Just a little farther.”

The bed was waiting, soft sheets rumpled from his earlier presence, the smell of him faintly lingering in the linens. Finnick eased her down, keeping her close enough that she could feel the warmth radiating off him, her fingers brushing along his chest as he lowered her onto the mattress. Red murmured in her sleep again, curling slightly against him, and he caught the movement instinctively, letting a quiet laugh escape.

Red’s eyelids fluttered, heavy as velvet, her body melting into the warmth of Finnick’s chest. Her words slurred slightly, slow and dreamy, like she was trying to speak through fog. “Mm… Finn… you’re… y’know… like… really… really warm…” she murmured, voice soft and unsteady, curling a strand of his hair around her fingers without thinking. Her head lolled lazily against him, the movement half-graceful, half-sprawled, as if gravity had suddenly become a very persuasive friend.

Finnick chuckled softly, low and teasing, his lips brushing the top of her head. “I know, Red… I am rather excellent at being warm,” he murmured, letting his fingers trace lazy patterns along her back, careful, gentle, almost hypnotic. “But you… you’re making it hard to keep my hands to myself.”

Red giggled softly, a sleepy, breathless sound, tilting her head just enough to catch a glimmer of his grin. “You… smell like… seaweed… no, like… sand… and… and…” Her voice trailed off into a soft hum, a contented, loopy little noise, before she nuzzled further into his chest. She lifted her small hand and patted his shoulder, then rested it again on his chest, pressing her cheek against the firm muscle. “…you’re my favorite,” she murmured, eyes closing halfway, drifting in and out of wakefulness.

Finnick froze for a heartbeat, blinking down at her in mild surprise. She was half-asleep, it didn’t count. It couldn’t count. He swallowed, his signature teasing smirk tugging at the corners of his lips despite the flutter in his chest. 

Red hummed, her lips pressing against the curve of his chest in a soft, sleepy press. “Mm… don’t… leave me… stay… Finn… I like… I like you lots… no… more than lots… like… oceans,” she whispered, voice airy and dreamlike, drifting in rhythm with her slow, shallow breaths. Her fingers twitched, curling slightly into the fabric of his pajama top as if holding him in place would keep her warm forever.

Finnick let out a low, amused laugh, the sound mingling with the quiet hum of the city beyond the window. “Oceans, huh?” he murmured, lips brushing the top of her head again. “You’re adorable when you’re half-asleep like this. I could get used to it… though I might have to get used to all of you.”

Her sleepy gaze lifted just slightly, a drowsy smirk tugging at her lips. “Mm… you… you’re… hot… hot like… sand on a… sunny… beach… and… and… maybe a little trouble…” Her words trailed off into a sleepy giggle, head lolling to the side, cheek pressing into his chest. “…but I like… trouble…,” she murmured, half-mumbled, half-singing, as if it were a lullaby only she could hear.

Finnick’s grin deepened, though his eyes softened into something more personal, more tender than the playful mask he wore so easily for others. “Trouble, huh?” he whispered, brushing a hand along the curve of her back, fingertips tracing gentle circles that made her hum a contented, sleepy noise. “I can be trouble… but I promise, I’m your kind of trouble.”

Red let out a soft squeak of agreement, shifting closer, wrapping her small arms lazily around him. “Mm… y’know… I think… I love… you… maybe… not sure… but… I like… like… oceans of you,” she murmured in her dreamy, half-loopy tone, words spilling out in fragments, tumbling over one another, a sleepy confession that seemed to float in the air between them. Her lips barely brushed his chest as she nuzzled closer, eyes slipping closed again, a small, soft sigh escaping.

Finnick swallowed the surge of something fierce in his chest, tugging her just a little closer without disturbing her drifting balance. “Oceans of me, huh? Well… I think I could drown in you, Red,” he whispered, his voice low, rich, teasing, and utterly intimate. “And I don’t mind one bit.”

Her sleepy laugh, soft and airy, vibrated against him. “Don’t… drown me… just… just… stay… here… forever… okay?” Her hands kneaded slightly into his sides, lazily, more for warmth and comfort than anything else, the slight pressure grounding them both in the quiet night.

“I’ll stay,” Finnick murmured, leaning down to press a soft kiss to the top of her hair. “Forever… for as long as you’ll let me.”

Red’s lips curved into a lazy, drowsy smile, eyes slipping closed entirely now, murmuring one final fragment, so soft it was barely audible: “Mm… love… you…”

Finnick froze just slightly, letting the words sink in, a slow, happy ache filling him. “I love you too, Red,” he whispered, brushing his lips against her hair again, feeling the steady rise and fall of her chest beneath his hand. “I always have.”

Red stirred, half-conscious, her lips tugging into a tiny smile, pressing her face into his side. “Mmm… Finnie,” she murmured again, and she just let the word roll off her tongue, the faintest smirk on his lips as he pressed a soft kiss to the top of her head.

“Shh,” he murmured, arm tightening slightly around her without being constricting. “Go back to sleep. I’ve got you.”

Red curled fully into him, the world outside—the Capitol, the Games, the endless chaos—slipping further away with each slow inhale and exhale. Her hand rested lightly on his chest, warm and steady, and Finnick’s hand lingered over hers, thumb brushing against her knuckles, tracing the outline of her fingers.

Red’s lips parted slightly in sleep, a faint, contented sigh escaping her as she relaxed fully, letting herself drift completely into the safety of the moment. Finnick pressed a soft, lingering kiss to her temple, then adjusted so that he could rest his cheek against hers, breathing in the faint scent of her hair and the warmth of her skin. “Sleep tight, wolfie,” he murmured, letting the words roll off his lips with ease, letting them settle between them like a promise. “I'll keep the nightmares away.”

Red’s fingers twitched slightly against his chest, as if affirming the unspoken promise, before she finally succumbed completely to sleep, the soft rise and fall of her chest synchronizing with his own steady breathing.

Finnick stayed awake a little longer, eyes glancing at Johanna, then back at Red, a soft smirk playing on his lips. He let his arm drape protectively around Red, brushing a lock of her hair back one last time, whispering to no one but the darkened room, “Love you, pretty-girl."

Chapter Text

The bedspread was white. It always was. White, so they could see the red when it happened.

She wore something made of lace. It was red, clinging to her curves in ways that felt both foreign and uncomfortable, as if the fabric itself were reminding her of every part of herself she’d learned to hide. The threads traced along her shoulders and down her torso, leaving little to the imagination, and she hated the way it made her feel exposed. Every movement shifted the lace against her skin, a whispering reminder that she was no longer hers—at least, not completely.

She had come to this room practically wearing nothing, just as Snow always demanded. He liked it this way, he said. He said it would draw attention, make her desirable, make her useful. And she obeyed—not because she wanted to, but because obedience was the only currency that could protect her mother. If she continued to follow his instructions, he promised, the peacekeepers would turn their heads, ignoring her mother’s illegal hunts in the woods outside District Seven. Every lace thread she wore was a shield, every forced smile a barrier between Snow’s cruelty and her family’s safety.

Red hated herself for it. Hated the way her body could be wielded as a tool, a weapon, a bargaining chip. She hated the way the lace reminded her of her own fragility, of the fragility of the people she loved. And yet, she had to wear it. She had to endure it. Because if she didn’t, if she hesitated, if she failed, it wouldn’t be her who paid the price. It would be the ones she cared for most.

The lace pressed against her ribs as she moved through the room, tight and unforgiving, almost as if it knew how trapped she felt. Red couldn’t bring herself to look in the mirror; she didn’t want to see the reflection of someone who had been made into a piece of someone else’s fantasy. She could feel Snow’s eyes—always watching, always judging—even when he wasn’t there. She could feel the invisible strings of the Capitol tugging at her limbs, demanding her compliance, her performance. And she complied, because she had no other choice. Because she had to.

Her stomach twisted with anger and shame, a coiled thing that refused to settle. She had been taught to smile, to purr, to be enchanting, all while suppressing the sharp edges of her own self. Every step forward was a surrender, yet paradoxically, every step forward was also a rebellion: she was protecting her mother. Every whispered command, every forced glance, every red lace thread was a promise that she would not let Snow touch the people she loved. That was the only power she had, and she clung to it like breath.

She had to protect her mother.

Red watched the man who was sitting at a desk in the room, Cassian Velloré, he was in his forties Red remembers from the file she had been given. So she went about her way as she knew best, flirt, flirt, flirt and flirt some more.

As Red reached the man who seemingly hadn't noticed her presence, she bent over, and wrapped her arms around his shoulders as if she was a housewife begging for his attention, and she whispered in his ear. "Hello, Monsieur Velloré." She purred in his ear and the man who appeared to be painted white hummed in response.

Cassian didn’t turn right away. He finished the last stroke of his pen, capped it, and only then glanced at the girl perched on his shoulder. His lips curved in a smile that was all teeth and polish. “Red,” he said softly, like the word were a taste he was testing. His voice had the smoothness of velvet, practiced and pleasant—nothing rough, nothing human. “You’re prompt. Snow must be very fond of you.”

Her laugh came automatically, light and effortless, the kind of sound she’d practiced in mirrors until it no longer belonged to her.

“Only when I behave.”

Cassian stood. The movement was elegant and slow, every inch of him deliberate. He wore cream silk that shimmered like liquid, and his fingers glittered with thin gold bands. When he reached out to touch a lock of her hair, he didn’t tug. He just brushed it between his fingers like he was deciding what it was worth.

“I do like a girl who knows her place,” he murmured.

"My place is wherever you'd like me to be." Red had to swallow the vomit that rested itself in her throat. "Oh that's a lovely sentiment, sweetheart." Red felt her stomach drop at the name. The name Finnick called her, oh how quickly something wonderful could be ruined. "Monsieur Velloré, how may I make your stay at the capital more, how you say... a pleasure?" She murmured in a sultry voice. 

"Go lay down, pretty-girl. I'll tend to you in a moment." 

Red whined, "But Monsieur, please, I need you." She was begging for something she didn't want, why should she beg for something she didn't want, why should she beg-

"Mmm, well if you need me so bad, maybe you could help distract me from my workload." He pushed his swivel chair back, to reveal, he was simply just wearing a robe, and nothing else. Red bit her lip, to stop herself from gagging. "Oh of course, monsieur, I would be absolutely delighted to divulge in your desires." She licked her lips, and first began by positioning herself in front of him and bending over, and layering kisses down his neck.

Cassian tasted like metal, citizens of the capital always do.

She laid her kisses down his neck, and down his abdomen before she realized she had gotten to her knees, and his hands were already in her hair, tugging her closer as if he was God and she was his loyal worshiper. 

Red could still taste him in her mouth as he tugged her hair, and pushed her onto the bed. "Oh sweetheart, just what a delight it is to ravish you." Cassian was undressing her, why were her clothes off, put them back on- "Monsieur, please, I need you." She was whimpering like a dog and she could only pray someone would put her down. This is a cruel punishment, she was barely twenty two, she wanted her mom, she missed her mom.

His hands roamed her body, and his teeth nibbled at her neck as if she was his meal. "Are you a young girl, or a pretty meal? That line is just so fine." He was mumbling into her skin as if she were something for him to consume and make his. Her eyes were flickering up towards the ceiling as her entire body shuddered against his weight as he promised to make her feel so good- 

Nothing was ever going to erase just how terrible she felt.

His lips were on hers, biting and his tongue was chasing hers.

She could feel him claw into her back, she notes, as his pace quickens. Red felt the blood and she could feel the sheets beneath her frame get doused in her blood and his sweat. Oh what a sick fate it is, to a victor of the games, to have done such horrible things to make it out alive, but to now have every aspect of your childhood ripped out of your life like it was some sick sort of prank.

Cassian’s weight was heavy, pressing down on her in a way that made her chest ache and her lungs burn. Her arms were pinned beneath him, and the room seemed to spin around the edges, the walls blurring in a haze of white and cream. He was unconscious—or finally satiated, she wasn’t sure—but his presence left her rattled, her body trembling in a mixture of revulsion, relief, and sheer exhaustion.

She didn’t move for a moment, letting the quiet settle over her like a shroud, the hum of the city outside the window muted in the small, suffocating room. Her hands flexed against the sheets, her nails catching the fabric as if she could claw her way back into herself. Slowly, painstakingly, she shifted beneath him, sliding her hands up to press against his shoulders, then carefully rolling him to the side. Her back ached, her muscles protested, but she managed to rise from the bed, staggering like a ghost in her own body.

Red found her clothes, if she could even call them that, thrown halfway across the room.

She tugged the lace over her body once again, and went to leave the room.

The lace still clung to her, red and accusatory against her skin, and she felt the weight of every moment, every forced smile, every whispered command Snow had ever issued pressing down on her chest. Her throat burned with words she couldn’t say, with anger she couldn’t release. She stumbled toward the door, sliding the handle open, and stepped into the hallway.

The corridor was dimly lit, the faint glow of wall sconces reflecting off the polished floors. And there he was. Finnick. His hair was damp, plastered to his forehead, the black shorts, Snow, had made him wear clinging in a way that should have made her heart stop, and yet she could only see the exhaustion in his eyes, the raw, aching hurt of someone who had just endured the same dehumanizing weight she had.

They had locked eyes, he was sitting on the floor, his hands shaking. 

"Hey Finnie," She whispered, crouching down in front of him.

Red could see the bruises already beginning to bloom like some sort of twisted garden on his chest. 

Her hands touched the floor and she noticed it was wet, she lifted her fingers and in the pale moonlight of the courtyard the rooms were located, she noticed her fingers were red. "Finn?" She asked, the hairs on the back of her neck standing up. Finnick's head turned to look at her, and she saw a distant look in his eyes. "Sweetheart?" He asked, as if he wasn't sure she was really there.

"Baby, where's the blood coming from?" She asked, her tone betraying her worry.

Finnick leaned over exposing his back to Red, and the sight she saw promptly made her puke over the tiles. 

'CAPITAL OWNED' was carved into Finnick's back as if his client believed he was some sort of statue made of marble. "Golden-boy, time to get up, come on we gotta get back to our room." Red used all the strength left in her bones to haul the much taller boy to his feet. "Wolfie, you know, I love you a lot." Finnick was trudging along with her, and Red knew he was hurting when he didn't even flinch when her bare arm met his bare back to help keep him upright.

"I love you too, Fin." Red mumbled as they finally found the door to the shared little room they had, which had taken about a year of promises they made to Snow so they could have it. "Oh are we home?" A very quiet voice that didn't belong to the boy she loved has wiggled its way out of his throat.

"Yes, Finnie, come on, I'll fix you up."

---

Chapter Text

It was a weekend, and Finnick was allowed special privileges to visit Red's district every other weekend, and Red would go to his on the opposite weekends, and then they'd see each other at the Capital during the week. It was still dark when Red woke.

Not the black of Capitol nights this was the kind of dark that smelled like bark and rain and smoke. A District Seven kind of dark. Red loves, and she means loves, District Seven. It was her home in every sense of the word. As a Victor she had the ability to visit other districts, but why would she, when Seven and Four had everything she could ever need?

The small house in the victor village, creaked every so often, the forest breathing outside its walls. Finnick’s arm was draped over her waist, heavy with sleep, his hand resting where her ribs rose and fell beneath the blanket. They’d both claimed the couch because the other rooms were full. Five brothers could fill a house faster than Peacekeepers filled a train—but neither of them had minded. The couch had become theirs sometime during the night.

For a long while she just listened to him breathe. Slow, even, human. It was strange how holy that could sound after years of hearing nothing but screams, applause, and cameras. When he stirred, she felt the movement before she heard his voice. “Mornin’, woflie,” he murmured, voice still rough with sleep. His breath was warm against the back of her neck. She smiled into the pillow. “It’s four a.m., Odair. That doesn’t count as morning.”

“It does in District Four. Tide waits for no one.”

He nuzzled closer, the motion lazy, instinctive. His hair smelled faintly of pine soap and the salt air that never quite left him. “Good thing we don’t have tides here,” she whispered. “Just trees. And brothers who’ll kill you if they find you like this.” He gave a soft laugh, the kind that barely lifted the silence. “Then we’ll die honored deaths.”  The faint light from the window caught the scar near his collarbone, the one he never talked about. He caught her staring and smiled that half-tired, half-mischievous smile she’d learned to recognize—the one he used when he didn’t want her to worry.

“You look like you haven’t slept in a century,” she teased. “Only half,” he said. “You snore.”

“I do not.”

“Do too.”

"Why are you lying straight to my face, Odair, do you want me to fight you-” He cut her off by pressing his forehead to hers, grin softening. “You talk in your sleep too,” he murmured. “Said my name once.”

Her cheeks burned. “Liar.”

“Maybe.” He smiled. “Wouldn’t mind hearing it when you’re awake, though.” The room seemed to shrink around them; even the forest outside hushed. For a heartbeat, there was nothing but the rhythm of shared breath, the fragile warmth of a world that didn’t want them alive. Then she nudged his shoulder, breaking it gently. “Go back to sleep, fisherman.” she grumbled, digging her face into his shirtless shoulder. “Yes, ma’am,” he said, but his eyes stayed open a while longer, tracing the faint scars on her hands where splinters had long since healed.

---

Outside, the forest was silent, save for the occasional rustle of leaves, but inside, the quiet carried a weight of comfort that only a home could offer. Red woke up, blinking against the soft golden light spilling through the cracked curtains. The couch beneath her was still warm from Finnick’s presence, the smell of him—salted skin, sun-warmed earth, and something faintly sweet filling her senses.

She turned slightly, careful not to disturb him, only to find that he was already awake, lying on his side with one arm draped lazily over her waist. His head rested on the cushion, eyes half-lidded but still somehow aware, that trademark smirk tugging at the corner of his lips even before he fully opened his eyes. “Morning once more, sweetheart,” he murmured, voice low, still rough from sleep.

Red let out a soft, sleepy laugh. “It’s… still way too early,” she mumbled, pressing her face briefly into the crook of his neck. He smelled like the river back home and woodsmoke—somehow perfect and grounding at once.

Finnick’s hand shifted slightly, brushing back a strand of her hair, thumb grazing the line of her jaw. “Early enough to catch the forest before it wakes,” he replied. His tone carried the ease of someone who could have slept another ten hours, yet wanted to be present anyway. “Though I think someone here prefers the couch over a bed.”

Red blinked against the light, realizing again why they were here on the couch instead of her room or Finnick’s. Space in the victor’s house was always tight; the couches were firm but not cruel, and somehow, this small sacrifice felt worth it. Especially with Finnick pressed against her, warm and protective, a rare quiet moment in a world that constantly demanded performance and vigilance.

She rolled onto her back slowly, stretching a hand toward the armrest, and Finnick shifted just enough so their hands met. Her fingers found his, curling around them. “You’re… warmer than you were,” she said softly, still half-asleep, her voice thick and murmurous. Finnick’s lips quirked in that signature, teasing half-smile. “You’re warmer,” he whispered, voice low. “Though I’m not sure that counts as fair, considering you’re so tiny.”

Red yawned, pressing her hand against his chest lightly. “Shut the fuck up, I grew up in a house with five brothers and we all used to share one room, I didn't have any room to grow,” she grumbled, eyes fluttering closed again.

They didn’t notice the floorboards creak first, nor the muffled voices outside the living room door. By the time Red cracked one eye open, she saw the first of her brothers leaning just slightly in the doorway, hands gripping the frame like they were ready to spring. Red-toned hair, eyes sharp and calculating, even half-asleep, their protective instincts already on full alert.

“Uh-oh,” Finnick muttered under his breath, his smirk not quite hiding a touch of amusement. “Looks like we’ve been found out.” The oldest, Rowan, fifteen going on sixteen, narrowed his eyes. “Finnick Odair,” he said, voice low but carrying that dangerous note of authority only big brothers could master. “Get off our couch.” Red made a soft noise of protest, tugging at Finnick’s arm. “Rowan be nice—”

Finnick, for his part, raised his hands slowly as if surrendering, though his grin widened. “Good morning, Rowan,” he said warmly, tone careful. “I promise we were… uh, resting. Nothing untoward happened.” Rowan snorted, shifting slightly to block the doorway. “Yeah, right. You’re shirtless. And my sister is curled up against you.” Red groaned quietly, hiding her face in his chest. “It’s… not what it looks like,” she whispered, though her voice was muffled.

“Not what it looks like?” Alder, thirteen and impossibly serious for his age. “You’re literally spooning him.”

Finnick pressed a finger gently to her lips, shaking his head. “I mean, if you want, I can give you the full five-minute briefing on how spooning works,” he teased, voice soft, careful, protective, trying to turn their suspicion into humor. “Five minutes?” Rowan shot back, incredulous. “That’s not enough. My sister deserves someone better, and you’re—shirtless—on the couch with her?”

Red let out a half-laugh, half-groan, tugging him down closer to hide her face. “I survived the Games,” she muttered, “this is… perfectly safe.”

Finnick, sensing the mounting tension, propped himself slightly up on one elbow, maintaining that delicate balance of casual charm and respect. “Boys,” he said softly, “you can trust me. I’ve been around your sister since she was sixteen.” Rowan didn’t look convinced. Alder crossed his arms, eyes narrowed, while Birch, the second oldest at fourteen, muttered under his breath, “He’s so ridiculous. Who even is he?”

“You’ve met me,” Finnick said lightly, ignoring the scowl, letting a small smile curve his lips. “Twice last year, remember?”

“Twice too many,” Rowan muttered.

Red peeked up at him, rolling her eyes. “They’re dramatic,” she whispered, voice soft. Finnick chuckled, leaning down to press a light kiss to her temple. “Very dramatic,” he agreed. “But harmless.” Alder tilted his head, eyes sharp. “Harmless, huh? How about showing us you can make breakfast, huh? That counts as harmless.” Red stifled a laugh, pressing her face against his shoulder. “Don’t encourage him,” she murmured.

“Encourage me?” Finnick said with mock indignation, lifting an eyebrow. “Sweetheart, did you hear that? I might be put to the ultimate test.”

Every brother seemed to gag in unison. "Don't call her sweetheart, please our stomachs cannot handle it."

Birch leaned closer now, curious despite himself. “Can you even cook, Finnick?” Finnick feigned offense, spreading his arms. “Young man, I am a victor. My skill set is vast. Fishing, swimming, hunting, surviving… cooking is just a natural extension.”

“Natural extension?” Alder snorted, unimpressed. “Prove it.” Red covered her face, trying not to laugh too loudly. “Oh no,” she whispered. “You’re going to burn the house down.” Finnick laughed softly, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of her head. “I’ll take full responsibility,” he said, his voice quiet, tender, a thread of amusement laced in it. “But first… maybe I should get some coffee.”

Rowan rolled his eyes. “Coffee? It’s six A.M.”

“Exactly,” Finnick said with a grin. “It’s the perfect time for coffee and charm.”

Red tilted her head, letting out a soft sigh. “You’re ridiculous,” she murmured, curling closer against him. Birch muttered to Alder under his breath, “She's way too good for him.”

“I was going to say…” Alder’s voice was quiet, but the note of disbelief was clear, “he’s way too odd.” Red hid her face completely now, pressing into Finnick’s chest. “Oh, stop,” she whispered, a laugh tugging at the edge of her voice. Finnick held her close, glancing at the brothers with an exaggerated look of innocence. “What can I say? Oddness comes with… experience,” he said softly, letting his gaze sweep over their small, intense faces. “And, Red, I’d do anything to keep you safe. You know that, right?”

Red murmured, nearly asleep still, “I… know.”

Rowan groaned. “Ugh. Gross. I can’t even deal with this.”

“You survived the Hunger Games,” Birch said, voice low, “and now we have to watch you get… spooned by this… man?” Red let out a muffled laugh, hugging Finnick tightly. “They’re funny,” she whispered. Finnick kissed the top of her head again. “Funny and protective. Which is… exactly what they should be.” The brothers groaned as he settled back on the couch, letting Red rest against him fully. “This is absolutely horrendous,” Rowan said, dramatically throwing his hands in the air, “and I refuse to be awake for it.”

Red hummed against Finnick’s chest. “They’ll get used to it,” she murmured, nearly asleep.

Finnick pressed a gentle kiss to her temple, murmuring, “They’ll get used to me eventually.”

And for a few stolen, quiet minutes in the early morning, the living room was still. Warm. Domestic. Safe. Even if the protective glares from her brothers could still kill a man, Finnick held Red close, laughter and teasing still hanging in the air, and somehow it all felt like… home.

The kitchen smelled like toasted bread, fresh eggs, and the faint, earthy tang of herbs Finnick had dragged in from the yard. Red had insisted on helping, but in the end, Finnick had firmly taken over, claiming she needed her hands free to “supervise the mayhem” her brothers were about to bring to the table.

Rowan was already pacing near the counter, arms crossed, brow furrowed. Birch leaned lazily against the doorway, smirking at Finnick’s methodical flipping of pancakes. Alder was halfway through a stack of toast, muttering something about saplings and knots, Flint was poking at a small pile of gathered nuts as if they were a puzzle, and Ash was perched on the edge of a chair, eyes darting between Finnick and Red with the suspicion of a hawk.

“Finnick,” Rowan began, voice sharp, “Did you just put fish guts on my eggs.”

“It’s breakfast,” Finnick replied smoothly, flipping an egg with ease. “Trust me. District Four might have taught me how to fish, but it didn’t teach me to fear a little innovation.”

Rowan looked scandalized. “Innovation! Eggs are sacred!”

“Sacred,” Alder echoed, dramatically lifting a toast slice as if it were a flag. “Every year my poor mother has to haggle at the market, and you just put… guts on them?” Red tried not to laugh, leaning against the counter. “They’ve been this way since birth,” she muttered to Finnick. “Brace yourself.” Flint, always the contrarian, muttered, “I say he’s tainting tradition.”

Ash, meanwhile, had dropped a nut behind his chair and was trying to retrieve it without moving his legs. “I don’t know,” he muttered, “he seems… stupid. Too stupid, how does someone so stupid be the youngest victor ever?” Finnick looked at all five of them in turn, raising one brow in mock offense. “Too stupid? I take that as a compliment. And besides, if anyone tries to sabotage the pancakes, I have these hands,” he said, wiggling his fingers in a playful threat.

Rowan groaned. “I cannot believe my sister willingly lets him do this.”

Red rolled her eyes. “You’ve met him. He's been around for five years. He didn’t kill us. Yet.”

“Yet,” Flint muttered, narrowing his eyes. “Quiet,” Birch whispered. “I think he’s about to flip the omelets.” Finnick moved with a quiet grace, flipping the eggs into the air and catching them flawlessly on the pan. Alder gasped, eyes wide. “How did he—?”

“Years of practice,” Finnick said with a small, satisfied smile, “and the occasional threat of a Capitol chef’s wrath.”

Red stifled her giggle, pressing a hand to her lips. “He’s ridiculous,” she whispered. “Ridiculous and completely harmless,” Finnick added, leaning down to press a kiss to the top of her head, careful to avoid drawing more ire from the boys. At that moment Mira, their mom appeared in the doorway, hair a fiery cascade of red, arms crossed, eyes sparkling with amusement and an energy that could scorch a forest.

“Finnick,” she said, voice carrying like a clap of thunder and a laugh all at once. “What are you doing in my kitchen?”

Finnick straightened immediately, though his smile never wavered. “Cooking breakfast,” he said simply, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Mira didn’t even glance at him. She zeroed in on the pancakes in the pan, giving him a measuring stare. “Flipping eggs in my kitchen, are you now? And they’re perfect?”

Finnick shrugged modestly. “One must adapt to survive the family breakfast gauntlet.”

Red’s mom laughed, loud and full, shaking her head. “You charm the girl, Finnick, but can you charm this crew?” She swept a glance over her sons, who were all sitting stiffly, trying very hard not to look impressed while secretly being fascinated. “Oh, I’m well aware,” Finnick replied, tilting his head at the boys. “But I’ve met them before. I know how to earn trust… in small, edible increments.”

Rowan groaned audibly. “We don’t need your trust, you’re… you’re a career!”

Mira's eyes twinkled. “Rowan, sit down before I smack you with a spatula.” Rowan scowled but sat, muttering under his breath. Birch and Alder were already trying to sneak bites of Finnick’s pancakes, Flint was pretending to disapprove, and Ash was watching Finnick like he might suddenly perform magic with a frying pan. Mira marched over to Finnick, arms crossed, inspecting him carefully. “You’re good with her,” she said. “I don’t know if I like that or if I’m proud.”

Finnick smirked, bowing his head just slightly. “I hope proud, Ms. Briar. That’s my goal.”

Red tried not to giggle outright. “You are ridiculous,” she murmured. Her mom leaned in closer, voice dropping, conspiratorial but amused. “And you’re careful, yes? She’s my daughter. I don’t want… surprises.” Finnick’s gaze softened, serious now, steady. “No surprises. Only pancakes, coffee, and respect. I promise.” Mira laughed again, brushing past him to grab a plate. “Well, we’ll see about the pancakes, then. Boys, watch and learn.”

The sons rolled their eyes dramatically, though Alder muttered, “He’s too stupid. I can feel it.”

Birch elbowed him lightly. “Shut up eat, I'm so sick of tesserae.”

Rowan muttered darkly, “Maybe learn to cook, idiot.”

Mira finally turned back to Finnick. “You make them breakfast, and maybe you’ll survive this morning. Impress me, and you might live to see lunch.” Finnick bowed again, playful but obedient. “Yes, Ms. Briar. I live to serve,” he said, eyes briefly meeting Red’s with a small, mischievous glint. Red leaned against the counter, letting out a quiet laugh. “You’re so ridiculous,” she murmured. Finnick pressed a soft kiss to her temple, grinning down at her.

The brothers bickered, teased, and groaned over everything from how much syrup was too much to whether the pancakes counted as “forest-approved.”

Alder was adamant that “too much syrup ruins the structural integrity,” while Birch argued that “there’s no such thing as too much,” and Rowan, ever the self-appointed leader, declared both wrong. Flint claimed he could make better ones himself and Ash, spooning syrup like it was liquid gold, muttered, “You’d burn water, Flint,” which earned him a full-on spoon thrown in his direction.

The spoon clattered harmlessly off a cabinet.

Finnick just sighed, a quiet grin tugging at his mouth as if he’d long since accepted chaos as part of breakfast’s charm. “You all argue like a pack of squirrels,” he said, sliding another pancake onto a plate. “Better than acting like a fish,” Rowan shot back, eyes narrowing at the boy who was quickly becoming a regular patron of the table, and he wasn't quite sure if he was okay with his sisters.. ugh.. boyfriend.

“Fish don’t act. They thrive,” Finnick replied smoothly, setting the plate on the table like it was a peace offering. Red, sitting on the counter now, tried (and failed) to stifle a laugh. “You’re not helping your case, sailor boy.”

Finnick raised his eyebrows, feigning innocence. “Me? I’m as happy as a canary in a coal mine.”

“What does that even mean?” Birch frowned.

“District Twelve thing,” Red sighed quickly, biting her lip to keep from laughing. Finnick caught her eye, his grin softening at the corners. “It’s fine,” he murmured, voice low enough for only her to hear. “Let them talk. I’m enjoying the show.” And he was. There was something easy about it  this loud, ordinary chaos that didn’t feel like performance or strategy. No cameras. No Capitol eyes. Just the creak of the old floorboards, the smell of maple and pine smoke, and Red’s laughter, warm and unguarded.

Flint was attempting to stack his pancakes into a tower, and Alder was deliberately trying to knock it down with his fork. Ash had declared himself “the syrup referee,” which apparently meant dipping his fingers in it to test its “quality.”

“Don’t do that, Ash,” Red scolded lightly, hopping off the counter and swatting his hand away with a dishtowel. “You’re gonna be sticky all day.” He grinned up at her, sheepish. “Worth it.” Finnick chuckled under his breath as he rinsed a bowl in the sink. “You were all raised by wolves, weren’t you?”

“Better than sharks,” Flint muttered, taking another bite.

“That’s debatable,” Finnick said easily, glancing at Red as he wiped his hands. “Wolves at least look cuddly.”

"Yeah golden boy?" Red smirked her eyes glittering with a challenge. "Yeah, wolfie." Finnick looked so proud of his stupid comment.  His eyes caught hers again, the kind of look that said you have no idea how much I’d let you lay with me, but he turned back to the stove before her brothers could notice. “Hey!” Alder exclaimed suddenly, pointing his fork like a sword. “You two can’t do that look thing when we’re right here!”

“What look thing?” Red asked, eyebrows raising in mock offense.

“That look thing,” Rowan repeated. “You know. The one where you both pretend we’re invisible and act all… couple-y.” Red blinked innocently. “Never heard of it.” Finnick just shrugged, playing along. “Can’t confirm or deny, gentlemen.” “Gentlemen?” Birch repeated, snorting. “Don't make us sound like we're some rich kids from District One.” “Don’t get used to it,” Finnick said, sliding into the seat beside Red with his plate. He kept a respectful space between them a quiet, invisible boundary drawn from years of knowing what was safe to touch, what wasn’t — but his knee brushed hers under the table, the lightest spark of something neither of them had language for.

Mira's laughter drifted from the stove as she poured coffee into mismatched mugs. “You’re all hopeless,” she said, shaking her head. “Every single one of you.”

Alder pointed a fork at Finnick. “Except him. He’s strategically hopeless.”

“He's taking forever to eat." Red muttered to herself, staring at her boyfriends empty plate. Her mom barked a laugh. “She’s right, sweetheart. Around here, you eat fast or you starve.”

“I’ve survived worse,” Finnick said quietly, the words soft but honest. The brothers returned to their squabbling soon after — debating whether syrup counted as a drink (Ash insisted it did, Red started cussing her younger brother out and then Rowan and Finnick got into an argument about Finnick making eyes at her) and arguing about who got the last piece of toast. Through it all, Finnick stayed calm, effortlessly weaving jokes between their jabs, never missing a beat.

He was patient — not in the forced, Capitol-trained way, but the kind that came from wanting to belong, wanting to keep this fragile peace alive for as long as he could. Red caught herself watching him, how his shoulders relaxed in a way she never saw in the Capitol, how he laughed without flinching, how he didn’t seem to care that her brothers were basically interrogating him with breakfast food.

For a moment, she let herself pretend this was normal — that the Games, the Capitol, Snow’s suffocating control — all of it had never existed. Just this kitchen, this boy, her family, and the sound of pancakes sizzling like the world wasn’t cruel. Alder’s voice broke through the moment. “You’re way too good at this, Odair.”

Finnick arched an eyebrow. “At cooking?”

“At everything,” Alder said flatly.

Flint nodded. “Yeah, it’s suspicious.”

Ash leaned forward, conspiratorial. “I think he’s trying to hypnotize us.”

“Not yet,” Finnick said, deadpan, and the whole table erupted into laughter. Red shook her head, trying to hide her grin as she leaned her chin on her hand. “You’re never allowed to leave now. They’d actually miss you.” Rowan snorted. “Yuck.”

But when Finnick smiled at that — small, genuine, like he was trying not to let it show too much — even Rowan didn’t press. Mira was cleaning and humming an approving tune, took a seat at the table. “Finally,” she said, surveying the controlled chaos, “someone teaching these boys how to properly eat breakfast without scaring away visitors.” Rowan scowled. “Red survived the Hunger Games, she said we get to act however we want if she won.”

Flint muttered under his breath, “She survived the Hunger Games, he survived the hunger games, yuck, there's too many of them here now.”

Red giggled. Finnick handed her a plate, sliding it across the counter with a wink. “Try this. It’s my secret weapon.”

She took a bite, eyes widening. “You’re insane. And amazing. And ridiculous.”

Finnick grinned, leaning against the counter, arms crossed. “All three, yes. But most importantly, breakfast is served.”

The boys groaned in unison, Red’s mom laughed, and for the first time that morning, Red let herself relax fully, watching Finnick charm her family while keeping her safe in the small, crowded kitchen.

Chapter Text

The soft hum of the television was a low, constant companion, casting a pale glow across the room. It was the kind of evening that smelled of woodsmoke and salt, the faint tang of the harbor drifting in through the open windows. Outside, the water shimmered silver in the moonlight, the gentle slap of waves against the pier a soothing counterpoint to the quiet stirrings of the house. Red and Finnick had collapsed onto the couch after a long, exhausting day. She lay against him, head tucked beneath his shoulder, feeling the steady beat of his heart under her ear, as if it could anchor her to something real in the middle of the world’s chaos.

Finnick’s home bore the lived-in warmth of someone who had fought to carve out a small corner of comfort in a life that had been anything but safe. The floorboards creaked faintly beneath their weight, the kitchen table still stacked with traces of breakfast from that morning—wooden bowls with a faint sheen of oil, a small knife streaked from cutting fruit. The scent of cooked fish lingered in the air, a testament to his pride in the simple, honest meals he could make.

Red’s own things were scattered throughout the room, tiny imprints of her life pressed into the edges of Finnick’s carefully curated home. Her dagger collection perched meticulously on a shelf near the window, blades catching the pale morning light and glinting like liquid silver. Each one was a reminder of the girl who could kill and survive, tools honed and chosen with the precision of a predator, and yet here they rested quietly, like delicate ornaments in the middle of domesticity. A worn satchel leaned casually against the couch, its leather creased and softened by years of use. Crumpled notebooks and scraps of paper peeked out from the open flap, their edges curling, the ink bleeding faintly on some pages, evidence of thoughts jotted down in half-awake moments or hurried evenings.

A mug, chipped but stubbornly intact, sat on the edge of the coffee table, faint lipstick marks on the rim—a small, human trace among the otherwise pristine order of Finnick’s home. A pair of Red’s boots stood at an angle near the door, toe caps scuffed, the black leather soft and pliable from countless steps across forest floors and training grounds alike. Even the faint smell of pine-scented laundry mixed oddly with the lingering tang of salt from Finnick’s showers, creating a scent that was uniquely theirs: equal parts home and danger, comfort and instinct.

It was cozy. It was warm. It smelled like morning sunlight and coffee and quiet laughter, like the kind of home where you could sink into the couch and feel time itself soften around you. And yet, it was inhabited by two of the most lethal people Red had ever known. Finnick, with his easy grin and glinting eyes, could kill with a flick of his hand or a sharp piece of metal, and Red—well, her own skills, honed from the arenas and sharpened by every moment of survival, reminded anyone who looked too closely that danger always lingered beneath the calm surface.

There was a strange intimacy in the juxtaposition: knives arranged like jewelry beside half-drunk mugs, a bullet dented in the side of the window frame peeking out behind a curtain, a meticulously polished spear leaning against the wall near a stack of books. Every object told two stories at once—one of domesticity, ordinary life, gentle mornings where sunlight fell in lazy beams, and one of the extraordinary, violent, unstoppable capacity of the people who called this space theirs.

Red’s presence softened it in her own way. The slightly crooked positioning of her knives, the way a notebook lay carelessly open with a pen balanced across it, the faint scent of woodsmoke from a candle she had lit hours ago—all of it made the home less like a victor’s house and more like a shared sanctuary. Even the small, nearly imperceptible dents on the couch cushions, pressed in by their bodies the night before, whispered of comfort and security, a shared claim to safety in a world that offered so little of it.

And yet, the knowledge that both of them carried invisible weights, unspoken scars, the constant, lingering awareness of how quickly this fragile peace could shatter, pressed gently in the back of her mind. This room, so ordinary and quiet, held the shadows of monsters who had once roamed the arenas, and even now, in this safe haven, the ghosts of who they were—of the lives they had been forced to lead—hung faintly over the sunlight spilling through the curtains.

It was home, and it wasn’t.

It was a place where they could exist almost entirely as themselves, and almost entirely as the legends and weapons the world had forced them to become. The knives were beautiful, the notebooks were human, the chipped mugs were absurdly domestic, but every one of them was also a reminder: here lived Red Briar and Finnick Odair, two people whose capacity for survival, cunning, and violence was unmatched, now softened by the fragile, tender claim of ordinary life. And somehow, in the delicate balance between knives and sunlight, pens and blades, they had carved out a sanctuary—temporary, impermanent, but fiercely, defiantly theirs.

She could feel the warmth radiating from Finnick’s side, the slow rise and fall of his chest under her cheek, and for a long moment, she let herself melt into it. Her fingers brushed against the edge of a small framed photograph on the mantle, the one of the two of them with a flash of sunlight across the pier in District Four, and she pressed her palm gently over it before curling further into the curve of his body.

Her fingers lingered on the frame, the glass cool against her skin, the photograph capturing a fleeting moment from the pier in District Four. Sunlight streaked across the water behind them, painting the scene in gold and silver, the kind of light that made everything feel impossibly still, suspended, untouched by the chaos of the world. She traced the curve of Finnick’s smile with a fingertip, remembering the warmth of that day—the gentle slap of waves against the boat, the faint tang of salt on the breeze, the sound of gulls calling somewhere far above. It had been ordinary, unbelievably ordinary, a rare pause in their lives filled with death and expectation, and yet it had felt impossibly fragile, precious.

She pressed her palm against the frame, feeling the slight ridges of the wood beneath her fingertips, the way it was carved with subtle grooves that had softened over the years. The photograph felt heavier now, weighted with memory, with the knowledge of what had come after—the arenas, the Games, the quiet terror that haunted both of them. She let her thumb circle the edge, almost afraid to let go, afraid that if she did, the image would slip, and with it the fleeting sense of safety it gave her.

Around them, the room hummed quietly, the faint creak of the floorboards under Finnick’s shifting weight, the soft rustle of fabric as he adjusted their shared blanket, the distant drip of water from the kitchen sink. Her other hand wandered across the mantle, brushing over the edge of a small wooden sculpture he had made of a fish leaping from water, the craftsmanship simple but perfect, each line etched with care. Every object here carried a memory, a choice, a piece of life they had carved for themselves in a world that had tried to take everything from them.

The couch beneath them sagged slightly with their combined weight, cushions molded to their forms from hours spent in quiet conversation, brief touches, the unspoken comfort of proximity. Red leaned her forehead against Finnick’s chest, letting her fingers slip from the photograph to curl around the edge of the cushion, her body pressing lightly against his as if seeking a grounding point in the familiar rhythm of his heartbeat. His chest rose and fell steadily beneath her cheek, warm and solid, a counterpoint to the cold, sharp memories that lingered at the edges of her mind.

She could see the faint glint of light reflecting off his wet hair, each strand plastered loosely against his forehead, the damp scent of soap and the sea still clinging to him. It reminded her of that day in the photograph—the way the sunlight had glinted off his skin, the effortless ease he had carried in moments of calm, and the rare softness that had always seemed reserved just for her. She traced the outline of the frame one last time, committing it to memory, as if capturing a piece of permanence in a life that was otherwise defined by impermanence.

Her gaze wandered around the room, catching the small evidence of her presence here: her boots tucked beside the arm of the couch, the satchel she had dropped on the floor the previous evening, the small knife she always kept close, resting in a shallow wooden tray next to one of Finnick’s books. Each item spoke of her, a quiet rebellion against the life that tried to define her, a reminder that she could claim pieces of safety, of normalcy, even if only for a moment.

Her fingers itched to linger longer on the photograph, to memorize every detail—the tilt of his head, the playful glint in his eyes, the faint shadow of sunlight on his cheek—but instead, she let her hand fall to her lap. Her body relaxed further into his embrace, the tension that had settled into her shoulders easing as she felt the security of him around her, the quiet devotion that didn’t need words. The photograph remained between them and the mantle, a silent testament to the life they had once known and the one they were trying desperately to hold onto now.

Finnick’s hair was damp at the ends, a faint smell of soap and something crisp that reminded her of the sea. She traced the line of his jaw with her fingertips unconsciously, letting the comfort of the touch ground her, steady her, as the weight of everything beyond these walls pressed faintly at the edges of her mind.

The couch sagged beneath them, worn and familiar, cushions molded by the hours Finnick had spent sitting here alone or with friends, the slight indentations carrying memory like faint ghosts. Red’s knees tucked against his, her boots kicked off somewhere behind the sofa, abandoned in favor of proximity to him. She could hear the subtle creak of his breathing, the soft scrape of the floorboards as he adjusted slightly to settle her more comfortably, letting her feel like she belonged in this space without a word, without a push, without expectation.

Her own scent mingled with his—faint traces of lavender, the tang of leather from her jacket, the sharpness of the iron from the knives she carried in her satchel. Finnick’s arms, strong and protective, circled her with the ease of someone who had held a great deal of fear in his life and had learned to cradle it gently when it mattered. She pressed her face against his chest, letting the tension bleed away from her shoulders and down her spine. Her fingers brushed along the edge of the couch arm, noting the faint scratches where she had practiced knife spins last week, and the threadbare patch of fabric where a cat from the village had once tried to claw at him. These tiny imperfections grounded her in the reality of this safe space, a rare sanctuary from the constant threat of the Capitol and the memory of arenas that had left their marks on both of them.

Finnick shifted slightly, his palm smoothing over the curve of her back in a slow, steady motion, letting her know she wasn’t alone, that this—this quiet, domestic bubble—was theirs to share. The faint metallic sheen of the daggers caught in the television light, reminders of survival, of past battles, but here they were nothing more than decorations, small tokens of a life Red could navigate with some semblance of control. She could feel her own pulse slowing, matching the rhythm of his heartbeat, her body unwinding from the tension that had settled there without permission.

The air smelled faintly of seaweed and salt, the remnants of a day spent in Finnick’s fishing district, mingled with the subtle sweetness of bread baked the night before, cooling on the counter. Red’s eyes drifted lazily over the room—the neat row of spice jars on the windowsill, the faded rug that had belonged to Finnick before she had ever been allowed to step into his home, the stack of his favorite books on the coffee table, and the small, deliberate touches that made the space feel alive. Her hand brushed against the spine of one, and she pressed it to her chest for a heartbeat before letting it fall. Here, she could be herself, even with the shadow of everything else lurking beyond these walls.

Finnick’s gaze was fixed on the television, but his attention was fragmented, scanning the room in quiet vigilance, checking in on her without a word. It was the way he moved, carefully and deliberately, letting her occupy the space she needed while still keeping her close. Red’s hand found his forearm, tracing slow patterns, clinging not just for comfort but because it felt natural, like a lifeline, a tether to something solid amidst the chaos of their lives. Even the faint twitch of his fingers when she shifted closer spoke volumes of the protective instinct that ran so deep within him, instincts honed by survival and experience, sharpened by the Games.

Above the mantle, a small clock ticked steadily, the only audible sound aside from the television and the distant waves. The moonlight pooled across the hardwood floors, highlighting the subtle sheen of Finnick’s skin, damp from a shower and the day’s exertions, and the delicate curve of Red’s cheek against his shoulder. She breathed in slowly, letting the world contract to this small, fragile bubble, feeling the quiet safety of his arms around her, feeling the domesticity of this space—a couch too small for two, but perfectly sufficient when it mattered, a home improvised out of care and vigilance, trust and quiet devotion.

Finnick laughed softly at a comment Red made about how she had nearly burned the fishcakes last time, his golden hair catching the light like molten sun as he leaned back, one arm draped casually across the sofa. Red’s own smile was lazy, tired in a good way, the kind of smile that came only from comfort and safety. Around them, the Victor’s Village was sleeping—quiet, calm, a stark contrast to the chaos of the world beyond the fences and the Capitol’s reach.

Red tilted her head, glancing out at the water. “It’s nice, isn’t it? No banners, no flashing screens, no Capitol nonsense. Just… us.”

Finnick’s voice was low, almost a purr. “Yeah. Just us. Makes me forget all the other stuff… at least for a while.”

She leaned against him, resting her head on his shoulder, feeling the steady beat of his heart through the soft fabric of his shirt. The warmth of the room, the smell of the fishcakes, the soft murmur of Finnick’s voice—it all felt like a fragile sanctuary, something she wanted to hold onto forever. And then the screen flickered. Red frowned. The television, muted so they could chat without distraction, suddenly buzzed and blinked. A flash of red cut across the corner of the screen, and a sharp, urgent tone sliced through the gentle domesticity.

“What the—?” she whispered.

Finnick’s hand stiffened on her arm as both of them instinctively leaned forward. The red banner crawled across the bottom of the screen in jagged, insistent letters: BREAKING NEWS.

Caesar Flickerman appeared, his trademark manicured smile stretched impossibly wide, his hair impossibly perfect, even under the harsh lighting of the news broadcast. But something about him felt off—too tense, too carefully rehearsed, his usual sparkling charm dimmed by the weight of what he had to say. His eyes glimmered with that uncanny, unsettling mix of excitement and dread.

“Good evening, citizens of Panem!” Caesar chirped, voice high, too bright, a forced cheerfulness that made Red’s stomach twist. “Tonight, we interrupt our regularly scheduled programming with news that will… surely make history. The 75th Hunger Games… is about to take a turn. Quite the unexpected turn, I might add!”

Finnick’s jaw tightened. Red could feel the shift in the room, the subtle but undeniable tightening of her chest. The waves outside the window seemed to stutter, caught in the same unease that gripped her stomach.

Caesar’s smile never wavered, but his hands fluttered nervously over his papers. “The Capitol has decided that this year’s Games will be… rather special. Unprecedented, you might say. Citizens, gather your attention, for the reaping… will not include the usual tribute selection.” He paused, letting the words hang, a sickly, performative suspense that made Red’s pulse hammer in her ears.

“The 75th Hunger Games—our Quarter Quell—will be… a reaping of existing victors!” Caesar’s voice rang out, high and bright, but under it all Red heard the unmistakable undertone of horror that the Capitol tried to disguise as excitement. Her fingers clutched Finnick’s arm. “…What?” Her voice was sharp, brittle, disbelief wrapped around every syllable. Finnick’s expression darkened, his usual teasing warmth gone in an instant, replaced by a hard, guarded edge. His jaw clenched as he looked at the screen, eyes narrowing. Red could see him calculating, thinking through the impossible implications, the dangerous threads that now entwined them both.

Red swallowed, trying to keep the panic from her throat. Her heart pounded violently as she realized what this meant, though she didn’t speak the words aloud. She forced herself to breathe, to focus on the way Finnick’s hand covered hers, grounding her in the moment.

Caesar continued, his voice now laced with the same twisted charm he always wore like armor: “Yes, my beloved citizens, you heard that correctly. Only victors will compete this year! Who will survive? Who will rise again? You know what that means, we may have two sets of star crossed lovers in our arena's this year!” He clapped his hands, the sound jarring, manic, discordant. Suddenly four pictures were on the screen, Red, Finnick, then some two victors from District Twelve.

“And mark your calendars—precisely one week from tonight, the reaping of our current champions will take place! You’ll want to witness this historic event up close and personal!”

Red’s stomach lurched. She squeezed Finnick’s hand tighter, and he responded with a brief, taut squeeze back, but his jaw remained rigid, his eyes stormy. She could feel the tension radiating off him, and it mirrored her own helplessness, the awful impossibility of the situation pressing down on her chest like a weight.

The room felt impossibly small. The sound of the waves outside no longer soothed her—it was harsh, relentless, a reminder that time moved forward whether they were ready or not. The warmth and comfort of the morning, of the quiet weekend with Finnick in the Victor’s house, felt like a fragile dream, shattering in the harsh fluorescent light of Caesar’s announcement. Finnick finally spoke, low, rough, the words clipped and barely more than a growl. “They’re going to make us—” His voice stopped. He didn’t finish, but Red knew. He meant them. Both of them. District Seven’s surviving victors. Their names, their faces, their lives now prey for the Capitol’s sick games once again.

Red pressed her forehead to his chest, letting him hold her, feeling the hardness of his muscles and the heat of his skin. Her breaths came fast, shaky, and bitter. She wanted to scream, to fight, to throw something at the screen, but the knowledge that their fates were now intertwined in this cruel spectacle left her paralyzed.

Caesar’s voice continued, insistent, over the television, filling the room with that awful, impossible cheer. “Yes, citizens, the Quarter Quell will see champions returned to the arena, and what better way to celebrate Panem’s ingenuity than to see those who survived… struggle once more?" Finnick’s hands gripped hers tighter, his knuckles white. His jaw ached with the effort of restraint, but he didn’t move away from her. He couldn’t. And she didn’t want him to.

Red whispered, almost to herself, “One week…” Her voice was lost in the quiet swell of her terror, the hushed sound of Finnick’s steadying heartbeat beneath her ear.

He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he pressed a kiss to her temple, a brief, grounding gesture, and then murmured, “We’ll figure it out. We always do.” His words were soft, but the fire in his eyes betrayed the weight of the knowledge. They had survived before. They could survive again—but the cost, this time, would be unimaginable.

Her chest tightened, a cold, sinking weight settling over her as the words tumbled out before she could stop them. “Fin… Jo and me are the only victors left in District Seven…” The syllables felt heavy on her tongue, almost foreign. “…I’m going back to the Games whether I like it or not.” Finnick’s hands froze where they rested on her arms. The warmth of his touch didn’t lessen the sudden, sharp ache in his chest. He inhaled slowly, trying to find words that could anchor them both, but nothing came immediately. His jaw clenched, his gaze flicking to the television, to the empty harbor outside, to the small, quiet home that suddenly felt impossibly fragile.

Red’s head dropped into her hands. The apartment, the smell of saltwater, the cozy domesticity they’d carved out together—it all seemed so fleeting, so absurd in the face of the Capitol’s cruel, twisting games. She felt the pulse of panic thrumming in her veins, a mixture of fear, frustration, and an almost unbearable helplessness.

Finnick leaned closer, brushing a strand of hair from her face, his thumb ghosting across her cheek. “No…” His voice was low, firm, steady. “We’ll figure a way. We’ll survive this—together. We always do.”

But she could see the flicker in his eyes, the raw, unspoken understanding that this time, the stakes were higher. This time, the Capitol wasn’t just taking another tribute—they were taking the last pieces of District Seven’s hope. Red looked up at him, her own eyes burning. “I hate that I can’t fight it,” she whispered, voice trembling. “…I hate that I have no choice.” Finnick’s grip tightened gently, his lips brushing her temple again, a silent promise. “Then we’ll face it, Red. One day at a time. And we’ll make sure… we don’t lose each other in the process.”

The room felt impossibly small, the soft light from the television casting long, trembling shadows across the walls, but it didn’t matter. Red’s storm had broken inside her, and no cozy apartment or domestic comfort could hold it back.'

She started to cry before she even realized it. The first sob tore through her chest, wrenching and guttural, raw in a way that startled her even as it spilled out uncontrollably. Her entire body seemed to betray her, going completely slack against Finnick as if every fiber of her strength had been drained in an instant. She clutched at his arm, fingernails digging into the taut muscle there, desperately seeking something solid, something real to anchor herself to while the world threatened to crumble around her.

Finnick’s arms wrapped around her without hesitation, holding her close with a tenderness that contrasted violently with the storm raging inside her. He didn’t speak; he didn’t need to. He could feel the trembling of her entire frame, the way she shook from the sheer force of her emotions, the way her sobs racked her body like waves crashing against jagged cliffs. His chest ached at the sound, each guttural cry slicing into him as though it were his own pain, and he struggled to swallow it down, to keep the salt of his own tears at bay.

Her face pressed into his shoulder, hot and damp against his skin, her hair sticking in wet strands to her cheeks. She was shaking so violently he could feel the tremor through his arms, her hands clawing at him as if she could hold onto him tightly enough to stop the world from pulling her back into that inevitable nightmare. Finnick stayed perfectly still, not pushing her away, not saying a word, letting her grief claim the space around them.

Every sob she released was a storm. Her back pressed against him, quivering in spasms, while her arms looped over his body with frantic desperation, as if she could latch onto his very bones to keep herself tethered to something alive and real. He could feel her heartbeat, erratic and hammering against his own, and it made his chest tighten in a way that hurt, in a way that matched her own internal fracture.

Time seemed to stretch, the world shrinking down to just the two of them. The corridor around them faded into a blur, the muted sounds of the city beyond their walls falling away until nothing remained but the rhythm of her sobs and the firm, protective pressure of his arms. He pressed a soft kiss to the top of her head, lingering, a silent promise that he wouldn’t let go, not yet, not ever, no matter how impossible everything outside felt.

Her tears were hot and unrelenting, but even through the torrent of grief, there was a tremor of something else—something raw and defiant—clinging to her. She buried her face deeper, inhaling the scent of him, the familiar mix of salt and woodsmoke and something uniquely Finnick, clinging to him as if that alone could shield her from the cruelty that had pushed her to the edge.

He held her like the world was ending, though in truth it felt like it already had. Red’s body was limp against him, trembling with every silent sob, and he felt it all—the exhaustion, the anger, the terror—pressing against his chest like a storm he couldn’t escape. Finnick’s own muscles ached from the effort of keeping himself upright, from the raw need to be steady for her when he wasn’t even sure he could be steady for himself.

Every gasp she let out echoed in his skull, reminding him of the suffocating panic of the Games, of the cold sweat and the blood and the smell of fear that had haunted him since he was fourteen—the youngest victor in the history of the Hunger Games. He had won his freedom as a child, but the memory of the arena, of the monsters both human and mechanical, never left him. Now, with Red trembling in his arms, he felt it all rush back—the cold realization that no matter how many years had passed, no matter how far from the Capitol he had come, the arena could take them both again.

He swallowed hard, trying to steady his voice, trying not to let his terror spill into her, because she was fragile enough already. He felt her clutch his arm like a lifeline, and it tore him apart, because he knew that if the Capitol called them back, there would be no lifeline, no safe harbor. He had seen death too young, too often, and now he was powerless to stop it from creeping back into their lives.

Finnick’s hands moved automatically over her back, stroking small circles that were supposed to be comforting but that felt utterly inadequate. His own heart was hammering, not just with worry for her but with the acute, sharp fear that he could lose her. That fear was different from anything he had known in the Games—the fear that came from loving someone too fiercely, someone too human to survive the cruelty of the Capitol without shattering.

He felt his chest tighten with each tremor of her body, with every ragged inhale that betrayed the depths of her pain. The memory of his own Games—winning at fourteen, feeling like a child trapped in a monster’s world—surfaced unbidden, the terror that had been buried under layers of charm and wit now clawing its way to the surface. He had known death so intimately, so young, that even the slightest hint of it now made him flinch inwardly, even as he held her.

Her grip on his arm tightened, and he felt the weight of it like a physical blow. She trusted him enough to cling to him, to let herself collapse into him completely, and that trust was both a blessing and a burden. He wanted to reassure her, to tell her that everything would be fine, but he didn’t know if he could lie. He had seen the Games, had lived the cruelty firsthand, and the thought of being dragged back into that hell—of her being dragged back—made his stomach knot in fear.

Finnick’s lips pressed against the top of her head, his own eyes stinging with unshed tears. He wanted to tell her that he was strong, that he could protect her, that he had survived and could survive again. But the truth was harsher: he was scared. Scared not just for himself, but for her, and for the way the Capitol could twist everything they had fought for into a nightmare. That fear—the knowledge of what they could face—made his arms tighten around her even more, a silent promise that no matter what happened, he would not let go.

Every tremor of her body was mirrored by a tremor in his own. He felt the tremor of panic, the old familiar terror that he had carried since the Games, rising up as if it had been waiting all these years for this very moment. He remembered the arena: the cold water biting at his skin, the bloodied sand underfoot, the roar of monsters and tributes alike. He remembered the desperation, the loneliness, the constant calculation of survival, and now that terror wrapped around him again, this time not for himself alone but for Red, for the fragile warmth of her trust in him, for the human connection that he feared would be ripped away.

And yet he held her. He held her like the world depended on it, like the weight of her pain and his fear were threads he could not let unravel. He let her cry, let her shake, let the grief pour out of her body as he anchored himself to her, trying to absorb what she could not yet bear alone. He whispered nothing, because words felt empty and clumsy against the enormity of what they faced. All he could do was hold her, let her feel his heartbeat against hers, and silently promise himself that no matter what came, he would be there.

He thought of every victory, every loss, every moment that had made him the youngest victor ever, and he felt the stark, painful truth: no one was prepared to survive this alone, and the thought of Red having to face what he had faced, at her age, made him ache in ways that were physical and emotional at once. His own hurt mingled with hers, a tapestry of fear, exhaustion, and desperate love.

He stayed with her, holding her tight as her body heaved with sobs that had no sound but everything in them, letting her crash against him like waves against rocks, letting her be small and human and shattered, even as he fought the tears that threatened to blur his own vision. Neither of them spoke; words were too fragile here, too weak to capture the weight of the terror, the anger, the sorrow that coursed through her.

Finnick moved toward her, his instincts screaming to hold her, to anchor her, but the moment he tried, she flinched violently. Her eyes snapped toward him, sharp and wild, the kind of look that could slice through steel, and he froze. He didn’t advance, didn’t even reach again. He just watched, letting her pace, letting her rage bleed into the space around them.

The pace of her movement was jagged, erratic, like a predator in a cage that couldn’t contain it. Back and forth across the living room, she kicked at the air, threw one arm out as if shoving invisible walls away, then whipped around to face the small window that looked over the quiet harbor. The city lights shimmered like distant fireflies, but Red didn’t see them. All she could see was the arena, the Capitol, the Games—the constant, never-ending threat they represented.

“I ALREADY WON AND I REFUSE TO GO BACK, FINNICK!” she shouted, voice breaking with both rage and disbelief. “I—I’ve already done it! I’ve survived! I don’t care what they want—they can’t make me—I won’t go back in that place!”

Finnick watched her carefully. There was something terrifying and beautiful about her at this moment. Every tremor of her body, every flare of her hair as she spun around, every rapid intake of breath—it reminded him of the wolves he’d once seen in the forests near District Seven, stalking through the mist, muscles coiled, eyes shining in the dark. Her anger, her fear, her helplessness—they all blended into that same fierce, predatory energy. He thought of the way she moved, always low, always ready to strike, and he realized how perfectly the Capitol’s nickname fit her. “The Wolf of Seven,” they called her. And right now, he could see why.

She was all teeth and claws and fire, circling the small space of their apartment as though the walls themselves were trying to cage her.

“I can’t go back!” she cried, her voice cracking and then dropping to a low growl. “I won’t! Not to watch kids die, not to—not to be theirs! I—” Her hands rose to her face, scrubbing at the tears, but she didn’t stop pacing. The motions were frantic, uneven, filled with the uncontainable tremor of someone who had seen too much and still refused to be broken. Finnick’s heart clenched. He wanted to hold her, wanted to tell her that they’d find a way, that they’d survive, that she didn’t have to face it alone—but the raw intensity of her anger told him to wait. To observe. To give her the space to vent the storm, to let the wolf howl in the moonlight of their living room.

She spun again, faster this time, hair whipping around her face, and for a moment he thought she looked like the wolves in the snowy woods near District Seven. Not docile, not tamed, just sharp, lean, and unbroken, a creature made to fight, to survive, to endure. And Finnick understood then why the Capitol had given her that name—not as a compliment, not as a warning, but as a fact. She was the wolf, and right now, she was dangerous.

Her voice softened, but only slightly, trembling now with the undercurrent of fear that had been under her rage from the very beginning. “I can’t… I can’t… not like this…” She flopped against the edge of the couch for a moment, pressing her hands into the cushions, then shot back up, pacing again with frantic energy. “I can’t do it, Finnick. I can’t go in there with… with Johanna, I can't kill Johanana, Finnick.. I'm going to die…”

Finnick took a careful step closer, keeping his distance but letting her know he was present. He could see the panic pooling in her eyes, the heat of her cheeks, the way her fingers flexed and curled like claws. She was trembling, not from weakness, but from the sheer intensity of everything she had endured and everything they were asking of her.

He remembered moments from the Games, the way she had moved, the way she had stared death down without flinching, how she had taken on impossible odds and survived. But even he knew this—this was different. This wasn’t the arena she could navigate with skill and cunning. This was the Capitol, a cage with invisible bars, a place designed to strip her of every shred of control. And yet she refused to surrender, refused to bow.

He remembered sitting in his room back then, the small television screen casting pale, flickering light across the walls. The hum of the Capitol’s broadcast was relentless, and he had been alone, yet the world of the Games had swallowed him whole. He had watched her—Red—through that lens, young and fierce, a streak of red moving through the  trees of the arena. The wind had howled across the landscape, loud enough that it drowned out almost everything else, and the screeches of the tributes—had cut through him as if he were there with her, chest tightening with every rasp of their breaths. The smell of the blood on screen seemed to fill the room. He could almost feel the chill clinging to his skin, see the vapor puff from her mouth in the frigid air.

She moved like something born of the wild itself, not a child, not a girl—something primal, feral, instinctive. Each step she took was deliberate. Her eyes were sharp, bright, darting, calculating. Finnick had never seen anything like it. He remembered holding the edge of the chair until his knuckles went white, his chest heaving as if he could inhale her courage into himself. Every time she crouched low behind a bush or pressed her back against a burnt tree trunk, he felt a spike of tension in his stomach. She wasn’t hiding—she was hunting, and she knew exactly what she was doing. Her prey, sometimes other tributes, sometimes animals released by the Gamemakers, could not touch her, not for long. She struck with the precision of a blade cutting silk, every movement deliberate, merciless, and beautiful in its lethal efficiency.

He remembered one particular moment—the second week, when the arena had shifted into a fiery destruction of the trees, and Red had cried, she had cried and cried, and cried, Red loved the forest, everything about it, and it was absolutely heartbreaking to see a fifteen year old girl, drenched in blood, cry, for so long, over something she had always considered to be her friends.

She had been cornered by two of the career tributes from District One and Two, their faces masks of cruelty and expectation. The Capitol viewers had cheered wildly as the camera panned over the triangle of death, showing each of them poised, waiting for the other to make a mistake. Finnick had felt the blood drain from his own face as he gripped the back of his chair. She had stood perfectly still for what felt like eternity, letting them underestimate her. Then, in a blur, she had moved—twisting, ducking, spinning—and taken one of them down in a flash, the arc of the strike perfect. It had been over before they had even realized what had happened. His stomach had lurched, but it wasn’t from revulsion—it was awe. He had never seen anyone move like that, not in his life. Red was terrifying. Red was magnificent.

The camera had cut to her face immediately afterward, eyes dark, sharp, scanning, always scanning, and Finnick had felt it like a jolt to his chest. Her gaze had met the camera for a fleeting second, piercing through the Capitol’s lens, daring them to see her as what she was: not a trophy, not entertainment, not a plaything—they were all fools to think she was just a girl. She was the storm itself. In that moment, he had realized what it truly meant to survive in the Games. It wasn’t just about killing—it was about presence, control, fear, and respect. And Red commanded all of it.

The second kill he had seen her make had left him even more unsettled. It had been in the ravine near the burnt trees, a tribute from District Six who had been scrambling to escape one of the last careers. She had tracked them like a predator, crouched low, white and red against the gray of the ice, eyes glinting with something almost unreadable. Finnick had felt the tension coil in his chest as she lunged, arms out, and brought the kid down in one motion. The tribute’s scream had sliced through the broadcast audio, and even though he was miles away, Finnick could feel the impact of it, hear the cold crackle of grass beneath their bodies. And when she had turned her gaze toward the camera again, it had been as if she were measuring him, measuring the Capitol, measuring every viewer daring to watch. The tiny twitch of her lips had been almost imperceptible, like a wolf acknowledging its prey, and Finnick had found himself holding his breath.

The animals—the twisted, hybrid creations of the Capitol—had been everywhere that year. They had been faster, smarter, sharper than anything that should have existed in nature. And yet, Red had faced them as if she were their equal. He remembered seeing her leap from one branch to another, her red hair flashing, a slash of color against the dark green. Her boots had dug into the branches, leaving perfect prints behind her, like a trail of warning. The beasts had lunged at her, snapping and snarling, and she had dodged, sidestepped, and struck back with anything she could find, sometimes her hands, sometimes branches, sometimes the very wood beneath her feet. He had watched the fear she could have felt, the knowledge that one slip meant death, dissolve into something else—something fiercer, something unstoppable. Her every movement was a testament to her will to survive, her refusal to be broken by this world.

Finnick’s mind had kept rewinding, replaying moments like this over and over. He remembered the sound of the wind howling through the arena, the groan of wood shifting beneath the mutts’ weight, the slap of boots on burnt ground. He remembered the quiet moments too, the ones where she had stopped, crouched, listening, thinking, strategizing. He had watched as she made tiny shelters, small things that would keep her safe for a few hours, things that would protect her body from other tributes or exhaustion. She had crafted traps, improvised weapons, everything from the smallest twig sharpened into a spear to a deadfall rigged from old logs. And all the while, her eyes had never lost that focus—the way a wolf’s eyes catch every movement in the forest, every shadow, every flicker of life. She had been alive in ways no one in the Capitol could ever understand. He had felt it through the screen, a visceral, aching connection to someone he both feared and admired.

There had been times when she had fought other tributes in the grass, sliding and grappling, faces red from exertion and windburn. Finnick had watched, heart hammering, as she had thrown herself forward, dodged, caught, and countered. She had taken their strikes, their blades, their attempts to hurt her, and she had turned them into opportunity—turning fear into precision, turning chaos into her advantage. Every kill she made had left a mark on him, not only because of the sheer violence, but because of the beauty of her survival, the way she had owned it. She was alive because she had to be. She was ruthless because she must be. And he had known, even then, that the world could not contain her. No one could.

Even now, with the domestic safety of his apartment and the soft sound of her pacing, that memory pressed against him. The Wolf of Seven, relentless, unbroken, had once moved through death itself and emerged still standing. And now the Capitol wanted her again.

Finnick remained still, watching every motion, every flinch, every twitch. His mind was racing with analogies, thinking of her as he had always thought of wolves in the wild. She was all instinct, all teeth and claws and fire. She moved with a grace that was terrifying, controlled in her own way even when her body was shaking, a force of nature barely contained in the domestic cage of their apartment.

She spun again, faster this time, her boots scraping against the wooden floor with a harsh rhythm, a drumbeat of rage. Fury and fear coiled together in her chest like wild animals, clawing for escape. Her hair whipped around her face, red tendrils tangling and catching the dim light, framing her sharp, glinting eyes as they darted, fierce and wild. The air seemed to crackle around her, charged with the raw, unfiltered energy of someone pushed to the edge.

“I ALREADY WON!” she shouted, voice slicing through the quiet apartment like shattered glass. Every syllable was jagged, heavy with disbelief and indignation, as if merely speaking the words aloud could repel the Capitol itself. Her hands clenched into fists, knuckles pale, nails digging into her palms until the sting grounded her in the here and now.

“I FUCKING WON, FINNICK!” Her shout reverberated off the walls, bouncing back at her, amplifying her own sense of injustice. The word “won” trembled on her lips like it carried the weight of every sleepless night, every cut and bruise, every fear she had conquered in the arena. Her chest heaved, lungs burning, and she couldn’t stop the shuddering, guttural sob that had slipped in between each declaration of defiance.

“And I REFUSE TO GO BACK! I REFUSE!” Her voice broke again, raw and ragged, but she didn’t care. She spun once more, faster, almost reckless, the motion of her body echoing the chaos churning inside her. The room seemed to shrink, walls closing in as if trying to contain the storm she had become. She felt her own heartbeat hammering in her ears, fierce and relentless, matching the pace of her frantic movement.

Every word was a challenge, a slap against the Capitol’s face, against the rules that had tried to cage her. Her fury was unrelenting, a living thing that seemed to breathe alongside her, coiling around her spine, urging her to move, to scream, to fight. Her fear lurked beneath it, hot and sticky, a trembling shadow she refused to acknowledge fully, but it drove her speed, her desperation, her sheer, unyielding will to be heard.

Finnick stood still, hands slightly raised, unspoken, giving her the space she demanded. He had learned long ago that when she was like this—incandescent, sharp-edged, wolfish—words alone wouldn’t reach her. She needed motion, fire, the very act of venting her storm into the air, into the space around her. And so he let her rage, quiet and steady behind her, like a grounding presence, a rock beneath the wild river of her anger.

Her breathing came in short, jagged bursts, chest rising and falling as she finally began pacing, stamping, the energy of her outrage carrying her from one end of the small apartment to the other. Each step seemed to pound against the walls, a declaration, a threat, a warning: she would not be tamed, she would not be silenced, she would not return. Her words continued, fragmented but fiery.

“I WON, FINNICK. I WON! I did it! I survived! I made it! And now they want me back like—like I’m just another plaything, another pawn! I—”

Her voice cracked mid-sentence, and a trembling sob forced itself through, but it didn’t break her. Instead, it gave her strength, coiling tighter around her fists, around her teeth, around her every movement. She spun again, hair flying, eyes wild and dark, and for a moment, she looked more like the wolf she had been called than a girl at all—predatory, untamed, impossible to control, beautiful in her sheer, raw intensity.

The air around her seemed to vibrate with the force of her emotions, her defiance acting like a physical force. She was a storm, and the walls, the floor, the very space between them, were powerless to contain her.

“I—I won, Finnick! And I will not go back! I can’t, I won’t—I will NOT! They can’t make me!” Her voice wavered, broken with the edges of hysteria, but still razor-sharp, still impossible to ignore. Every word hammered like a drumbeat, every exclamation a declaration of war against a world that had tried to cage her, brand her, break her.

Red paused for just a second, staring at him with wide, wet eyes, as if she expected him to lecture, to argue, to try and restrain her. But he didn’t. He didn’t move closer. He didn’t speak. He simply let her be, letting the wolf pace, letting the storm roar in their small, domestic living room.

She took a deep, shuddering breath and muttered something almost too quiet to hear. “…I… I don’t want to go… I don’t…” Her voice trailed off into another sob, and her hands flexed again, claws against the couch. Finnick’s gaze softened, and he thought of her in fragments: the wolf in the forest, the fierce survivor in the arena, the girl he had come to love and trust with every fiber of his being. She was untamed, unbroken, and terrifyingly beautiful.

And so he waited. Let her pace. Let her rage. Let the tears fall. Let the wolf howl. Because he knew that even in her fury, even in her fear, she would survive. She always did.

And he would be there, quiet, steady, protective, always ready, always waiting, always present.

Chapter Text

Red and Johanna were sitting together, both of their hands clasped together in a way that would only ever be known to sisters. Their fingers fit together perfectly, a strange comfort forged not by blood, but by shared horror. The television’s glow painted them in pale, flickering light, the kind that made the world feel half-alive. Johanna’s living room was barely furnished — a couch too old to be comfortable, a cracked coffee table, walls stripped of anything personal. She didn’t like reminders, she’d said once. The only decoration sat in the far corner: a single vase of dead flowers, brittle and gray.

Between them rested a bottle of amber-colored liquor, something that smelled like paint thinner and burned going down, but it kept the hands from shaking. They passed it back and forth silently, unspoken understanding in each exchange — the kind of silence only victors knew.

The reaping broadcast had already begun, the escort sent by the capital's voice filling the room in that unnervingly cheerful way that always made Red’s stomach twist. The Capitol feed flickered between shots of the square in District Four, a sea of anxious faces, and the polished stage where the announcer stood smiling like none of it mattered. Red’s heart thudded unevenly. It was hard to breathe.

District Four had so many victors — seasoned killers, trained survivors, faces that still haunted her in the quiet hours before dawn. There were names far more likely to be drawn than his. She told herself that over and over like a mantra.

He only had about a fifteen percent chance of getting his name called. Right?

Her thumb traced the rim of the glass bottle as she stared at the screen.

Unless he did something stupid. Unless he did something noble. Unless he did something Finnick.

Her pulse spiked.

He wouldn’t. He couldn’t. He wasn’t that stupid — he couldn’t be that stupid. At least... Red hoped not. She really hoped not.

Because Red had seen enough of what bravery could look like when it was stripped bare. It wasn’t noble. It wasn’t pretty. It was blood and sand and screaming and the Capitol clapping as you tore someone apart. And if Finnick Odair’s name was called — or, if he volunteered — then Red knew she would have to be killed by the boy she adored.

So Red and Johanna watched with bated breath, as the pale fingers of the escort danced in the edges of the glass bowl. Picking up one note slip. "Silas Cove." The escort called out, and the brown haired boy around seventeenish, who Red is pretty sure won the games before those two from District Twelve did, he was also the one that Finnick had one described, as 'eerily quiet' started sobbing. And before anyone could even react. Finnick Odair was talking. "I volunteer as tribute." Were the first words to fall out of his mouth.

Chapter Text

Red watched as the escort — the girl she refused to remember the name of — stared down at both her and Johanna with that practiced Capitol smile. The kind painted on, stretched too tight, hiding nothing but emptiness underneath. Her curls were green this time, tumbling like synthetic vines over her shoulders, and her lashes were jeweled, catching the harsh afternoon light streaming through the towering windows of the square. Even the sun seemed uneasy as it glinted off the sharp edges of the crystal bowls, refracting into fragments of white and gold across the floor. But Red could see through all of it. She could see the trembling in the girl’s hands, the slight quiver of her fingers hovering above the glass bowl, hesitant, almost human in a way the Capitol did not often allow.

The Capitol’s lights gleamed like sterile stars over the square. Everything was so polished, so carefully choreographed, that it almost hurt to look at it for too long. Red’s eyes followed the escort’s hands as they hovered there, poised with deliberate elegance, and yet there was a tension beneath the surface, a tiny fracture that no amount of makeup or jewelry could conceal. The Capitol could stage, could dazzle, could paint illusions on every corner, but it could not erase the dread that lingered beneath the air of performative cheer. And this year, the dread was thicker, more palpable, knotting itself into Red’s stomach, crawling along her ribs like some living thing.

The air was heavy. The kind that pressed down on you, thick with the scent of pine sap and sweat, of fear and old woodsmoke.

District Seven’s square was packed full — hundreds of bodies squeezed shoulder to shoulder, peacekeepers lining the perimeter like white ghosts. The stage gleamed like something imported from another world, the Capitol seal towering overhead. Red could feel the uneven rhythm of her heartbeat in her ears. She could feel Johanna’s pulse too — because their hands were locked, fingers knotted together tight enough to hurt. They were both shaking, but neither of them would admit it.

“The tributes for this year’s Quarter Quell are…”

The escort’s voice rang out, brittle and bright.

Johanna’s eyes tracked the woman’s fingers — those lacquered, glimmering nails that danced over the slips of paper like she was choosing a prize, not a death sentence. She lingered, hesitated, then picked one.

She unfolded it. Slowly.

“Johanna Mason.”

It shouldn’t have felt inevitable, but it did.

The crowd made a sound — not a scream, not a gasp, just a collective exhale, the kind that sounded like heartbreak being released. Johanna didn’t move for a moment. Her face went blank, her jaw tightening, but Red could see the tremor in her lips, the way her throat bobbed when she swallowed hard.

And then — from somewhere near the back of the crowd — came the whistle.

A single, low note. Rising once. Falling twice.

Red’s head snapped toward the sound. Her mother stood tall among the crowd, her flame-red hair tied back in a braid, her fingers still at her lips from the call. The lumber-call. Red’s throat constricted. It was the call they used in the yards when someone was struggling with a tree too heavy to lift — when they needed help, when they couldn’t do it alone. It wasn’t loud or panicked; it was solid, steady. A promise.

Johanna turned toward the sound, her eyes glistening, lips parting slightly. She found Red’s mother in the crowd — shoulders squared, chin trembling, eyes burning through the line of Peacekeepers. And for a fleeting moment — just a heartbeat — Johanna smiled. It was small, cracked around the edges, but it was real.

Someone still cared for her.
After everything, someone still cared.

The sound spread — whistles rising and dipping through the square like the low hum of wind through trees. Red could feel it in her chest, the rhythm of her home — her mother’s call, her brothers’ answer, the whole district moving in the old language of survival. They were telling her what words couldn’t. We’re here. You’re ours. You’re not alone.

The Peacekeepers shifted uneasily, hands twitching toward their batons as if the whistle itself was rebellion. Maybe it was. Maybe that was all they had left to fight with — sound and memory. Johanna’s hands were shaking. She clenched them at her sides, nails biting half-moons into her palms, grounding herself in pain. It didn’t matter. She was still breathing. She was still standing. But that whistle — it was the undoing of her. She blinked, hard, swallowing the lump that had risen like a stone in her throat.

Red couldn’t move. The air felt thick, too heavy to breathe, too loud with the echo of the whistle reverberating off the stone. She wanted to scream — not in anger, not in fear — but because it hurt so much to be loved like that, knowing what it meant. Knowing it was the last sound she’d ever hear from them before the Capitol took her away.

Her mother’s eyes met hers. No tears. Just that same steady defiance that had raised her. Red wanted to memorize that look — burn it into her brain until it replaced everything else. The way her brothers' shoulders squared behind their mother, whistling still, the way their lips quivered even as they tried to stay strong.

But there was still one slip left in the bowl.

Red stared at it like it was alive.

And in her mind, she saw it move — saw it call out to her like a ghost of herself whispering, You already know it’s yours. The escort hesitated again. Her hand wavered, fingers brushing one paper, then another, then finally, finally, she plucked one free. The whole crowd seemed to lean forward. Red’s heart stopped.

“Red Briar.”

The sound wasn’t loud. It wasn’t cruel. It was just final.

And then—like a birdcall breaking through stormlight—came the whistle once more.

Low, rising, and falling twice.

Red froze. Her breath hitched. Her mother stood in the same place, her chin lifted, and the sound carried.

It echoed off the wooden beams of the buildings, weaving through the crowd like wind through pine needles. Then her brothers joined in — five young voices answering their mother’s call, strong and stubborn, the sound layered and rhythmic, building until the air itself seemed to vibrate with it.

The lumber-call.

The call for help. The call for unity. The call that meant, we’re with you.

All she could see were her brothers’ faces — each one a reflection of the same mix of fear and fury, the fierce, stubborn pride that had carried them through the harshness of District Seven. She saw the way her oldest, his jaw tight and lips pressed into a hard line, tried to keep his eyes from watering, but the stubborn flicker of tears betrayed him, the middle one, had his hands fisted so tightly at his sides that his knuckles were white, but the way his lips trembled as he lifted his whistle showed he couldn’t stop himself. Even the youngest, barely old enough to be reaped, had puffed up his small chest, his wide eyes glistening, and let out the long, rising whistle without hesitation — the sound trembling, unsteady, but full of intention.

Red could see her mother’s steady hand outstretched, fingers brushing against their shoulders, a silent anchor in the chaos. Her mother’s eyes were locked on her, unwavering, molten with love, with that unyielding fierceness she always carried, even as tears slipped unbidden down her cheeks. The corners of her mouth were tight, as though she were holding back a scream that wanted to rip itself into the open air, the kind of scream that spoke volumes without saying a single word.

Their mouths formed the call as one — a single, resonant, rolling pattern that rose and fell, carrying the old rhythm of the forest and the lumber camps, the secret call that had meant help, safety, home, and solidarity. It echoed off the square, passing over the polished stone and the uniformed Peacekeepers, refusing to be silenced. Red could feel it reverberating in her chest, vibrating through her bones like it had once done when she was just a girl running through the woods with her brothers, the air sharp with pine and the smell of sawdust lingering around them.

She wanted to collapse into the sound, to let herself be swallowed by it entirely, to feel the warmth of home stretch out its fingers and hold her for just a moment longer. Each rising note and falling dip of that familiar whistle struck her with equal parts longing and dread — longing for the safety she had already lost, dread for the future she was about to face.

Her brothers’ faces were etched into memory — the fear behind their eyes, the protective instinct radiating from them, the silent promise in their posture: we will never forget you, we will never leave you. Red could feel the call twist in her chest, a knot of pride, guilt, and despair. Her own lips wanted to respond, to make her mouth form the notes her family played for her, but she couldn’t. She could only watch, paralyzed, as the whistle rose, fell, and rolled through the air like wind over the trees. Each note carried their collective heartbeat — the pulse of a home that had raised her, the pulse of a family that would never stop trying to reach her even in the shadow of the Capitol’s cruelty.

Her mother’s hand, steady as iron, clasped hers even from a distance, the warmth and pressure of it transferring through the visual connection between them. Red’s eyes stung, and she pressed her palm against her chest, trying to absorb the sound, to memorize it, to carry it into the unknown future where her only certainty would be the memory of their unwavering love.

The whistle wasn’t just sound. It was a lifeline.
It was grief, fierce and raw.
It was protection, old as the pines, old as sawdust under calloused hands.
It was home.

And as Red’s gaze locked on each of their faces, she realized that even as the Capitol tried to strip her of everything — her family, her agency, her name — they could never strip her of that. The sound of her family, bound together in love, defiance, and unbreakable connection, would follow her into the arena. Would follow her wherever she went. Would follow her until she returned or until she died, and even then, she hoped it would echo somewhere. Somewhere safe.

Peacekeepers started to move — uneasy, muttering into radios — but the sound didn’t stop.

One by one, others joined in. Older men from the mills, women with calloused hands and splinters buried deep beneath their skin. The whole of District Seven began to whistle, the rhythm syncopated and strong, a harmony of grief and defiance.

Red’s vision blurred. She couldn’t tell if she was crying or just shaking.

The escort said something — something about grace, and honor, and how the Capitol saluted their bravery — but Red didn’t hear a word.

All she could hear was that whistle.

All she could see were her brothers’ faces — her mother’s steady hand, her family’s mouths forming the call even as tears streaked their cheeks.

Johanna’s fingers found hers again. Their knuckles brushed, slick with sweat, nails biting into skin, holding on like they could anchor each other to this moment before everything shattered.

Red could feel it then — not just fear, but rage. A deep, searing kind of rage that started in her chest and burned outward. The Capitol wanted a show. They wanted a story. They wanted two girls who’d already crawled out of hell once to do it again, just for entertainment. And here was her family — whistling the only language they had left to say, We see you. We remember who you are.

The sound rose higher. The square became a living thing. The lumber-call echoed off steel and stone until it didn’t sound like a signal anymore — it sounded like mourning.

Red’s lips parted, but no sound came out. Her throat ached, her chest constricted, but she couldn’t break. Not here. She wanted to run into the crowd. She wanted to throw herself into her mother’s arms, to bury her face against her brothers’ shoulders and tell them she wouldn’t let this happen again.

But she couldn’t move.

Because cameras were watching. Because peacekeepers were watching. Because Snow was watching. So she did the only thing she could. She stood straighter. And for the first time since she’d been crowned victor, she looked directly into the nearest camera lens and didn’t hide the fury that burned behind her eyes.

Johanna’s grip tightened. The escort fumbled for words, gesturing awkwardly to the audience. “Let’s have a round of applause for our brave—”

The crowd didn’t clap.

They just kept whistling.

Low. Rising. Falling twice. A forest of sound against marble and gold. Red’s chest rose and fell in shallow breaths. Her nails dug crescent moons into her palms. Beside her, Johanna whispered something she couldn’t make out — it might have been a prayer, or a curse, or maybe just her name. Red’s eyes flicked back to her mother one last time before the peacekeepers moved to escort them away. Their gazes met across the distance, and her mother gave the smallest nod.

Not goodbye. Just be strong.

The whistle faded slowly as the door closed behind them, swallowed by the soundproof Capitol train waiting at the edge of the square.

But even as it disappeared from her ears, it didn’t leave her mind.

It stayed there, looping over and over.

The call for help. The call for home. The call that meant — we’ll lift it with you.

And Red thought, bitterly, how do you lift what’s already broken?

Chapter Text

The forests of Seven fell away in a rush of green and shadow, and Red watched them vanish through the glass, like she was watching her own body decay. Every tree blurred into the next — pine and ash and smoke — until the world outside the train window looked like nothing but a smear of dark color, a wound across the horizon. The rhythmic hum of the Capitol train filled the air, soft and constant, the sound of something that would never stop, no matter who it carried.

It was around ten at night, and the compartment lights were dimmed to a dull amber glow that made everything feel half-dreamed. Red sat on her bed, still in the uniform they’d been given — clean, stiff, smelling faintly of disinfectant and roses. The sheets were too soft, the mattress too deep. It was the kind of comfort that made you feel small, fragile, temporary.

She leaned forward, elbows on her knees, trying not to think. The motion of the train was too smooth, too constant, and it gave her too much room to remember.

Then came the sound — a soft, hesitant knock.

Red blinked, lifting her head. The door slid open a second later, and Johanna appeared in the doorway, barefoot, her dark hair tangled, wearing one of the simple Capitol-issued nightshirts that did nothing to make her look less wild. There was something tight in her face — not fear, exactly, but something close to it. A grimace flickered over Johanna’s features before she blew out a slow, low whistle. The sound barely cut through the quiet hum of the train. It wasn’t loud — it wasn’t meant to be. The Capitol’s recording devices, always lurking, would never catch it.

But Red did.

Her head tilted slightly, and for the first time since the reaping, something flickered across her face that wasn’t just exhaustion.

She knew what it meant.

Coming from District Seven, you learned the language of whistles before you learned how to climb. It was how they called through the trees — a way to say help or follow or home without ever opening your mouth. A language that belonged only to them, one that couldn’t be twisted by the Capitol’s cameras. Johanna’s whistle was quick and short. The kind of call you’d use to say: It’s not safe to talk here.

Red’s throat went dry. She didn’t answer — not with sound. She just nodded once, a motion small enough to go unnoticed.

The train shifted slightly under their feet, and the soft vibration ran through the floor. Red rose from her bed, silent as breath, her body moving before her mind caught up.

Her bare feet made no sound on the synthetic wood of the floor, polished to Capitol perfection. The air smelled faintly of oil and lavender — the Capitol’s idea of comfort. Red slipped past the threshold, her shadow falling across Johanna’s as they both stood in the narrow hallway between compartments.

The hum of the train grew louder out here, deeper, like the heartbeat of a creature too big to ever stop. For a moment, neither of them spoke. They didn’t need to.

The hum of the train grew louder out here, deeper, like the heartbeat of a creature too big to ever stop. The walls seemed to vibrate with it — a low, endless thrum that made Red’s bones ache. The lights in the corridor flickered with each shift of the rails, painting Johanna’s face in slices of gold and shadow. For a moment, neither of them spoke. They didn’t need to. There was something about the air between them — the shared heaviness of it — that already said enough.

Johanna’s gaze flicked down the corridor, sharp and restless, then back to Red. Her jaw tightened. Her eyes — always the color of the earth after rain — looked even darker now, ringed in exhaustion. Red wanted to ask, What is it? But she didn’t. She’d learned long ago that Johanna Mason didn’t like being asked things — she liked being trusted to tell them on her own time.

So Red didn’t ask questions. She just followed.

Johanna didn’t say a word. She reached out instead — fingers wrapping around Red’s wrist, calloused and warm and sure — and tugged her forward with a quiet urgency that made Red’s pulse spike. The contact was unexpected; Johanna was not the kind of person who touched others unless she meant to.

The hallway stretched on endlessly, lined with identical doors that whispered shut as the train sped through the dark. The floor trembled beneath their feet, the metal humming, the world outside nothing but streaks of silver and black. Red glanced through a passing window — all she could see were the stars, scattered across the sky like tiny burns. The Capitol train was cutting straight through the heart of the country, slicing the world in half. The further they went, the louder the machinery became. The walls started to groan, the air thick with the heat of the engine, and Red could taste the tang of metal on her tongue. It smelled like oil and ozone — sharp, mechanical, nothing like home.

Johanna kept her head low, moving quickly, dragging Red along behind her with the precision of someone who’d done this before. Every now and then, she’d glance over her shoulder, her lips pressing tighter, like she was counting the seconds.

By the time they reached the far end of the train — the very back compartment — Red’s confusion had curdled into unease.

This wasn’t the way to the dining car or the sleeping quarters. This was deeper. This was where the train stopped feeling like a luxury ride and started feeling like a machine. Pipes ran along the ceiling, sweating condensation. The lights here flickered more, stuttering against the metallic walls.

Johanna slowed only when they reached the last door — the one that separated the District Seven compartment from District Six’s. The air was different here — colder, louder, humming with the constant churn of gears and the rhythmic hiss of steam.

When Johanna finally slid open the door, Red froze.

The sound wasn’t loud — just the soft metallic hiss of the latch — but it cut through the noise of the train like a blade. The compartment beyond was dim, washed in the sickly yellow light of maintenance lamps that swung with the rhythm of the tracks. The air was thick with the smell of steel, oil, and something faintly sweet — Capitol liquor, maybe, poured into glasses that no one seemed to be drinking from.

And there they were.

Sitting in a half-circle of shadows were faces Red had only ever seen on screens — on victory tours, interviews, propaganda reels. People she recognized instantly, even though she had no right to be seeing them like this: stripped of gloss, stripped of pretense, just human in the worst way. Haymitch Abernathy leaned back in his chair, legs sprawled out, a bottle half-hidden behind his leg. His hair was an untidy halo of blond and gray, his eyes half-lidded but sharp enough to make anyone flinch. He didn’t look drunk, not really — he looked like a man pretending to be drunk so no one would ask what he was thinking.

Mags Flanagan sat near him, small and ancient, wrapped in a blanket that looked as old as she was. Her silver hair was braided down her back, the strands glinting like fine wire in the low light. She looked peaceful, serene even, but her hands — Red noticed — were never still. They tapped against her knee, slow and deliberate, like a heartbeat counting something no one else could hear.

Around them, scattered in the narrow space, were the other victors — people from Districts Three, Four, Six, Seven, Eight, and Eleven. A collection of ghosts still walking around in borrowed bodies. Their faces were tense, eyes fixed on nothing, jaws clenched as the train rattled around them. The quiet between them wasn’t comfortable; it was the quiet of people who had long ago run out of small talk about death.

And then —

Finnick.

God.

Red’s breath caught so hard it stung her throat.

He was there, sitting near the back wall, half in shadow. His posture was loose — casual, almost careless — but his expression was far too alert to match. His golden hair looked duller in the light, and there was a new tension in the line of his shoulders that hadn’t been there before. The charming Capitol darling was gone; what was left looked older, sharper, dangerous in a way that made Red’s chest ache.

When his eyes flicked up and found hers, it was like being struck.

The air between them changed.

She hadn’t seen him since the reaping — since that moment when everything in her life had ended and begun all at once. The image replayed in her mind in brutal clarity: his voice cutting through the crowd, the look in his eyes when he volunteered, the disbelief crawling up her throat before it turned to horror. She’d spent every second since then trying to come up with the words she’d throw at him if she ever saw him again.

Now he was right here, and all those words vanished.

Her first thought wasn’t even a word. Just him.

Her second was a scream she didn’t let out.

She wanted to demand why. Why he did it. Why he thought she was worth that kind of suicide. Why he didn’t let her hate him instead of love him enough to fall apart over it. She wanted to hit him, to shake him, to press her face into his neck and pretend none of it was real.

“FINNICK FUCKING O—”

The curse tore out of her before she could stop it, half-yell, half-sob. She was running at him before anyone could move — a blur of shaking hands and fury.

But the second she got close enough, he was already up. His arms came around her before she even realized what she was doing.

It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t gentle. It was desperate. The kind of hold that said I thought I’d never get to do this again. The sound she made wasn’t quite a sob, but it was close. Her fists hit his chest once, weakly, before she stilled. His breath was ragged against her temple. He didn’t speak, and she was grateful — because if he had, she might’ve broken. She could feel his heartbeat, uneven and too fast, thudding against her ribs like it was trying to match hers.

When she finally looked up, over his shoulder, she realized this wasn’t some late-night reunion or secret visit.

This was a meeting.

A gathering of people who shouldn’t be gathering.

The victors.

The ones the Capitol claimed were free.

They all looked too tired to be free.

No one smiled. Not even Johanna, who hovered by the doorway, arms crossed tight, eyes flicking toward the hall every few seconds. It felt like standing in the middle of something sacred and dangerous — like walking into a storm that everyone else had already accepted would hit. Haymitch was the first to speak, though his words came out in a slur that sounded practiced, like muscle memory. He lifted his chin toward Red, his mouth curling into a crooked grin that didn’t reach his eyes.

“So that’s the lumber girl,” he said, the gravel in his voice scraping at the silence.

He gave a low, humorless chuckle. It wasn’t cruel, exactly — just tired. The kind of sound people made when they were trying to remember what laughter was supposed to feel like. Red’s stomach twisted. She only knew his name because of last year — the scandal, the miracle, whatever the Capitol was calling it now. The two victors from District Twelve who’d broken the rules and lived. Haymitch had been the drunk mentor who got them home alive and angry.

Now, seeing him in person, he didn’t look like a mentor or a hero. He looked like a man who’d seen too many children die and stopped believing that surviving counted as winning.

Mags gave a faint nod in greeting, her kind, watery eyes meeting Red’s. She smiled — soft, reassuring — and gestured for her to sit, her hands trembling just slightly.

Red didn’t move.

Finnick still hadn’t let go of her. His arms were heavy around her shoulders, like if he loosened them, she might disappear. She didn’t mind. For the first time since her name was called, she didn’t feel cold. But she forced herself to straighten a little, to meet the others’ gazes. The silence stretched. The sound of the train filled it — the low, endless hum, the metallic groan, the faint rattle of the windows. Beneath it all, Red could hear her heartbeat, could feel Finnick’s through his chest against hers, both of them out of sync but somehow the same.

She folded her arms tightly, pretending it was just to stop her shaking. But it wasn’t. It was to keep herself together — because if she didn’t, she was sure she’d come apart right there in front of everyone.

And as she stood there, surrounded by people the Capitol called victors, Red realized something she’d never let herself think before.

They weren’t victors. Not really.

They were survivors. Barely.

No one spoke for a long time.

The air in the narrow compartment was heavy — not just with the scent of oil and metal, but with something older, heavier. It wasn’t fear exactly. It was the feeling that something had already started, and none of them could stop it now.

Haymitch leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his gaze cutting through the low light. “Close the door,” he muttered. Johanna obeyed without a sound, sliding it shut until the hum of the train swallowed them whole. Mags shifted in her chair, her movements small but commanding. She tapped her fingers once against the armrest — a simple, deliberate motion. Haymitch glanced her way, then back at the others.

“Guess we should get started,” he said, voice dry, almost lazy. “You all know why we’re here.”

Red’s heart picked up speed. She didn’t. Not really. But she stayed still, pressed against Finnick’s side, letting her eyes trace over the faces around the room.

No one looked surprised. No one looked confused. That alone scared her more than anything. Johanna crossed her arms, her jaw tight. “You mean to tell me this is official?”

“Official?” Haymitch snorted. “Nothing’s official about this. But it’s happening. Whether we play along or not.”

Mags lifted her hand again. One finger. Then she pointed downward — a small, firm gesture. Haymitch nodded like he understood.

“She says it’s already begun,” he translated. A ripple of unease passed through the room. The sound of the train seemed to grow louder, pulsing through the floorboards like the heartbeat of something enormous and alive. Finnick finally spoke, his voice low but steady. “You’ve all seen it.”

It wasn’t a question.

He didn’t need to explain what it was — the shift in the air across the districts, the tremor of anger in the people’s voices, the way the Capitol had started tightening its grip on the victors. There were whispers everywhere. Of shortages. Of uprisings. Of hope — that most dangerous of things.

“Districts are starting to talk,” said the man from Eleven, his deep voice cracking with weariness. “Not just talk — organize. And they’re looking at us to do something about it.”

Red felt her stomach drop.

Us.

Victors.

The Capitol’s trophies.

She swallowed hard, her eyes darting between them. “Do something,” she repeated under her breath. The words tasted wrong. Haymitch’s gaze snapped to her. “You think this Quarter Quell was random, sweetheart?” he asked. The word sweetheart came out sharp, nothing kind about it. Finnick tensed at his tone and the name. "Don't you dare call her that, Haymitch." He just about snarled but Red tilted her head at Haymitch, a soft smile appearing on her face as Haymitch continued his tone now more wary. “You think it’s just another game?”

Red’s throat tightened. She didn’t answer.

Finnick’s hand brushed hers — quick, grounding.

Haymitch took a long drink, then set his bottle down hard enough to make the metal ring. “This isn’t punishment,” he said. “It’s control.” He looked up, meeting each of their eyes in turn. “They’re not sending us back in because it’s fair. They’re sending us back because we’re the only ones they can’t replace.”

Mags nodded, eyes gleaming in the dim light. Her fingers moved slowly — deliberate, careful. Finnick’s voice softened as he interpreted for her.

“She says the Capitol’s scared.”

Red blinked. “Scared?”

Haymitch gave a humorless smile. “Yeah. Terrified.” The word hit like a slap. “They’re watching the districts slip through their fingers,” Finnick said quietly. “They think if they drag us back into the arena, if they remind the people that victors can still bleed — they’ll kill the hope before it spreads.” Red felt her breath catch. The room spun, just a little. She gripped the back of the chair beside her until her knuckles went white.

Johanna laughed, sharp and bitter. “So the plan is to kill us twice over. Poetic.”

No one laughed with her.

Mags tapped her fingers again — once, twice, pause. Finnick watched her closely, then exhaled. “She says it won’t work.” Red turned to look at the old woman. Mags was watching her, the faintest trace of a smile on her face — the kind that didn’t mean happiness but defiance. The kind that said I’ve seen worse, and I’m still here. It made something burn in Red’s chest.

Her voice came out smaller than she meant it to. “So what do we do?”

The question hung there.

No one answered right away.

The train rattled beneath them, carrying them closer to the Capitol, closer to the arena, closer to death.

Finally, Haymitch leaned back, shadows cutting across his face. “We keep our mouths shut,” he said at first — then after a pause, his voice dropped lower, rougher. “And we protect the girl.” Johanna frowned. “You mean, the star-crossed lovers from District Twelve?” He looked up, eyes glinting like he’d already said too much. “You know which one.”

Silence. Red felt the shift in the air before anyone spoke — the way Finnick went still beside her, the way Mags’s fingers curled against the armrest. Haymitch exhaled, long and tired. “She’s the spark. The one they’re afraid of.” His gaze flicked between them, deliberate, warning. “That’s why this Quell exists. Not because they want revenge. Because they want control. Because if she lives long enough to breathe inside that arena, the whole damn thing burns.”

No one moved.

“The Capitol thinks killing her kills the story,” he went on. “They’re wrong. But we’re not letting them test the theory.” Johanna let out a bitter laugh. “So this is babysitting now?”

“Call it whatever you want,” Haymitch snapped. “But you keep her alive. She’s the Mockingjay. She’s what they’ll remember when this is over.”

Mags tapped her fingers once — sharp, certain. Finnick translated softly, “She says the girl doesn’t even know it yet.”

“She doesn’t have to,” Haymitch said. “Not until it starts.” Red swallowed hard. The realization sank into her chest like ice — that this wasn’t about the Games anymore. It wasn’t even about survival. It was about her. The Capitol’s mistake wasn’t putting the victors together.

It was putting The Mockinjay among them.

Finnick’s hand found Red’s again. His thumb traced over her knuckles — slow, rhythmic, like he was memorizing her pulse. She didn’t pull away.

Haymitch stood, swaying a little with the motion of the train. “They think throwing us back in will end this. They think it’ll scare the districts quiet again.”

He glanced around at them — Mags, Finnick, Johanna, Red, the other victors whose names didn’t need saying.

“But they’ve already made their mistake,” he finished.

“What mistake?” Red asked.

He looked at her — really looked — and for the first time she saw something like pity behind his eyes. “They’re putting all of us in the same place.”

Silence.

The words sank in, cold and heavy.

Even Mags went still.

Red didn’t move. Her mind replayed it over and over — the truth buried inside the simplicity of it. The Capitol, in their arrogance, had gathered every victor, every survivor, every person who’d learned how to kill and keep breathing. And for the first time, Red understood what this meeting was. Not a reunion. Not even a warning. It was preparation. Johanna’s voice was hoarse when she finally spoke. “So what— we play along? Smile for the cameras, pretend everything’s fine?”

Haymitch’s smirk was humorless. “We do what we’ve always done.”

“And that is?”

“Survive.”

Mags let out a low, breathy sound — not quite a laugh, but close. Finnick smiled faintly, his first real smile in days.

Red didn’t.

Her stomach twisted as she looked around at the faces of people the Capitol had paraded as symbols of strength. They looked like ghosts lit by dim yellow light. And she realized — survival wasn’t enough anymore.

She didn’t say that, though. Not yet.

The whistle from District Seven echoed in her head — that low, rising call that meant we’re with you.

She closed her eyes, gripping Finnick’s hand tighter.

The train thundered on toward the Capitol, toward whatever waited for them next.

And in that narrow compartment filled with the people the Capitol feared most, the air shifted — quiet, sharp, dangerous.

Red’s eyes didn’t leave Haymitch, but her jaw tightened, the weight in her chest pressing down. The Mockingjay. She’d heard the whispers, the Capitol propaganda, the districts murmuring hope—but hope didn’t win Games. Hope didn’t keep people alive.She leaned a fraction closer to Finnick, voice low, barely above a breath. “Even if we protect her,” she murmured, “what changes? The arena doesn’t care who dies, Finn. It doesn’t care who lives. It won’t make the Capitol stop.”

Finnick’s golden eyes found hers, soft but steady in the dim glow of the maintenance lights. He reached for her hand, fingers curling around hers with a weight she could feel through her trembling. “Maybe not,” he said quietly, “but we’re not just in the arena for us, Red. If we do nothing…” He didn’t finish the sentence. She knew exactly what he meant.

Her grip on his hand tightened in response, half comfort, half stubborn refusal to let herself believe. “I don’t even know if she wants—if she can—change anything. The girl’s supposed to be a symbol? Symbols don’t breathe, Finnick. They don’t bleed.” He pressed a thumb to the back of her hand, gently, grounding her. “She’s not just a symbol,” he said, voice low and steady. “Katniss scares the Capitol because she doesn’t care about them. She’ll do whatever it takes to protect her family, and they know it. That’s why they fear her. That’s why we need to be there—to make sure she has the chance to fight.”

Red let out a hollow laugh, a short, bitter sound that seemed swallowed by the hum of the train. “And we’re supposed to be the heroes in this story? Gods, we can barely keep ourselves alive.” Her eyes flicked to Finnick, sharp and haunted, searching for some kind of answer in the gold of his gaze. “And us—us, Finnick—how are we even supposed to make a difference? We’re the Capitol’s darlings. We’re their prized victories. Their symbols. Their... toys, in a way.”

Her fingers flexed against the fabric of her sleeve, tugging at it like she could wring the truth out of the thread itself. “They’ve built us up, polished us, shown us off for their cameras, for their games, for their money. Every step we take, every word we speak—they’ve framed it, shaped it. How could we ever escape that? How could we ever be anything but theirs?” Her voice dropped, quieter now, rough with fear and exhaustion. “Even if we survive the Quarter Quell… even if we walk out of those arenas alive, will anyone ever see us as ourselves again? Or will we just… be the monsters, the trophies, the victors they wanted us to be?”

Finnick’s hands tightened slightly around hers, grounding her, but he didn’t speak immediately. He let the weight of her words sink between them, the train’s low hum a constant reminder of the world hurtling forward around them. And then, slowly, he tilted his head, gaze meeting hers with the kind of honesty that made Red’s chest ache.

Red’s eyes glinted in the dim light, sharp, predatory, and unflinching. She leaned slightly forward, the air between them charged, her fingers brushing his arm — not for comfort, but for emphasis, a subtle claim. Her gaze was a hunt, circling, testing. “Do you really think we can survive outside this world, Finnick?” she asked, low and deliberate, each word weighed with truth. “The Capitol built us to endure their rules, their cruelty, their games. And now you’re telling me we could just walk away from all that? Pretend it doesn’t exist?”

Her chest rose and fell with a controlled fury, her voice slicing through the tense silence. “You think the revolution will save us. That somehow, in all that chaos, we’ll just… survive it. But we won’t. Not us. Not me. Not you. I know this.”

She stepped closer, tilting her head slightly, her golden eyes gleaming with that wolfish intensity that had earned her her name in District Seven. “We’ve been pawns and soldiers and killers, Finnick. Every lesson, every scar, every memory is designed to keep us alive under their eyes. But those same skills won’t shield us from freedom. From a world that doesn’t care if we live or die. You might think you’re strong enough, but strength isn’t enough. Not for us.”

Red’s hands flexed at her sides, her jaw tight. “I hate the Capitol as much as you do. I want it burned to ashes. But me? You? We’ll be the first to fall when it starts. We’re too tangled up in them, too valuable, too… marked. And no cleverness, no charm, no luck will save us when the revolution comes. We’ll die first. I know it. And maybe that’s why we keep surviving this long — so we can watch it all happen without being part of it.”

The murmurs of the other victors faded gradually as they shuffled toward their cabins, footsteps muted against the steel floors of the train. Haymitch lingered a moment longer than most, a half-smile playing at the corners of his lips as he gestured vaguely toward the closed doors and the hum of the machinery beyond. Mags remained silent, her hands folded neatly on her lap, eyes tracking the group until she too disappeared down the narrow corridor. One by one, they left, their presence evaporating like mist, leaving behind only the subtle echoes of their existence—a chair scraping, a whispered farewell, the faint scent of whiskey and woodsmoke.

Red exhaled slowly, though the tightness in her chest didn’t loosen. Her shoulders sagged slightly as she glanced at Finnick, still sitting where she had left him, the low light catching the faint curve of his jaw, the shadow of exhaustion behind his eyes. His hair, always impossibly golden, seemed muted in the dim glow, and for a fleeting second she imagined him as he had been in the Games—just a boy on the brink of something he wasn’t ready for, thrust into the impossible.

The train hummed around them, a steady, omnipresent vibration that felt almost alive. It wrapped the two of them in a cocoon of movement, the gentle rocking rocking their tension back and forth. The silence between them wasn’t heavy with words; it was weighted with understanding, a quiet acknowledgment that no matter how much they tried to shield themselves, the Capitol’s shadow had followed them here.

Red’s gaze drifted to the small, personal traces of herself scattered around the cabin. Her dagger collection leaned neatly against the wall, polished and deadly even in the soft glow of the emergency lights. A stack of tattered notebooks sat on the corner of the table, the spines cracked, pages filled with meticulous handwriting that was both a record of survival and a quiet rebellion. A few stray items of clothing lay draped over the chairs, reminders that though this space was Finnick’s home, it had slowly become hers as well. She could almost smell the lingering scent of pine from the small plant Finnick insisted on keeping by the window, and the faint tang of salt from the district they both came from. It was domestic. It was quiet. It was impossibly fragile compared to the danger that clung to the two of them like a second skin.

Finnick shifted slightly, breaking the spell of her observations. He leaned back against the wall, shoulders tense, hands loosely clasped. For the first time in what felt like hours, he didn’t look at the door, didn’t scan the empty corridor, didn’t flinch at every creak of the train. He simply let himself exist in the space with her, and the juxtaposition of his relaxed posture against the storm of uncertainty outside their cabin made Red’s heart twist painfully.

She slid over to sit closer, the friction of their thighs a grounding reminder of the reality they shared. No words passed between them—there was no need. Her hand brushed against his, almost unconsciously, and she felt him stiffen slightly, not pulling away, just adjusting to her presence. The rhythm of the train beneath them filled the silence, steady and insistent, like the beat of a heart that refused to yield even in exhaustion.

Red’s eyes lingered on Finnick, taking in every detail. The faint lines around his eyes from the constant vigilance, the way his lips pressed together as if he were holding back a tide of thoughts, the small scar on his forearm from some long-forgotten scrape that had somehow survived both Games and Capitol attention. She knew him in ways no one else could, and yet she felt like she was seeing him for the first time in the quiet of this cabin. Here, away from the prying eyes, the cameras, the Capitol’s games, he was just a boy who had been forced to grow up too fast, carrying too much, surviving too much.

Her chest tightened again as she thought of what was coming—the Quarter Quell, the revolution, the inevitable return to the arena. Every glance, every memory of Finnick volunteering flashed across her mind, and the image of him standing tall and reckless against the Capitol’s machinery made her stomach clench. She had no words, and he had none either, but the weight of shared fear and anger filled the space between them.

Slowly, deliberately, she shifted her hand, resting it on the back of his neck, letting her fingers thread through the damp strands of hair. Finnick leaned slightly into her touch, eyes closing for a brief moment as if to savor the fleeting peace. He didn’t speak, didn’t move away, but she felt the subtle tension in his shoulders begin to ease, just a fraction. She wanted to whisper something—anything—but no sound could carry the complexity of what they both felt: fear, love, grief, and the unspoken certainty that the world would demand more of them than it should ever have the right to.

The train rolled on beneath them, carrying the muted rumble of machinery and the gentle sway of movement through the empty corridors. Red shifted again, curling slightly against Finnick’s side, letting the warmth of his body anchor her. He adjusted subtly, wrapping an arm around her shoulders in return, holding her closer but not pressing, just enough to remind her they weren’t alone. The silence stretched comfortably, filled only by the rhythm of their breathing, the faint hum of the train, and the distant echoes of their fellow victors’ footsteps fading into memory.

Red’s mind wandered, briefly, to the irony of it all. Here they were, two people marked by the Capitol as darlings, survivors, symbols, yet this tiny cabin, on this rolling train, had become the only place where they could simply exist without pretense. She could feel the sharp contrast keenly: outside, the world was dangerous, cruel, watching. Inside, they were just Red and Finnick, two people who had been trained to kill and survive, learning instead to simply breathe next to each other without the world’s weight pressing down.

Time stretched. The hum became a lullaby, a strange comfort in its insistence. Red leaned her head against Finnick’s shoulder, the slight rise and fall of his chest under her ear steadying her own panic-fueled heartbeat. Her fingers traced idle patterns along his arm, small, careful, as if the motion itself could soothe the storm raging outside the cabin walls. Finnick, for his part, didn’t speak, didn’t move—he merely let her be, let her process the fear and anger and sadness that churned inside her without forcing words she didn’t have to say.

Eventually, she allowed herself to relax fractionally, her body slackening as the tension drained away, though her mind remained sharp and alert, ever ready for the dangers lurking just beyond their temporary sanctuary. Finnick’s grip on her shifted subtly, pulling her a little closer, and for a moment, the outside world — the Capitol, the Games, the looming Quarter Quell — felt impossibly distant.

She could almost pretend that here, in the back of a train rolling silently through the night, she and Finnick were just two people sharing a space, finding fleeting comfort in each other’s presence. The thought was fragile, delicate, but enough to tether her to the present, enough to remind her that even in the shadows of a world designed to break them, they could find moments like this.

And so they stayed, the two of them alone now, as the train carried them forward. The other victors had dispersed back into their cabins, lost to the soft creaks of the train and the distance of the dimly lit corridors. Only Red and Finnick remained, an island of warmth and tenuous safety in a sea of uncertainty, holding onto each other as the night rolled on.

For now, that was enough.

Chapter Text

The flickering light of the Capitol television screens reflected off the sterile walls of District Twelve’s training floor. Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark sat side by side, tension coiling in their shoulders, while Haymitch Abernathy lounged across from them, a bottle half-hidden behind his knee. The older man’s eyes were sharp, scanning, tired but calculating. "This year," Haymitch began, voice low and gravely, "you'll be facing other Victors. Capitol favorites. Smart, cunning, skilled. And they all know one another. You two are the outsiders."

Katniss’s fingers flexed around the edge of her chair. She didn’t answer. "I want you guys to forget everything you think you know about The Games," Haymitch continued. "Last year was child's play. This year, you're dealing with all experienced killers." Peeta’s brow furrowed. "All right… What does that mean for us?"

"That means," Haymitch said, his voice low but firm, "you're gonna have to have some allies."

Peeta began, hesitantly, "Okay. I think that if—"

"You're not the problem," Haymitch cut him off, voice sharp and grating, the words carrying the weight of someone who’d seen far too much death and knew exactly where blame should—and shouldn’t—fall. The edges of his voice scraped against the sterile walls, bouncing between them and leaving a hollow echo that seemed to press down on the room. His eyes, usually veiled behind a haze of drink and sarcasm, were suddenly piercing, fixed on Peeta with an intensity that made the boy flinch ever so slightly.

Peeta’s shoulders stiffened under the scrutiny. His hands, resting tensely in his lap, clenched into small fists as if that alone could anchor him against the sharp edge of Haymitch’s gaze. The Capitol’s lights glinted off the polished floor, reflecting his anxiety back at him, doubling it, and he swallowed, trying to steady his voice. But Haymitch had already cut him off.

Katniss, seated beside him, felt a strange mixture of relief and irritation. Relief because Haymitch’s words had shifted the focus away from her, irritation because it reminded her just how little control she had in this situation. She shook her head slightly, refusing to meet anyone else’s gaze, eyes fixed on the dull metallic tiles beneath her feet. “No,” she said softly, almost a whisper, but there was steel in it.

The word hung in the room, heavy and deliberate, more than a simple denial—it was a declaration. She refused to be managed, categorized, or pressured into a narrative she hadn’t chosen. Her jaw tightened, a single muscle ticking in her cheek as if she were holding back the urge to snap, to challenge Haymitch, to challenge the Capitol itself.

Haymitch didn’t flinch, didn’t soften. He merely studied her for a long moment, as if trying to gauge whether she understood the truth behind the Games—whether she truly grasped the cost of survival in a world that demanded both cunning and cruelty. The silence stretched, thick and almost suffocating, filled only by the faint hum of the Capitol’s lighting and the distant murmur of other tributes practicing in the training rooms beyond the walls.

"Look," Haymitch said, voice rough with experience, "you're starting at a disadvantage. Most of these people have been friends for years." Katniss’s lip curled. "That just puts us higher on their kill list." Haymitch sighed, rubbing his eyes. "Do it your own way, but I know these people. You go it alone, their first move is gonna be to hunt you down. Both of you."

Peeta reached for her hand, soft, calming. "Katniss, come on."

Katniss’s chair scraped the floor as she leaned forward, hands braced on the table, her voice tight with disbelief.
“How could any of us even trust each other?”

The room went still for a beat. The Capitol lights outside bled through the sheer curtains, flickering against her face — all brightness on the surface, shadows underneath.

Peeta shifted beside her, his brow drawn in quiet concern, but he didn’t interrupt. He knew that tone — the one that came right before she lashed out.

Across the table, Haymitch just stared at her. He didn’t flinch, didn’t blink. His flask hung loose in one hand, a half-smile ghosting at the corner of his mouth — not amusement, just the tired kind of disbelief of someone who’s been through this conversation a hundred times. “It’s not about trust,” he said finally, voice rough like gravel dragged across steel. “It’s about staying alive.”

Katniss let out a bitter laugh. “That’s what you said last year. And look what happened. We won, and they still found a way to punish us.”

“Yeah,” Haymitch replied, his tone flat. “Because you embarrassed them. Because you made them bleed in public.” He leaned forward, eyes narrowing. “And now they want to make an example out of you.” She met his gaze, anger brimming behind her calm. “So what? You want me to smile and pretend we’re all friends? That I can just walk into the arena and play nice with people who’ve been killing each other for decades?”

“That’s exactly what I want,” Haymitch said, his voice hardening. “Because that’s what’s going to keep you alive long enough for us to figure out how to end this.” Katniss’s jaw tightened. “You really think that matters? That if I play their game again, somehow this time it’ll change anything?” Peeta’s hand brushed hers, a quiet reminder that she wasn’t alone, but she didn’t look at him.

Haymitch sighed, dragging a hand through his hair. “You think I like telling you this? You think I don’t know what it feels like to walk in there and look around and realize you can’t trust a soul? I’ve lived it, sweetheart. I’ve watched more people die than I can count. You don’t survive because you trust them. You survive because you make them believe you do.” He slammed the flask down on the table, the sound echoing through the suite. “You want to stay alive? Then you have to play the Capitol’s game better than they do. You need allies. You need to make them think you’re one of them until you’re close enough to put a knife in their ribs.”

Katniss stared at him, eyes burning. “And when they start dying around me again? When I have to kill them? You going to tell me that’s survival too?”

“Yeah,” Haymitch said quietly. “Because that’s what it’s always been. That’s what they’ve turned it into.”

The silence that followed was sharp and suffocating. Peeta finally spoke, his voice steady but subdued. “She’s right about one thing, though. Trust doesn’t exist in the arena. But maybe… maybe it can mean something outside of it.” Haymitch looked between them, something flickering in his eyes — pride, maybe, or regret. “You two still don’t understand,” he murmured. “You’re not just players anymore. You’re symbols. That means the Capitol’s going to use everything — everyone — to break you. And if you go in there thinking you can do it alone, they’ll win before it even starts.”

Katniss’s breath hitched. For a long moment, she couldn’t look at either of them. The world outside the glass seemed to glitter too bright, too false.

Finally, she said, “Then I guess I’ll have to figure out who’s worth dying for.”

Haymitch’s expression softened, just slightly. “That’s the problem, sweetheart,” he muttered, leaning back in his chair. “They’re counting on that.”

He started listing the alliances, each name carrying weight and menace. "Cashmere and Gloss. Brother and sister, District One. Won back-to-back Games. Capitol favorites. Lots of sponsors. They will be lethal. And the other half of the Career Pack—Brutus and Enobaria." Katniss squinted at the screen. "What's with her teeth?" Haymitch smirked darkly. "She had them filed into fangs so she could rip people's throats out."

Peeta raised his eyebrows. "She's committed. I'll give her that."

Haymitch continued, pointing at another image. "Wiress and Beetee. Not fighters, but brilliant. Real tech-savvy. He won his Games by electrocuting six Tributes at once. The Morphlings. Masters of camouflage. Basically, won their Games by hiding until everyone else was dead. Self-medicating ever since. Not a threat." The screen flickered again, and Katniss’s eyes caught the next image. Finnick Odair. The golden-haired boy, sitting with that infuriatingly smug, confident posture, even in a still image. His jaw was set just so, lips curved in that faint, self-assured smirk, hands resting casually as though the weight of the Games—or anything else—was too insignificant to touch him.

“Finnick Odair, lethal, charming, youngest ever,” Haymitch began, voice rough and gravelly, carrying both warning and grudging respect. “Yes. He won his Games at fourteen. Youngest. Ever. Humble.”

Katniss laughed, incredulous, her skepticism sharp. “You’re kidding.”

Haymitch let out a dry chuckle, the kind that sounded like gravel rolling down a slope. “Yes. I’m kidding. He’s a peacock. A total preener. But the Capitol loves him. They fawn over him. Charming, smart, and extremely skilled at combat. Especially in water. His agility in the water? Unmatched. That boy can fight like he’s dancing, and it’ll kill you before you even know you’re in the fight.”

Katniss narrowed her eyes. “What about weaknesses?”

Haymitch’s gaze hardened, leaning closer to the screen as if he could burn the images into his mind. “One. One weakness. Red Briar, from District Seven.”

Her name sounded like a weapon in his mouth, deliberate, sharp. “Known as the Wolf of Seven. Lethal in every sense of the word. Her Games… they weren’t pretty. They weren’t about survival theatrics or clever tricks for sponsors. They were blood and precision. She’s fast, cunning, and if she wants you dead, you’ll be dead before you understand why. She’s ruthless, smart, and she does not care about anyone who stands in her way. And—most importantly—she won right after him.”

Katniss’s jaw tightened. “If he’s trying to protect her in any way, it exposes him.”

Haymitch gave a long, low sigh, a sound that spoke of too many years seeing the wrong people die. “Exactly. That’s the point. Finnick doesn’t move without considering her. She’s his shadow, his anchor, and sometimes, his weapon. People who underestimate that… die. Red and Finnick together? They’re a unit. A storm. The Capitol fears them because they cannot fully control them. You don’t want to face them as enemies in the arena. Not even for a second.”

He paused, letting the weight of his words hang over the room like a suffocating cloud. “If you two go in there without understanding them, without considering them as possible allies—you’ll be at a disadvantage before the first knife is even drawn. Finnick is quick, clever, charming, and deadly. Red is cunning, precise, merciless when necessary. And together? They’re terrifying. Not because they’re reckless. Not because they’re flashy. Because they think faster, move faster, and survive smarter than almost anyone else in that arena. They will make anyone who underestimates them wish they’d never stepped foot in the Games again.”

Katniss shifted slightly, trying to absorb the weight of it all. Her eyes darted between the images, studying Finnick’s golden hair and perfect posture, imagining the lethal coordination between him and Red. Then she caught sight of Red’s picture flicker on the screen. It was from her Games: blood-smeared, eyes sharp, daggers clutched between her teeth in that signature pose.

“She’s not just a fighter,” Haymitch continued, voice lower now, almost a growl. “She’s a strategist. Every move she makes has intent. She watches, calculates, and doesn’t hesitate. And she doesn’t just protect herself—she protects Finnick. And he protects her. If you can’t see the threat in that, or the potential advantage, you’re already behind. These two… they’re dangerous because they’re unpredictable. Because they have loyalty, and loyalty isn’t something the Capitol can control. You’ll see it in the arena. And if you play your cards right, they could be the allies that keep you alive. Not the ones hunting you down.”

He paused, letting the weight of his words hang over the room like a suffocating cloud. “If you two go in there without understanding them, without considering them as possible allies—you’ll be at a disadvantage before the first knife is even drawn. Finnick is quick, clever, charming, and deadly. Red is cunning, precise, merciless when necessary. And together? They’re terrifying. Not because they’re reckless. Not because they’re flashy. Because they think faster, move faster, and survive smarter than almost anyone else in that arena. They will make anyone who underestimates them wish they’d never stepped foot in the Games again.”

Katniss shifted slightly, trying to absorb the weight of it all. Her eyes darted between the images, studying Finnick’s golden hair and perfect posture, imagining the lethal coordination between him and Red. Then she caught sight of Red’s picture flicker on the screen. It was from her Games: blood-smeared, eyes sharp, daggers clutched between her teeth in that signature pose.

He shifted in his chair, rubbing at his temple as if trying to ease out the ghosts. “But she doesn’t just protect herself. No, no — she protects Finnick. And not the way you’re thinking. Not the kind of protection that’s gentle or romantic. It’s instinct. It’s survival. You put a knife to his throat, and she’ll tear apart a whole arena before she lets you draw blood. She’s fire, that girl. Cold fire. The kind that doesn’t burn bright, it burns slow — and it doesn’t go out until everything around her is ash.”

Katniss’s brows furrowed. “You’re saying she’d kill for him?”

Haymitch let out a laugh, low and bitter, the sound of someone who’s seen too much blood to ever find anything funny again.
“Kill for him?” he repeated, shaking his head. “Sweetheart, she’s killed because of him.”

“You ever actually watch her Games footage?” Haymitch asked finally, his voice rough. “Not the broadcast — not the Capitol’s cleaned-up highlight reel with all the blood filtered to look like art. I mean the raw footage. The uncut feed. The one the Capitol never let the districts see.” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, the flask still in his hand but forgotten. “They show you the smiles. The little tilt of her head when she wins, the smirk when she lands a kill clean — the Capitol’s darling predator. But they skip the real story.”

Katniss didn’t breathe. Peeta didn’t blink.

“She lost her partner in the final eight,” Haymitch said, his eyes distant now, watching something none of them could see. “Kid from her district. Quiet boy. Big heart. The kind of tribute who hid food under the floorboards instead of eating it himself. They were a good team — better than anyone gave them credit for. He was the calm. She was the storm.”
He paused, his jaw tightening. “Then one of the tributes slit his throat while he was asleep. Capitol cut that part out, too. Too messy. Too human. They didn’t want anyone seeing her reaction.”

He looked up at them, gaze hard. “Next morning,” he said, “before dawn — when the rest of the arena was still sleeping, before the cameras even finished resetting — she came back. Didn’t say a word. Didn’t cry. Didn’t scream. Just… walked. Straight into the the nearest’ camp.”

His hand traced the air as if drawing it out before them. “Three of them. Strong. Armed. They were eating. She killed the first before he could stand. The second tried to run — she got him in the back. The third, the girl, she fought. You could hear the sound echo through the trees — metal and bone, over and over. The Capitol had to cut the audio because she didn’t stop after the girl was dead. She kept swinging until her arm gave out.”

No one spoke. Even the room felt quieter.

“She sat there for hours afterward,” Haymitch continued, voice softer now. “Didn’t move. Just stared at what she’d done. When the hovercraft came for the bodies, she looked straight into the nearest camera and said one thing: ‘Don’t touch him.’ Not the other tributes — her partner. She made them drag his body last.”

He ran a hand through his hair, sighing. “That’s what they never show you. They sell her as some Capitol-made sensation — the wild girl from Seven with the smile and the blood on her skin. But that wasn’t a performance. That was grief. Pure, uncut grief. And grief like that doesn’t fade. It hardens.”

He looked back up at Katniss, his tone dark, reverent. “So yeah. She’s killed because of someone she cared about. Because this place took something from her and called it entertainment. And when it did, she learned what she was capable of. That’s what makes her dangerous. That’s what makes her real.”

He leaned back again, the lines around his mouth deepening. “The Capitol thinks she smiles because she likes the attention. She smiles because she knows the people who hurt her are watching — and that someday, she’ll have her turn.”

Peeta’s voice was quiet, careful. “So she’d do the same for Finnick.”

“She already has,” Haymitch said, leaning forward, his expression grim. “When the Capitol tries to hurt him, she takes the punishment. When they parade him around like a trophy, she’s the one who steps into the spotlight beside him so they can’t humiliate him alone. She’s the only thing standing between him and the parts of the Capitol that would break him apart for entertainment. The Capitol thinks they own Finnick Odair — but Red Briar reminds them every damn day that they don’t. She’s the only person they can’t dress up, sell off, or silence.”

The silence that followed was heavy, thick.

Haymitch continued, voice lower now, almost reverent. “I’ve seen her at events — banquets, interviews. She doesn’t play their games. You can see it in her eyes. She watches every hand that touches him like she’s memorizing who to kill first if things go wrong. If anyone so much as looks at him too long, that girl’s entire body goes still — like a wolf scenting blood. The Capitol calls her the Wolf of Seven because they think it sounds poetic. But it’s not poetry. It’s prophecy. You corner Finnick, and you’ll see what that name really means.”

He paused, his eyes flicking to the screen again. Finnick’s image froze beside Red’s — two victors, two killers, two people who were supposed to be beautiful, untouchable, safe. But they looked dangerous. Untamed.

“That’s what makes them terrifying,” Haymitch said. “They’re loyal. And loyalty — real loyalty — is the one thing the Capitol can’t buy, can’t beat, can’t control. They’ve spent years trying to break the bond between those two, and every time they fail. The Capitol wants Finnick dependent on them. Wants Red obedient. But instead, they got a pair of victors who learned how to survive together. You threaten one, you get both. You try to manipulate one, the other tears your plan apart. That’s not a love story — that’s a revolution waiting to happen.”

Peeta exchanged a look with Katniss, the tension in his jaw tightening. “So you think they’ll fight back?”

Haymitch snorted softly. “They already are. They just do it quieter than the rest of us. Every time Finnick smiles for a camera and refuses to let the Capitol see how broken he really is, that’s defiance. Every time Red walks into a room like she owns it — like they don’t own her — that’s rebellion. They’ve been surviving in the Capitol’s grip longer than anyone. They know how to play their parts. And when the time comes? When it all burns down? They’ll be the ones to make sure the fire spreads.”

He leaned back again, taking a slow swig from his flask, his gaze unfocused, lost somewhere in a memory of blood and glass. “That’s why I’m telling you — don’t make enemies out of them. Not even by accident. If they decide you’re worth protecting, you might live long enough to make it out. But if they decide you’re not…” He trailed off, letting the unfinished threat hang in the air like smoke. “Let’s just say there are easier ways to die.”

The screen flickered once more — Red and Finnick, side by side onstage after their Games, the crowd screaming, confetti falling like snow. They weren’t smiling. Their hands were clasped, not for show, but for survival. The kind of grip that said, If we fall, we fall together.

Haymitch’s voice softened, almost a whisper. “The Capitol calls them lovers. I call them survivors. But if you’re smart, you’ll call them allies.”

Katniss leaned forward. “And what about the… relationship between them? Finnick and Red, and Johanna?”

Haymitch let out a breath that sounded halfway between a sigh and a laugh. “That,” he said, “is where things get interesting.” He sat back, eyes unfocused for a second, like he was sifting through too many memories at once. “You want to talk about alliances, forget the Careers. Forget the morphlings. Those three? They’re a world of their own.”

He turned the flask over in his hand. “Red was Johanna’s mentor, back when Johanna won. Everyone thought she was gonna die in the first few days — small girl, no alliance, no obvious skills. The Capitol didn’t even bother betting on her. But Red saw something. She saw that Johanna was mean as hell when she was cornered, and smarter than she looked. So Red coached her the way she wished someone had coached her — told her when to smile, when to stay silent, when to cut a throat and when to wait. She didn’t teach her to play the Games.” He looked up at Katniss, eyes sharp. “She taught her to survive the aftermath.”

“Aftermath?” Peeta asked quietly.

Haymitch nodded. “When you get home, when the lights fade and the Capitol wants you to keep dancing for them. Red told her how to keep her mind, how to use anger like armor. That’s why Johanna’s still standing. She owes it to her. They don’t say it out loud — neither of them are the sentimental type — but Johanna would burn the whole arena down before she let Red die in it.”

Katniss frowned. “And Finnick?”

Haymitch’s expression changed — something flickered there, a shadow of weariness, of something almost protective. “Finnick Odair and Red Briar. Capitol’s golden couple, whether they like it or not. Everyone speculates. They sell it as a love story because it keeps people watching — the beautiful boy from Four and the wolf from Seven. But what they have isn’t the Capitol’s version of love. It’s… complicated.”

He paused, rubbing his thumb along the rim of his flask. “They met during a tour, before Johanna’s Games. He was already a star — the youngest victor in history, every rich Capitol parasite wanted a piece of him. Red was still trying to keep her own leash short enough to breathe. Two pretty faces, two sharp minds. The Capitol ate it up. They put them together in interviews, parties, appearances — dressed them like a matched set. But somewhere in all that, the two of them learned to read each other. They saw the strings tied to the other’s hands.”

Katniss’s chest tightened. She could picture it: two victors standing under the Capitol lights, smiling like they were made of glass, while the whole world clapped for their survival.

“Whatever you want to call it — love, loyalty, trauma — it’s real enough,” Haymitch continued. “She’s fire, he’s tide. They pull each other apart and back together, over and over. You hurt one, the other bleeds. You threaten her, he’s in front of her before you finish the sentence. You touch him, she’ll make sure you regret it. And they’re both too damn smart to admit it out loud.”

Peeta glanced up. “So that means… they’ll protect each other in the arena?”

Haymitch’s smile was grim. “It means if you kill one, you’ll make an enemy out of the other for life — however long that lasts. And if you try to come between them, you’d better pray you die fast. The Capitol calls them darlings because it makes them easier to control. But what they really are is dangerous. They’ve learned how to weaponize affection — theirs and everyone else’s.”

He leaned forward again, elbows on his knees. “You see, Finnick doesn’t just protect Red. He protects anyone she cares about. Johanna, especially. He treats her like family. You can trace it all back — Red mentored Johanna, Finnick stands by Red, so the three of them move like parts of the same body. Johanna’s the fist, Finnick’s the shield, Red’s the brain. You separate them, they find each other again. You corner them, they make a new plan before you blink. It’s not strategy — it’s instinct.”

Katniss sat very still. The thought of those three working in sync — quiet, efficient, lethal — made her stomach twist.

Haymitch watched her carefully. “They scare the Capitol because they shouldn’t exist. Victors aren’t supposed to love each other — we’re supposed to be too broken for that. But somehow, those three managed it. And that’s why they’re the most dangerous people in the arena. The Capitol can predict greed, fear, revenge — but not loyalty. Not love.”

He took a slow drink, the liquor burning his voice rougher when he spoke again. “You asked me earlier who to ally with. If you want to survive, find them. Stay close. Don’t fight them — work with them. Because if Red Briar decides you’re worth saving, she’ll move the world for you. But if she decides you’re in her way…” He trailed off, letting the silence finish the thought.

Katniss swallowed hard. “You think she’d help me?”

Haymitch’s eyes softened, just a little. “She hates the Capitol as much as you do. Maybe more. She’s been their puppet longer. And she’s got this crazy notion that there’s still something left to protect in people. Finnick believes it too, but he only believes it because she does. That’s what you’re dealing with. Not killers. Not Capitol pets. Two people who were forced to survive by becoming everything the Capitol wanted — and now they don’t know if they can survive without tearing it all down.”

Katniss sat back, heart hammering. Alliances weren’t just strategy—they were a matter of life and death. And some alliances carried their own dangers, the kind you could never fully predict.

The screen faded, leaving her with that image of Red Briar, daggers clenched, eyes wild, unyielding.

And for the first time since the Reaping, Katniss felt the full weight of the Quarter Quell pressing down: a pitiless, inevitable arena, filled with not just killers, but monsters she might have to ally with—and perhaps even fear.

Chapter Text

The air around the chariot staging bay smelled like smoke and polish — horses snorting, handlers shouting over the hum of cameras being tested above. It was chaos dressed up as elegance. The kind of spectacle only the Capitol could make out of something as cruel as the Hunger Games. Katniss stood beside her team’s sleek, black horses, their coats gleaming under the overhead lights. Her hand brushed through the mane of the nearest one — steady, deliberate — as if calming them might somehow calm her. The noise faded to a distant hum.

“How did we get here…” she murmured under her breath, voice almost swallowed by the space.

A familiar voice cut through it like a whistle through wind.

“Katniss!”

Katniss turned.

Behind her, stepping out of the shadows like the Capitol’s idea of mythology, were Finnick Odair and Red Briar.

Finnick Odair stood like a creature sculpted by the sea itself — bronzed skin kissed with a faint shimmer of salt, every muscle cut and fluid under the glow of the staging lights. His District Four costume was a masterpiece of contradiction: elegance and danger, temptation and strength. Thin cords of golden netting crisscrossed his chest and shoulders, each knot gleaming like the reflection of sunlight off water. Strips of rope wound loosely around his forearms, and the faintest scent of sea air seemed to follow him, mingling with the metallic tang of Capitol polish. The fabric — if it could be called that — caught the light as he moved, clinging to his body like a second skin, a living thing molded by the tide.

Between his fingers, a single sugar cube glinted white. He turned it lazily, the small motion somehow hypnotic, his touch casual yet deliberate — the kind of grace that only comes from someone who knows every eye is on him and is perfectly fine with it. His smile was half amusement, half challenge, a dangerous kind of charm that could melt even the most guarded heart — or ruin it, depending on his mood.

And beside him — Red Briar.

If Finnick was carved from the sea, Red was born of the forest. Her two-piece was a wild, living thing: the top molded from layers of bark-dark material that curved to her form, textured and rugged yet impossibly elegant. It looked as if it had grown from her skin rather than been sewn by human hands. Her gown trailed from her tailbone like a vine spun into silk — deep green leaves threaded with veins of gold that shimmered when she moved, catching the light like dew at dawn.

Her hair — deep red, not the delicate Capitol kind but fierce, raw, and elemental — cascaded down her back in a storm of tangled curls, every strand seeming to catch fire under the artificial sun. She was barefoot, toes pressed into the marble, posture languid but ready — as though she could lunge at anyone in an instant. Her lips were painted the dark green of moss-covered stone, and against her pale skin, it gave her a feral, almost otherworldly look.

Red didn’t just wear her outfit. She commanded it. The fabric bent to her, not the other way around. She stood beside Finnick like a forest shadow standing next to sunlight — two halves of something too wild to name, opposites that shouldn’t make sense together, but somehow did.Where Finnick drew the eye with ease, Red held it. There was no softness in her — only controlled chaos, that slow, deliberate confidence that came from knowing exactly how dangerous she looked, and how much of that danger she was willing to unleash.

Katniss’s eyes flicked over the two of them — the golden boy and the wolf-girl — and she arched a brow. “Hey there, you two.”

Finnick held up the cube between his fingers, as if it were something sacred. “Would you like a sugar cube?” His tone was silk, teasing, just a little mocking. “It’s supposed to be for the horses, but who cares about them, right? They’ve got years to eat sugar.” He rolled it over his knuckles. “Whereas you and us? Well—if we see something sweet, we better grab it.”

He tossed the cube to Red without even looking; she caught it effortlessly, smirking as she popped it between her teeth. Her eyes — sharp — met Katniss’s in a way that felt like a dare.

“No thanks,” Katniss said coolly, folding her arms just enough to seem casual. “But I’d love to borrow that outfit sometime, Red.”

Red’s laugh came out soft, like the rustle of leaves in the wind — but there was an edge beneath it, sharp and deliberate. It wasn’t the kind of laugh that invited friendship; it was the kind that asked, are you brave enough to keep looking at me? Finnick’s arm slipped around her waist, and she leaned into him slightly, not out of need, but out of control — as if she were reminding Katniss that she could claim the space beside him whenever she wanted. His thumb traced lazy circles on her hip, and Red let him, eyes never leaving Katniss.

“Well, you look pretty terrifying in that getup, Everdeen,” she said, voice smooth, honeyed but venomous around the edges. Her gaze flicked slowly from Katniss’s boots to the flames embroidered across her suit. “What happened to the little girl dresses?” Katniss didn’t blink. She tilted her chin up just a little — the kind of small, defiant movement that said she’d heard the challenge and wasn’t backing down. “I outgrew them.”

For a moment, neither girl spoke. The sound of the horses filled the air — restless, breathing hard — but their eyes stayed locked. Red’s lips curved upward into a slow, knowing smile, dark green lipstick gleaming under the light like something poisonous but beautiful. “You sure did,” she said finally, her voice a low purr of amusement. The approval in it was real — but so was the warning.

It wasn’t hostility. Not exactly. It was that unspoken thing between girls who recognize a mirror in front of them — someone just as dangerous, just as self-assured, and just as unwilling to yield.

Finnick watched the exchange with that half-smile of his, the sugar cube still turning idly between his fingers. He didn’t interrupt. Maybe he knew better than to get between two predators sizing each other up. She leaned back slightly against Finnick’s arm, eyes glinting. “Shame about this Quell thing,” Finnick said, voice dropping to something almost wistful. “Could’ve made out like a bandit with all those Capitol jewels.”

Finnick’s grin widened — lazy, practiced, dangerous.

His smile was bright, careless, the kind that could make the Capitol sigh. “Money,” he said, his voice smooth as the sugar cube he was still rolling between his fingers. “Anything you wanted.” He laughed lightly, as if the entire world were a game he’d already won. Katniss grumbled, brushing the black horse’s mane again to keep her hands busy. “Well, I have no need for jewels,” she said flatly. “And I have more money than I need. What did you do with all your wealth anyway?” Finnick straightened, amusement flickering in his sea-green eyes. “I haven’t dealt with anything as common as money in years.” The words rolled off his tongue like silk, almost taunting in their ease.

Red laughed — a low, melodic sound that rippled through the marble hall like silk dragged across glass. It was effortless, elegant, and so well-rehearsed that anyone from the Capitol would’ve called it charming. But Katniss wasn’t from the Capitol, and she saw it for what it really was — a performance.

“We have no use for jewels, gorgeous,” Red said, the word rolling off her tongue like smoke, soft and dangerous. Her lips curved into that foxlike grin again, the one that didn’t quite reach her eyes. Under the Capitol lights, her skin seemed to glow, flecks of gold and green dancing across her collarbone where the artificial leaves of her outfit caught the glow. She looked radiant — ethereal, even — but there was something dark beneath it. Something alive and hungry.

Her laughter lingered longer than it should have, hovering between them like a spark that refused to die.

Katniss’s jaw tightened. She felt the weight of the cameras even here, hidden in the corners like eyes that never blinked. Her voice came out sharper than she intended — a quiet slice through the air.

“Well then how does anyone pay for the pleasure of your company?”

It was a knife of a sentence, honed too fine, thrown before she could stop herself. It cut through the space between them, through the Capitol gloss and the fake laughter, and hit something real. The silence that followed was too loud. Red froze. Just for a second — but that second was enough. The practiced smirk fell, the glint in her eyes dulled. Every piece of her that had been perfectly placed, perfectly charming, wavered. The easy charm, the sly confidence — it all stuttered out like a candle’s flame caught in a draft.

Her hand twitched. A tremor so small most people would’ve missed it, but Finnick didn’t. He was watching her — always watching her — and the instant he saw it, his body moved. A quiet, instinctive motion. His hand brushed against hers, not enough to draw attention, but enough to ground her. To pull her back.

Katniss noticed.

Finnick’s easy smile didn’t falter, but there was a flicker in his eyes — something protective, something possessive, something that didn’t belong to the Capitol’s golden boy. Red blinked, forced a smile back onto her face, but it didn’t fit quite right anymore. It was too tight at the corners, too brittle.

“Careful, sweetheart,” Red murmured after a beat, her tone light again but her voice quieter now, steadier in a way that sounded like control rather than calm. “You might start sounding like one of us.”

The words were supposed to sting — maybe they did — but the air between them had changed. The flirtation was gone. What replaced it was heavier, quieter. Something that had nothing to do with jewels or sugar cubes or pretty Capitol smiles.

It was the kind of silence that said they both knew exactly what Katniss had meant — and both victors in front of her had lived the answer.

He shifted instantly, closing the space between them in a heartbeat. He didn’t touch her — just stepped slightly in front, like he could absorb the sting before it reached her again.

Finnick’s hand tightened just slightly around Red’s. The movement was subtle, small enough that the Capitol cameras might miss it — but Katniss didn’t. There was something intimate about the gesture, something protective. For the first time, she saw through the Capitol’s illusion of them — not as the beautiful, glittering victors paraded in interviews, but as people holding themselves together with whatever thread they had left.

Red’s smile wavered again, and Finnick stepped forward, smooth and easy, cutting the tension like he’d been born to do it. His voice carried that practiced drawl — the one that had probably charmed half the Capitol — but it was quieter now, softer. Meant for Katniss, not the cameras.

“With secrets,” Finnick said. “That’s how they pay for it.”

He took a step closer, the lamplight sliding down his chest, catching on the faint scars there. “What about you, girl on fire?” His lips curled into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Any secrets worth my time?” The words should’ve sounded teasing, but there was weight in them — a kind of weary honesty Katniss didn’t expect. Katniss met his gaze, her voice flat, calm in the way only someone who’s learned how to mask fear can be. “I’m an open book,” she said bluntly. “Everyone seems to know my secrets before I know them myself.”

Finnick’s smile faded. For a second, his mask cracked — barely, but enough. “Unfortunately,” he murmured, almost to himself, “I believe that’s true.”

Red stayed silent beside him, her hand still clasped in his. Her gaze wasn’t on Katniss anymore, but somewhere past her, toward the marble arches and the endless Capitol lights beyond. Her expression was distant — as if she could already feel the arena waiting.

Then Katniss’s eyes flicked over Finnick’s shoulder, catching movement down the hall. Peeta was approaching, flanked by Cinna, his expression caught between confusion and concern.

Red must’ve noticed the shift in Katniss’s attention, because she turned her head just slightly — enough to follow her gaze. And then, with a voice that sounded too sweet, too careful, she forced herself back into the conversation. “I’m so sorry you had to cancel your wedding,” Red said. Her tone was perfectly polite, even kind, but there was something in her eyes — pity, maybe, or understanding, or just exhaustion. She smiled, though her hand trembled faintly in Finnick’s grasp. “That must be devastating.”

Katniss stiffened. Peeta was close enough now to hear, and Red’s words seemed to hang in the air between all of them — delicate and sharp, like glass ready to crack. Finnick’s thumb brushed the back of Red’s hand, grounding her again. She drew in a breath, shoulders straightening, smile brightening just enough to pass for Capitol-ready charm.

As Peeta reached them, Finnick popped another sugar cube between his teeth, his grin lazy, practiced, perfectly hollow. “Have a good day,” he said easily, his eyes flicking from Peeta to Katniss.

“Peeta,” he added in greeting, his voice smooth as water — too polite to be real.

Red only smiled beside him, a quiet, dangerous kind of smile that said more than words could. And together, the two of them turned and walked away — hand in hand, their silhouettes cutting through the golden light of the chariot hall, like the Capitol’s own monsters dressed as saints.

Red’s steps were slow, deliberate, each one feeling heavier than the last. The Capitol lights shimmered off the polished floor, casting long shadows behind her, and she barely noticed. Her hands hung loosely at her sides, though one instinctively brushed against Finnick’s as they walked. He kept his fingers wrapped lightly around hers, steady, grounding her in a way she didn’t know she needed until that moment. Finnick’s other hand stayed near her back, a silent support. He didn’t speak, didn’t try to fill the void with words — he simply let her move through it, absorbing the sharp sting of Katniss’s comment with her. Red’s eyes were fixed ahead, expression unreadable, lips slightly parted, like she was trying to breathe through something that wasn’t just air.

They reached District Seven’s chariot, and Johanna was already there, arms crossed, legs swaying slightly as if she had been fidgeting for the past hour. Her hair was pulled back into a loose braid, but the tension in her shoulders betrayed her. The instant she saw Red, her lips quirked — a mix of relief and irritation, the sort only a true friend could manage. “You okay?” she asked softly, but Red didn’t answer right away.

Instead, Red let out a quiet, almost imperceptible sigh. She slumped slightly against Finnick, leaning into him just enough to remind herself that she wasn’t entirely alone. Johanna’s eyes flicked between the two of them, taking in the way Finnick’s arm stayed firm against Red’s back, the careful attention in his posture, the way he subtly adjusted his pace to match hers. Red finally spoke, but only in a murmur, almost to herself: “I… didn’t expect that.” She didn’t clarify what “that” meant, and Finnick didn’t ask. He didn’t need to. He just continued holding her together, letting her silent words hang in the space between them.

Johanna, understanding enough, nodded, a faint smirk tugging at her lips. “Well, the Capitol doesn’t hold back, does it?” she muttered, though her tone was dry, almost teasing. Red let a tiny, humorless laugh escape, but it died quickly, leaving only exhaustion behind.

Finnick squeezed her hand once, lightly, a subtle reminder that he was there, that she didn’t need to bear it alone. He brushed a loose strand of hair from her forehead, tucking it behind her ear with a tenderness that contrasted sharply with the blood, fire, and death they both knew too well. They lingered near the chariot for a moment longer, Red leaning against Finnick just slightly, collecting herself. Her eyes finally flicked to Johanna, who gave her a steady, knowing look. No words were needed; Johanna understood the weight of the Capitol’s gaze, the whispered judgments, the hidden threats, and the reality that nothing here would ever be easy.

After a few moments, Finnick gave her hand a reassuring squeeze and whispered something she didn’t catch, but the warmth of his voice brushed against her like a shield. Red nodded almost imperceptibly, gathering herself. She straightened, her eyes hardening with that familiar Wolf-of-Seven resolve.

Finnick stepped back just enough to allow Red to approach the chariot fully. He brushed a hand over his hair, glanced briefly toward District Four’s chariot — the colors bright, the polished wood gleaming — and then leaned closer, murmuring another quiet word meant only for her. Red nodded again, a small, private acknowledgment passing between them. Without another word, Finnick turned, hands loose at his sides, and began walking toward District Four’s chariot, his gait effortless, confident. Red’s eyes followed him for a moment, watching the familiar golden flash of his hair as he passed the Capitol guards and stylists.

Red drew a slow breath, letting herself settle into the space left behind. Johanna reached out and draped an arm lightly over her shoulder, steadying her with silent solidarity. Together, they hopped onto the chariot of District Seven, Red still quiet, still carrying the weight of the encounter with Katniss, but held, for now, by the memory of Finnick’s presence.

Chapter Text

The chariot waited like some monstrous animal — glinting under the courtyard lights, harnessed to a pair of horses whose coats shimmered as if dusted in silver. The air was heavy with perfume and fire. Even from behind the gleaming façade of the staging gates, you could hear the roar of the crowd — waves of sound breaking, collapsing, rising again, one name chanted over and over:

“Katniss! Katniss! Katniss!”

Beside her, Johanna rolled her shoulders, but it didn’t look like confidence — more like discomfort masked as bravado. The gown she wore clung to her in strips that mimicked bark and branches, the fabric so thin it blurred the line between skin and costume. In the harsh fluorescent light of the prep bay, she looked less like a victor and more like a prop carved from the woods of her district — something for display, not for dignity. Every movement made the gauzy material whisper, catching light in a way that left nothing truly hidden.

Red’s outfit was worse. The stylists had called it “natural elegance.” It was little more than armor made of shame — a bark-textured top cut high and sharp, the edges biting faintly at her ribs, and a trailing skirt of woven leaves that brushed her legs when she moved. The gown was meant to look wild, primal, seductive — as if the Capitol could capture what District Four was by showing more skin than substance. She could feel the air on her stomach, on her thighs, the manufactured chill of the room making her skin tighten beneath the lights. When she caught sight of herself in one of the mirrored walls, for a second she didn’t recognize the reflection. It wasn’t her — not the girl who had trained others to survive, not the one who’d pulled Johanna out of the arena alive. It was something else. A thing designed to be looked at. A victory repackaged as decoration.

Johanna let out a short laugh, but it was hollow. “Guess this is what they think winners look like,” she muttered, tugging at a loose piece of bark at her shoulder.

Red didn’t answer. She only adjusted the gown at her hip, where the fabric had been deliberately cut too low, exposing a curve that made her feel like she was standing half-naked in front of the Capitol before she’d even left the building.

The handlers called for them, and both women climbed onto the chariot. The metal felt cold under their bare feet, grounding and cruel. When Johanna reached for her hand, Red took it without a word. Their fingers locked — not for the cameras, not for the crowd, but for themselves.

When the gates began to creak open, the blinding light spilled in — sharp and invasive. The roar of the Capitol audience bled through the air like a physical force, chanting names that weren’t theirs. “Katniss! Katniss! Katniss!”

The sound pressed against Red’s skin like heat.

Every eye waiting beyond that gate would be hungry. The Capitol called it admiration, but Red knew what it really was — consumption. They weren’t people to those crowds; they were trophies dressed up in the illusion of beauty, paraded to remind everyone who owned them. The horses stamped impatiently, breath turning to mist. Red’s fingers tightened around Johanna’s — both of them standing tall despite how stripped-down they were, how little they’d been left with.

“Ready?” Johanna murmured.

Red’s lips twitched. “Always.”

The two climbed onto their chariot in perfect sync, practiced but not rehearsed. It wasn’t a performance. It was instinct. The crowd might have thought it was for them — the synchronized grace, the casual interlacing of their fingers — but it wasn’t. It was solidarity. It was armor.

The horses pawed the ground, breath steaming like smoke in the cold air. The handlers shouted something, but Red barely heard. The gates began to creak open, the light outside bleeding in through the widening gap — bright enough to sting the eyes. The noise from the courtyard surged, flooding in like an ocean, drowning every thought except the rhythmic chant echoing off marble walls and glittering glass.

“Katniss! Katniss! Katniss!”

Johanna tilted her head toward the sound, her mouth twisting. “Guess we’re the warm-up act.” Red laughed softly, but the sound had an edge to it — that same low, melodic tone from earlier, the one that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Let her have her moment,” she said, adjusting her posture, spine straight as a blade. “The Capitol loves a spark. They just don’t realize what happens when you fan it too long.”

Then the chariot began to move.

The sudden motion jolted through the wood and metal beneath their feet, and Red’s hair whipped back, flaming in the wind. The scent of burning oil and rose perfume filled the air, that peculiar Capitol sweetness that made her stomach twist. Around them, lights flashed from every direction — not just from torches or lanterns, but cameras, thousands of them, hungry for faces, for stories, for beauty dressed as death. As they entered the courtyard, the full scale of the Capitol’s obsession came into focus. The streets were lined with bodies — painted, jeweled, screaming — all craning for a glimpse of their favorites. And though the chants still echoed Katniss’s name, every time Red lifted her chin, a wave of attention shifted her way.

Some gasped. Some clapped. Some whispered her name — tentative, like they weren’t supposed to remember it but did anyway.

She met their stares and gave them something they didn’t know they wanted — a slow, deliberate smile that made them lean forward, uncertain whether to cheer or shiver.

Johanna’s hand squeezed hers once — a silent question, Are you all right?

Red didn’t answer, but she squeezed back, her grip steady.

The chariots circled the courtyard in a perfect ring of spectacle — an arena before the arena. Each pair gleamed like living art, gilded symbols of their districts, paraded for the Capitol’s pleasure. When the horses turned sharply at the curve, Red steadied herself with Johanna’s arm, and her gaze caught movement across the distance — the reviewing platform, raised above the chaos like an altar.

The chariot jolted forward, and the sound hit like a wall — screaming, laughter, applause, a thousand voices clashing together until it was almost a kind of static. Red’s ears rang with it. The air outside was thick with perfume and lights, a glittering haze that felt unreal, suffocating. Johanna’s grip on her hand tightened. Neither of them smiled, not yet. They’d been told to wave, to dazzle, to show the Capitol how beautiful District Seven could be when it was stripped of its dirt and blood. But as they rolled into that endless golden boulevard, Red felt the crowd’s gaze slide over her like hands — invasive, greedy, devouring.

Camera flashes painted everything in bursts of white, and for a moment she could see her reflection in one of the enormous screens overhead — her own body refracted into pixels, her bare stomach gleaming under artificial light, the gown of leaves shimmering like it might disintegrate if she breathed too hard. The Capitol thought it was art. All Red could think was: they want us to look tame.

Johanna raised her free hand, letting the light catch on her skin, and the crowd screamed louder. Red followed, but her wave was slower — deliberate, precise. Every motion was an act of defiance. She didn’t smile; she didn’t need to. Her expression was cool, detached, almost predatory. If they were going to look, she would make them see.

The crowd roared again as the chariots turned the great circle, and there — high above, at the balcony that crowned the grandstand — stood President Snow. The lights glinted off his white rose, that too-perfect bloom pinned against his chest like a warning.

Red’s breath caught. For a moment, it was as if the world fell away — the noise, the heat, even Johanna’s hand. It was just her and him.

Snow’s gaze swept lazily across the parade until it landed on her. When their eyes met, Red felt it — that cold, crawling awareness, like his stare could flay her down to the bone. He didn’t need to speak. The message was clear. You belong to us.

But Red didn’t lower her eyes.

She met his gaze and held it. Not a challenge, not exactly — something sharper, quieter. The kind of look that said I know what you are. And I’m still standing.

For a flicker of a second, Snow’s smile thinned.

And then the chariot rolled forward again, carrying her past him, past the Capitol’s shimmering towers and into the roar of the city. Red’s heartbeat was a drum in her chest, steady and loud.

When she finally looked away, Johanna was smirking faintly beside her, though her eyes were wet at the corners — from the wind or from something else, Red didn’t know.

Finnick was in front of her, she knew that, somewhere on District Four's chariot, holding hands with Mags — she knew it without seeing him. And if he was watching her on one of the dozens of cameras on them, he’d know exactly what that tremor meant.

Still, she stood tall. She smiled for the cameras. She squeezed Johanna’s hand again and raised her chin to the President one last time.

The horses slowed to a smooth, echoing halt as the chariot rolled back into the massive underground hall — a cathedral of glass and gold, humming with Capitol engineers and stylists swarming like bees around their tributes. The roar of the crowd faded behind the thick metal doors, replaced by the rhythmic hiss of steam and the thud of hooves. Red’s skin prickled as the silence pressed in. Her hands trembled, though she’d never admit it, the adrenaline still coursing through her veins. The weight of eyes—thousands, millions—seemed to linger, like ghosts still clinging to her bare shoulders.

She exhaled slowly, and then—

Across the room, Finnick.

He stood beside his chariot, shirtless still, his stylist adjusting the gold bands around his wrists. He was saying something, smiling that effortless smile the Capitol adored, but his eyes—his eyes found her instantly, like a reflex. Red didn’t need words. She tilted her head, one corner of her mouth curving upward in something halfway between affection and exhaustion. Finnick’s lips twitched in reply, and for a fleeting second, the two of them shared something silent and private amid all the noise — a joke, a promise, maybe just the understanding of two people who’d been performing their whole lives.

He winked.

Red’s answering grin was sharp and real, if only for him.

Johanna tugged her hand. “Come on, wolf girl,” she muttered, half-laughing, half-breathless, her leaves-and-bark dress brushing the slick floor. “Let’s go see what the Capitol darlings are up to.” Red blinked, startled out of the moment, then laughed — that low, wild laugh that made even the stylists pause. “You’re incorrigible,” she muttered, hopping off the chariot after her.

“Damn right I am,” Johanna tossed over her shoulder, already sprinting toward the corridor that led to the elevators. Her hair swung behind her like a whip of dark silk. Red followed, the echo of her bare feet hitting the marble floor. She caught a glimpse of Peeta’s blonde head and Haymitch’s slouching frame just as they disappeared around the corner. Katniss was right beside them, still wrapped in that living flame the Capitol couldn’t stop screaming about.

“Wait up!” Johanna called, laughing.

They passed a cluster of Peacekeepers, white uniforms gleaming under the sterile lights. One of them turned his head, expressionless beneath the visor. Red couldn’t help herself. She reached out and tapped a finger against the glass dome of his helmet.

The hollow clink echoed.

The Peacekeeper flinched.

Red’s laugh burst out of her, raw and bright. “Didn’t mean to scare you,” she teased, tossing her copper hair back as she slid through the elevator doors beside Johanna. The elevator doors slid shut with a heavy, final thud, sealing the five of them in together — gold light humming faintly against the walls, the faint scent of perfume and sweat lingering from the parade. The air felt charged, as if the arena had already begun in miniature inside this small, mirrored box. Katniss stood stiffly beside Peeta, her skin still faintly glittering with the remnants of Cinna’s fire suit. Haymitch leaned lazily against the corner, watching everyone with that half-amused, half-exhausted expression he always wore — the look of someone who’d seen too many tributes die to bother pretending he didn’t care anymore.

Red and Johanna entered in a burst of laughter, their steps uneven, still thrumming with adrenaline from the chariot ride. The faint rustle of leaves trailed Johanna like a whisper as her gown brushed against the polished floor, translucent in places that made Katniss shift her gaze uncomfortably. Red’s two-piece clung to her like a second skin — raw bark and silk blended together, dark as soil, glinting with embedded bits of resin that caught the light like amber. Her hair was a mess of curls, still tangled from the wind, her lips stained a deep green.

“You guys look amazing,” Johanna said, voice low and teasing, as if the compliment were an inside joke. Her eyes flicked from Katniss’s flickering black dress to Peeta’s black trim, amused. “So fierce. Really. All that fire and sugar.” Red snorted, leaning casually against the elevator wall, her green-painted nails tapping against the steel. “I’m almost jealous,” she drawled, winking in Haymitch’s direction. “Almost.” Haymitch lifted an eyebrow but said nothing, his mouth twitching in something dangerously close to a smirk.

Johanna sighed and gestured at her own gown, which shimmered faintly under the light. “Our stylist is such an idiot.”

Red groaned in agreement, rolling her eyes so hard it was practically a full-body motion. “A complete idiot,” she echoed, her voice drenched in exasperation. “You’d think trees were the only thing in Seven. She’s lucky I didn’t throw an axe at her.”

Katniss blinked at that, unsure if it was a joke. Both girls turned their backs to the trio, as if the others weren’t worth their attention anymore. Johanna’s fingers immediately went to her hair, pulling pins free one by one, the dark strands falling down her back like a wave of night. Each metallic clink of the pins hitting the floor sounded like punctuation — sharp, deliberate, defiant. Red followed suit, tugging at her jewelry — thick bracelets of polished bark and glinting metal — and letting them fall carelessly to the ground. Her earrings went next, tossed like discarded trophies. The rhythm of it was strangely hypnotic, both of them shedding the Capitol’s vision of them layer by layer, like snakes molting their gilded skins.

“District Seven,” Johanna muttered, her tone bitter but amused, “lumber and trees.” She ripped off another bracelet and let it crash to the floor, her voice rising with mock theatricality. “All strength and bark, nothing but decoration for the Capitol to carve up.” Red gave a short laugh, low and sharp. “She said I should smile more,” she said, her tone sugar-sweet and poisonous all at once. “I’d love to turn her face into confetti.”

Johanna barked a laugh, but Haymitch’s eyes flicked sharply toward Red — a flicker of recognition, a ghost of memory. He remembered the commentary from her Games. The way she’d ended it: not with an arrow or a spear, but a blade and a snarl. The way the Capitol had celebrated it — blood splattering like paper scraps, raining down over her final opponent. He said nothing, but the corner of his mouth twitched in grim acknowledgment.

Red caught his look and winked at him, unbothered, her grin both feral and charming — the exact balance that had made her the Capitol’s darling and their nightmare all at once.

Johanna shook out her hair completely, running a hand through it with a sigh that was half frustration, half relief. “I swear,” she said to no one in particular, “if I hear one more person say ‘District Seven looks so natural,’ I’m setting the next stylist on fire.”

The elevator hummed softly as it ascended, carrying them upward through the Capitol’s heart. The air between them felt heavy — laughter and tension tangled together, like the moment before lightning strikes. Red leaned back against the mirrored wall, eyes half-lidded but alert, watching their reflections flicker across the gold panels. For all their bravado, there was something tired in her posture — a flicker of the girl beneath the legend, holding herself together with charm and defiance.

Johanna bumped her shoulder gently, and Red smiled faintly.

The sound of jewelry still hitting the floor echoed as the elevator climbed higher, carrying the wolves and the fire into the Capitol’s waiting jaws. “So,” Johanna said suddenly, twisting to look at Peeta, mischief lighting up her eyes. “What’s it like now that the whole world wants to fall sleep with you?”

Her grin was sharp and foxlike, the kind that made everyone around her just a little bit uneasy. Peeta gave a startled laugh, unsure if she was joking, while Katniss started, “I don’t think the whole world—”

“She wasn’t talking to you,” Red interrupted smoothly, her voice dripping with amusement as she turned toward Katniss. A dangerous, playful smile tugged at her mouth. “But you can call me anytime, girl on fire.” Katniss froze, face reddening almost instantly, and looked up at the ceiling as though that could save her. Haymitch snorted into his sleeve. Red just laughed — a low, throaty sound — and reached for the clasp of her stylized two-piece costume. “You mind helping me out, Everdeen?” she asked, tone innocent but eyes gleaming with challenge.

Katniss hesitated for a long beat, then stepped forward, fingers brushing the intricate metal fastenings. The fabric loosened with a soft snap, and Red let out a satisfied sigh as she shrugged off the weight of the Capitol’s “artistry,” leaving herself unarmored in a way that felt almost rebellious. Beside her, Johanna rolled her eyes but smirked. “Good idea.” She turned toward Peeta. “Mind getting this zipper, sweetheart?”

Peeta, red-faced but polite, did as asked, fumbling slightly. Johanna laughed and kicked free of the heavy material with relief, standing proud and unbothered. The elevator chimed softly. Floor Seven. Red caught Johanna’s eye, grinned, and as the doors opened, both women strode out together — heads high, laughter echoing back through the corridor.

“We should do this again sometime!” Johanna called over her shoulder, voice ringing with mock cheer. Haymitch gave a raspy laugh, shaking his head. “Red Briar and Johanna Mason, District Seven,” he said to no one in particular, almost proudly. “Trouble, the both of them.” The doors slid shut again, leaving behind silence — and the faint scent of rebellion.

The doors slid shut behind them, muffling the laughter still echoing in the shaft. Johanna and Red stepped into the District Seven floor, and for the first time all night, the noise of the Capitol faded away. The hallway smelled faintly of pine and polish — too clean, too artificial to ever be real wood — but it was meant to remind them of home. A mockery of it.

Johanna let out a long exhale, running a hand through her hair as she kicked off the ridiculous, gold-laced heels she’d been forced into. “I swear,” she muttered, voice sharp with disbelief, “if I have to wear bark-patterned silk one more time, I’m setting something on fire.”

Red laughed weakly, tugging at what remained of her costume as she made her way toward their shared suite. The weight of the performance — the crowd, the lights, Katniss’s words still biting at the back of her mind — it all sat heavy now that the adrenaline was wearing off.

Her fingers trembled slightly as she unclipped the last of her Capitol jewelry. Each piece hit the table with a dull clink. “You know,” she said, quieter now, “I almost forgot what real clothes feel like.”

Johanna was already stripping the last layers of glittering green fabric away, exchanging the illusion of luxury for a pair of worn training shorts and a soft grey shirt — stolen from some long-ago Games uniform, judging by the faded emblem at the corner. “Comfort’s underrated,” she said, grinning faintly. “They love their little costumes, don’t they? Turn us into something pretty and shiny so they don’t have to see what’s underneath.”

Red nodded slowly, pulling on her own change of clothes — black leggings, a loose tank, her hair falling messily over her shoulders now that it was free of pins and lacquer. She looked at herself in the mirror — still painted, still sparkling faintly from the Capitol’s touch — and almost didn’t recognize the girl looking back. For a moment, they sat in silence — two victors from the same district, two women carved up by the same system, both trying to find something human in all the gold and glitter. Outside the window, the Capitol lights still blazed, their reflection flickering against the glass like fire.

Red leaned back against the wall, closing her eyes. “Tomorrow’s going to be worse, isn’t it?”

Johanna gave a low laugh. “Oh, sweetheart,” she said, flopping backward onto the bed, “it always is.”

------

The Capitol night never really slept — its glow filtered in through the tall windows, painting the District Seven suite in soft hues of blue and gold. The air-conditioning hummed quietly beneath the laughter of whatever mindless Capitol drama was blaring from the screen. It was the kind of show that could only exist here: a glittering soap opera where everyone smiled too wide and cried too beautifully, dripping in jewels even as they pretended to suffer.

Johanna lounged on the couch, her legs thrown over the armrest, idly flipping through a magazine she’d stolen from the train a day or two before. Red sat cross-legged beside her, hair still damp from her shower, wearing a loose green shirt that probably belonged to some long-gone tribute. She was trying to focus on the flashing colors of the screen, but her attention drifted, her fingers tapping restlessly against her knee.

The actress on the screen made some dramatic speech about love and destiny, and Red groaned, throwing her head back against the couch cushions.
“Where’s Finnick?” she muttered, voice stretched between boredom and irritation.

Johanna didn’t even look up. “He’s not even allowed on this floor, Briar dearest,” she said, smirking as she turned a page. “District system. Remember?” Red pouted, dragging a pillow over her face. “Doesn’t mean he can’t visit. Maybe I’ll send a Peacekeeper to fetch him.”

“Sure,” Johanna snorted, “why don’t you try that and see how fast Snow drops dead from shock- actually please, for the love of God, please call for him I'd kill for his pasty ass to be six feet under." Johanna grumbled. But before either of them could continue, the doors slid open with a quiet hiss. “You called?” Finnick’s voice — smooth, teasing, unmistakably smug — filled the room before he did. He stepped into view wearing a soft white shirt and loose grey pants, his damp hair curling at the ends, barefoot, and very much not supposed to be there.

Johanna blinked, then threw her hands in the air. “Unbelievable,” she muttered. “You’re like a fungus, Odair. You show up everywhere you shouldn’t.”

Red didn’t even hesitate. She was already on her feet, laughing — the kind of laugh that came from deep in her chest, the kind that cracked the shell she wore around everyone else. “Finnick!” she squealed in a voice that didn't belong to the wolf of seven, crossing the room in two quick strides before throwing herself straight into his arms. He caught her easily, spinning her once like she weighed nothing. “You’re going to get us all arrested,” Johanna said, fake-gagging as Red buried her face against Finnick’s shoulder. “God, I can feel the disgustingness from here.”

Finnick grinned over Red’s head, the kind of grin that could light up a whole district if it wasn’t so dangerous. “Relax, Mason. I just bribed a Peacekeeper with one of my old tridents, signed and everything.” Johanna groaned, dragging a pillow over her face. “You two are insufferable.” Red just laughed harder, finally sliding down out of Finnick’s arms but not letting go of his hand as she tugged him toward the couch. “Don’t listen to her,” she said. “She’s just jealous.”

“Jealous?” Johanna shot back, sitting up now. “Of you two? Please. I’d rather suck Snow's dick.” Red kicked her feet up onto the coffee table, her grin lazy and soft now. “Told you he’d find a way,” she said to Johanna. Johanna just shook her head, but there was a ghost of a smile there — the smallest crack in her armor. “You’re all idiots,” she said, turning back to the TV.

Finnick reached over and stole the remote. “Good,” he said, lowering the volume. “I hate this show anyway.”

Red leaned her head against his shoulder. “You’re just jealous of the acting,” she teased.

“Of course,” Finnick murmured. “They’re all so believable.”

Chapter Text

The training room smelled faintly of sweat, metal, and the sharp tang of cleaned weapons. The gray walls reflected the cold, artificial light from above, and the mirrored panels along one side doubled the harshness of the space, showing every twitch of muscle, every flinch, every falter. Red and Finnick moved through it like ghosts, both of them weighed down by the night’s events — the Capitol, the reaping, and the crushing memory of the people who weren’t allowed to leave the arena alive, and the beginnings of what may be a revolution.

Johanna’s axe spun through the air, striking a practice dummy with the brutal efficiency of a seasoned killer. The wood cracked with each blow, sending a cloud of dust into the air. Her arms were steady, her stance unyielding, and her eyes were focused in a way that made Red almost shiver. Every swing carried with it the kind of rage that only someone who had lived and clawed through the arena could wield. Even in this empty room, Johanna’s presence commanded attention — a tempest contained in a human form. Meanwhile, at the entrance, Finnick was hunched over, his gold hair damp and plastered to his forehead. He retched again, the taste of his own disgust coating his tongue, and Red’s hand was already on his back, rubbing slow, soothing circles over the taut muscles she could feel trembling beneath his skin. He was utterly wrecked, both physically and mentally, and the room could have burned around them and he might not have noticed.

“It’s okay,” Red murmured, her voice low and rough from sleep and worry, though no one could hear over the metallic clang of axes and the harsh fluorescent lights. “Just… breathe. In. Out. The capitol isn't here it's just us.”

Finnick leaned against her shoulder, letting the strength she radiated carry him even as his body shook. Black and gray training outfits clung to them both — functional, stripped of all Capitol decoration, yet somehow highlighting the tautness and honed precision of their bodies. Red’s hair was braided tight so it wouldn’t get in her eyes, but loose strands fell around her face, damp with sweat from carrying Finnick and her own restless energy. Johanna, entirely avoiding the tender moment unfolding near the door, raised her axe again, aiming at the dummy with perfect precision. The sound of impact rang in the room like gunfire. Red’s jaw tightened; even at rest, Johanna’s skill was lethal. Red could imagine that every swing, every controlled motion, was a memory — of survival, of fear, of revenge.

Finnick swallowed back another wave of nausea, leaning closer to Red. She murmured something under her breath, pressing her cheek against the back of his neck, hands steadying his back. The training room was cold, sterile, a place of preparation for death and survival, yet in that moment, there was a fragile kind of warmth — a reminder that even the most battle-worn could find a fleeting sense of home, even in a room like this.

“Shh,” Red whispered again, just for him. “You’re fine. You’re still here. That’s all that matters.”

Finnick’s hands, trembling even as he gripped at her waist for balance, left streaks across her shirt, but she didn’t flinch. Her own body was tense, prepared for combat, but she allowed herself to anchor him, to be the center of gravity for someone else for once. Johanna’s axe found the dummy’s neck again, slicing clean through the air, and Red flinched, only a little, as the sound echoed around them. It reminded her how fragile Finnick could feel in moments like this — how he could be both unstoppable in the arena and utterly human out here, defeated by his own memories. She leaned closer, whispering again into his ear, murmuring small, private words that weren’t meant for anyone else.

And in the corner of the room, under the stark, merciless lights, the three of them moved through their own rhythms — Johanna perfecting destruction, Finnick yielding to the fragility Red cradled, and Red herself holding both worlds together.

The black and gray of their outfits blurred against the pale walls and mirrors, making their bodies shadows that belonged more to the arena than to the world outside. Yet somehow, through it all, the soft hum of Red’s murmurs, Finnick’s shuddering breaths, and the dull, rhythmic thwack of Johanna’s axe formed a strange kind of symphony — one of survival, of loyalty, and of the quiet bonds that only those who had bled and clawed through the Games could understand.

Through the open doorway, the shadows shifted, and two figures stepped inside. Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark. The air seemed to tighten, the fluorescent lights catching the sharpness in their expressions. Katniss’s eyes scanned the room, landing on Red with an intensity that was almost predatory — as if she could see straight through the layers Red tried so hard to maintain. Peeta’s gaze followed, softer, curious, but alert, like a musician watching the subtle cues of a partner. Red’s pulse spiked in that instant. She pushed herself upright with Finnick’s help, her body tensing under his hands. He wiped his mouth again, glancing at her with a small, reassuring nod, silently saying you’re okay. Red’s lips curled into a sly grin, and with a flick of her hand, she directed the most pointed, theatrical gesture she could muster — flipping Katniss off. It wasn’t vicious, not really — more a mixture of mockery, challenge, and a clear don’t mess with me energy.

Johanna, standing a few paces behind, released her pent-up frustration in one swift motion. Her axe clattered onto the training room floor with a deafening clang, the impact resonating like a gunshot in the sterile space. Katniss’s head snapped back, her muscles tensing, eyes wide in surprise. The reaction was almost instinctual — a startle at violence, a reminder of how trained and dangerous these girls already were.

Finnick didn’t move, didn’t speak, only held Red a fraction closer, letting her shoulder press against him, feeling the rapid rise and fall of her chest. His own body was alert, a mix of fatigue, lingering nausea, and an ingrained readiness that never truly switched off. Red’s grin didn’t waver; she let Katniss see the fire in her eyes, a silent promise that crossing her — or underestimating her — would have consequences. The room felt electric. Dust from the floor, sweat, and the sharp tang of metal from the training dummies hung in the air. Johanna’s smirk was sharp, teasing, perfectly timed with Red’s gesture, creating an unspoken pact between the two. Together, they radiated controlled chaos, their bodies poised like predators in a den, daring anyone — even the Capitol’s chosen symbols of rebellion — to step too close.

The clatter of the axe hitting the floor seemed louder now, echoing off the walls, a punctuation mark in a room already heavy with tension. Finnick’s eyes scanned Katniss and Peeta, measuring, calculating, protective, his hands on Red a subtle declaration: she’s mine, we’re untouchable.

Red’s grin widened, a teasing flash of her wolf like demeanor, her gaze locking with Katniss’s just long enough to leave the room charged, dangerous, and raw. Johanna’s stance, the curve of her lips, the relaxed but ready tension in her body — it all screamed one truth: crossing District Seven was not a mistake anyone wanted to make. The moment stretched, heavy and unspoken, before it fractured with the faint sound of Finnick inhaling, grounding them both. Red and Johanna didn’t say a word, and Katniss and Peeta didn’t move — they simply assessed, noted, and understood the subtle war being waged in the silence.

The training room hummed with energy, a low, constant vibration from the machinery and the clang of weapons on dummies and practice mats. Katniss and Peeta moved across the far side of the room, nodding curtly to other tributes as they watched the warm-up exercises. They weren’t the focus here; their presence was like a shadow at the edge of Red’s vision—there but not essential. Red didn’t allow herself to be distracted. Not today. Not in this room. Johanna continued her relentless assault on the practice dummy, the wood splintering slightly under the force of her axe swings. Each strike echoed in the room, a mix of frustration, muscle memory, and pure, furious energy. Her huffing and puffing was almost musical, rhythmic, a percussion under the hum of the Capitol’s mechanical heart. Red’s eyes flicked to her friend for a moment, the way Johanna’s posture leaned into the swings, every movement controlled but full of untamed power. It reminded Red why Johanna had survived what she had; precision wrapped in raw force.

Finnick moved silently toward the weapon rack, his golden hair catching the fluorescent light, damp with the sweat of a morning workout. His bare arms flexed as he pulled his trident off its hooks. He lifted it, testing the weight, letting the polished metal hum in the air. A fluid twirl, almost effortless, brought the trident to point directly at Red. His eyes sparkled, a teasing glint hiding under the serious edge he always carried when weapons were involved.

Red didn’t flinch. Not even a twitch. Instead, she leaned her weight back onto her left leg, a deep bend in her knee anchoring her in place like a predator coiled to spring. Her right foot shifted slightly, toes pressing against the floor to maintain perfect balance. Two black daggers slid from the rack into her hands with a metallic snap. She flexed her fingers, feeling the smooth leather wraps, the cold bite of steel along her palms.

In that stance, Red was both fluid and solid—a dangerous contradiction. The daggers raised, one angled slightly above the other, blades catching the light with a faint, ominous gleam. Her arms extended, elbows bent just enough to absorb momentum, wrists locked in readiness. Her eyes scanned Finnick, reading him like a mirrored reflection of herself. A predator’s focus, calm, patient, waiting for the first misstep.

Finnick mirrored her intensity. His trident twirled lazily in one hand, the other poised to adjust mid-strike. The air between them vibrated, charged with years of experience, trust, and unspoken communication. Every twitch of his wrist, the subtle shift of his hips, the way his shoulder angled toward her—it was a conversation without words. Two forces tuned to each other, dangerous separately, lethal together.

Red’s breath was steady, measured. She let her weight settle deeper into her back leg, feeling the tension coil through her calves, into her thighs, through her core. Johanna’s axe strikes were a distant drumbeat, almost like a metronome counting down to the moment Red would strike. Finnick’s trident was light in his hands now, twirling with ease, the metal whistling faintly through the air as he adjusted the angle to test her reflexes.

Then, like a silent command, they began.

Red lunged forward first, a short, precise strike with her left dagger, aiming to test Finnick’s reaction. He parried with the shaft of his trident, the metal scraping sharply against her blade. Sparks danced faintly where the two weapons met, a tiny reminder of the violence they were capable of. Finnick shifted, spinning the trident in a wide arc, forcing Red to adjust her stance, pivoting on the ball of her foot to avoid being off-balanced.

Her second dagger sliced in a counterstrike, aimed low toward his legs. Finnick jumped back, the trident angled down just enough to deflect, and for a heartbeat they were locked—dagger to trident, predator to predator, both measuring, testing, teasing. Red’s lips parted in a faint grin, the rush of adrenaline lighting up her expression. Her eyes gleamed with excitement—not for victory, but for the dance itself, the perfection of motion and anticipation.

Johanna’s axe strokes had slowed slightly, her attention drawn to the duel unfolding in the center of the room. She allowed herself a sly smirk, noticing the subtle shifts in Red’s posture, the way she moved around Finnick’s strikes with almost feline grace. Finnick was smiling too, but it didn’t reach his eyes—the look there was calculating, protective, and infinitely dangerous. Red feinted left, spinning her body with a swift rotation, dagger now extended to the right in a precise slash. Finnick reacted instinctively, parrying again but letting a slight gap appear—enough for Red to pivot again, a blur of motion, testing, teasing. She could feel his heartbeat in the room, steady and confident, but quickened slightly when her dagger flicked just past his defenses.

Finnick countered, pushing forward with a controlled lunge of the trident, testing her balance. Red dropped her weight lower, twisting her hips to absorb the momentum, her blades slicing air where they would have connected. Every movement was choreographed yet free, practiced yet alive. A dance of death made safe by trust and experience. Red’s grin widened faintly, a predatory flash, as she pivoted again, blades tracing elegant arcs. Finnick adjusted seamlessly, shifting his trident in response, his muscles taut and coiled. The room echoed with the swish of air displaced by the dance of metal, the faint scrape of Finnick’s trident on the floor as he adjusted stance.

Time stretched. Seconds became minutes in that haze of movement, observation, and testing. Neither made a mistake, neither yielded, but each tested the other, felt the boundaries, the weaknesses, the rhythms. They were not just preparing for the Capitol—they were preparing for each other, sharpening reflexes, anticipating movements, silently building a rhythm that was uniquely theirs.

Red lunged forward with her right dagger, sharp and precise, aiming for Finnick’s midsection. He grinned before she could even strike, twirling the trident in his hands with a practiced flick that deflected her blade—but the left dagger caught the shaft, jamming against the metal with a harsh scrape. The dagger skittered across the floor, clattering like a warning bell. Finnick didn’t hesitate. With a mischievous glint in his eyes, he stepped closer, leaning in just enough that Red could feel the warmth of his body. His free hand shot out, catching her other dagger mid-strike with a smooth, teasing flourish. Before she could react, he twisted, his trident’s point pressing gently but firmly against her foot while the stolen dagger hovered against her throat.

“Careful,” he murmured, voice low and amused, “I might start thinking you want me to get this close.” His lips curved in that infuriatingly charming grin that made her pulse stutter.

Red froze for a moment, the dagger at her throat, the trident at her foot, and then she smirked, foxlike and fearless. “You think I’d make it that easy for you?” she challenged, her voice a low purr.

Finnick chuckled, brushing a strand of her hair from her face with the back of his hand as he leaned closer. “Oh, you’d be surprised, wolfie. I can read you like an open book.” Red rolled her eyes but didn’t lower her guard. In one fluid motion, she dropped her weight, letting herself fall toward the floor. Using the rubber soles of her shoes, she shoved the trident’s point just enough to create space, her legs swinging wide under Finnick’s body.

He laughed, a rich, flirty sound, barely restraining himself as she twisted, snatched the trident midair, and sprang to her feet, now pointing the cold metal at his throat. “Looks like the hunter becomes the hunted,” she teased, her eyes sparkling.

Finnick threw his head back in mock surrender, laughter spilling freely. “Well played, sweetheart. But you know I like a challenge—especially when it involves you.” His gaze softened, lingering on hers with an affection that made her smirk widen. Red’s grin remained sharp, dangerous, but there was warmth behind it now, an unspoken acknowledgment of the bond they shared—playful, intimate, deadly, and utterly theirs.

Johanna clapped once, amused, her axe resting against the wall. “You two really shouldn’t be allowed in the same room unsupervised,” she said, smirking. “Someone’s going to die, and it won’t even be the Capitol’s doing.” Johanna cast a look at Plutarch where he sat high above them all. Red exhaled slowly, lowering the trident just enough to keep Finnick guessing, her daggers still ready. She let herself fall back against him, feeling the subtle weight shift of his body as he mirrored her movements. The way his arm curved around her, the teasing glint in his eyes, the warmth and steadiness—it all reminded her why they were more than partners.

Finnick leaned closer, brushing her ear with a whispered, flirtatious tease, “Careful, pretty-girl… you might make me fall for you all over again.”

Red laughed, a low, melodic sound that held both warmth and fire. She jabbed lightly at his ribs with her dagger, playful, and he caught her hand, turning it over in his grip to press a quick kiss to her knuckles. “Not if I can help it,” he whispered.

They paused for a heartbeat, the sound of the training room, the hum of the fluorescent lights, and the faint clatter of weapons around them fading into background noise. This was their world, lethal and playful, intimate and unbreakable—a dance of skill, flirtation, and trust that no one else could touch. Finnick’s laugh carried again as he let go, stepping back slightly, trident twirling between his hands with an ease born of years of practice. “Your turn again?” he teased, eyes alight, “Or are you going to make me wait?”

Red crouched slightly, daggers poised, a predator and a lover all in one. “Oh, I’m just getting started,” she murmured, her grin sharp, her pulse racing—not from fear, but from the thrill of him, of them, of the dangerous, perfect rhythm they shared.

Red landed on her feet, knees slightly bent, her body taut like a coiled spring. Finnick mirrored her stance, golden hair catching the glow of the training room lights, his trident spinning lazily in his hands. The air between them was charged—dangerous, playful, intimate. Each movement was deliberate, each glance loaded with both challenge and teasing familiarity. From the other side of the training center, Johanna crouched low, eyes glinting with mischief. She bent down and scooped up the dagger Finnick had flung earlier, the blade catching the light as she held it at arm’s length. “You’re too slow, Briar, how'd you even win your games,” she called, voice low and teasing. With a flick of her wrist, the dagger sailed through the air toward Red.

Red’s reflexes were instantaneous. She flipped forward in a blur, the motion fluid and precise, and caught the dagger midair. The metal pressed into her palm for a heartbeat before she spun onto her feet, dagger now in hand, ready to rejoin the deadly ballet with Finnick. She didn’t even glance at Johanna, her focus entirely on him. Finnick grinned, leaning into the chase, trident twisting with playful menace as he lunged toward her. “Trying to kill me with a gift, are you?” he teased, voice low and flirty, the inflection making her pulse spike.

Red chuckled under her breath, dagger flashing. “You know me better than that, golden-boy. Gifts are always deadly.”

The two circled each other, movement a blur—daggers clashing against the trident with sharp clinks, spins and ducking under swings, limbs moving in a lethal rhythm only they could sustain. Every step Finnick took was measured, yet teasing, his golden eyes never leaving hers, his smirk broadening when he saw her misstep by a fraction of an inch—and Red responded in kind, grinning, eyes alight with the thrill of the duel.

On the sidelines, Wiress and Beetee leaned against the wall, quiet observers. Wiress tilted her head, murmuring calculations about trajectories and timing under her breath, while Beetee’s fingers twitched, ready to note any weakness or opportunity. Their expressions were calm, analytical, utterly contrasting with the wild energy of Red and Finnick. Red’s dagger danced in the air, catching the light in quick flashes as she spun beneath Finnick’s trident thrusts, flipping backward, twisting, and sliding low to the ground. Finnick’s laugh rang out, rich and teasing, as he followed her movements, trident spinning and snapping, forcing her to constantly adapt, forcing her to be the wolf she was known as.

“You think you’re faster than me?” he whispered, leaning down low as she launched herself over him, dagger poised.

Red smirked under her mask of concentration. “I know I am,” she shot back, her dagger flicking upward to graze his arm in a teasingly dangerous way. The light metallic ring echoed across the room, punctuating their rhythm.

Finnick staggered back slightly, theatrically exaggerating the impact of the dagger. “Ouch! Was that necessary?” His grin widened, eyes glinting with humor and heat. Red took a breath, spinning around him now, catching his trident with the flat of her dagger and letting her weight press against his shoulder, using his own momentum to pivot him slightly off balance. “Absolutely,” she said, voice low and breathless, the thrill making her chest heave. Finnick laughed again, voice ringing across the training room. “You are insufferable,” he whispered, leaning close as he regained his footing. The heat between them was palpable—every glance, every teasing jab, every near miss a reminder of their connection, of the dangerous intimacy they shared.

Red grinned, circling back, dagger at the ready, eyes sparkling with challenge. “And yet you love it,” she teased, spinning under a thrust of his trident and landing gracefully on her feet.

Finnick crouched slightly, trident poised, gold hair falling into his eyes. “Guilty as charged,” he said, tone low and teasing, stepping closer so that their foreheads nearly touched. “Every second of it.”

Finnick threw his head back, laughing so hard it was nearly a bark. “You really are impossible,” he breathed, his grin wide, eyes alight with mirth and admiration. “I should be afraid, but I love this.” Red’s lips curled in a victorious smile, eyes sparkling with fire. “You love being humiliated by me?”

“Absolutely,” Finnick said without hesitation, twirling the trident in his hands to keep control, letting the teasing edge linger in his voice. Behind them, Johanna shook her head, chuckling. “I swear, the two of you would make a circus act lethal,” she said, picking up the scattered daggers to toss them onto the weapon rack. Her smirk lingered, amusement dancing in her eyes.

Red sheathed her dagger for a brief moment, but her grin never faded. “Only the best for you, Johanna,” she said with a teasing glance, then swung back into stance, ready for another round. Finnick leaned in slightly, eyes sparkling with flirtation, the movement intimate and electric. “Round two?” he whispered, voice low enough that only she could hear.

Red smirked, letting her daggers flash. “Round two,” she breathed back, eyes alight, heart racing, the two of them locked in a lethal dance that was as much about teasing and trust as it was about skill.

Wiress leaned slightly forward, noting angles and timing, murmuring something under her breath that only Beetee understood, while both of them quietly observed the lethal yet flirtatious duel. Neither spoke, giving the two the space to dance their deadly ballet, eyes locked, hearts pounding, the air between them vibrating with tension, playfulness, and undeniable chemistry.

Finnick and Red moved together, still catching their breaths from the sparring session, and gravitated toward Johanna at her side of the training center. The three of them leaned against the edge of the weapon racks, silent but alert, watching as Katniss and Mags approached the fishing lure station. The mechanical whir of the rotating targets filled the room, but it was nothing compared to the quiet intensity radiating from Katniss as she studied her aim. Every movement was precise, almost ritualistic, her bow drawn with an elegance that made every other tribute pause. Mags, small and wiry, gave a sharp, guttural whistle, her signal carrying across the training room. Finnick and Red exchanged a glance before the three of them walked over, their curiosity piqued. Other tributes followed instinctively, almost like a predator tracking the same scent, drawn by the quiet magnetism that seemed to hang around Katniss.

The hologram hunting station loomed ahead, a massive ring of light and sensors that projected three-dimensional images of targets with uncanny realism. Every hologram moved, breathed, and reacted as if it were flesh and blood, and Finnick’s chest tightened at the knowledge that these were programmed in the exact likenesses of their fellow tributes—their bodies, weapons, fighting styles—everything.

Katniss stepped forward first, her posture calm, eyes narrowed with that trademark focus that had unnerved everyone in the districts long before the Games. She nocked her first arrow, the taut string vibrating with energy, and released it with perfect timing. The hologram—a male tribute holding a trident, poised aggressively—staggered back and dissolved into glowing particles under the arrow’s impact. The crowd of tributes watching whispered among themselves, a low hum of tension and disbelief threading through the air.

Finnick felt Red's hand tighten in his, a subtle pressure that mirrored the tension in the room. She glanced at him; his golden eyes flickered nervously, jaw tight. The next arrow was aimed at a hologram that looked unnervingly familiar—a wolf-like figure wielding twin daggers, its stance eerily reminiscent of Red herself. The arrow struck true, piercing the hologram squarely through the chest. Finnick flinched visibly, his grip on her hand tightening even more, and Red swallowed a lump in her throat, heart thumping in her chest.

Johanna’s eyes were sharp, unflinching, watching a girl hologram with twin axes crumble to the floor. The metallic clang of the simulated weapons hitting the ground echoed in the large training hall, and she didn’t even flinch. But there was a flicker of apprehension in her eyes, the realization of just how lethal Katniss was hitting home. One by one, Katniss dispatched the holograms, each representing tributes with their own specific skills and weapons. Crossbows, tridents, daggers, axes, even improvised melee weapons—the images of her fellow tributes flickered and disintegrated under her deadly accuracy. It was impossible to ignore the way the holograms mirrored the real people; every flinch, every pause in their movement, was calibrated from actual combat data.

Red’s heart raced as she watched, still holding Finnick’s hand, squeezing it tighter as Katniss lined up another arrow. A female hologram, holding daggers in a manner that was unmistakably a copy of Red herself, lunged at the target before her. The arrow found its mark, and the figure dissolved in a shower of sparkling light. Finnick flinched again, murmuring under his breath, though Red couldn’t hear what he said. Her pulse matched the rapid, almost feral rhythm of the holograms falling one by one.

Every tribute in the room watched in silence, some stiffening with each death, some instinctively stepping back. There was a heavy weight in the air, a mix of awe, fear, and a gut-deep recognition that Katniss didn’t just have skill; she had instinct honed to a razor’s edge, lethal enough to make anyone pause. Red squeezed Finnick’s hand again, this time almost violently, as the wolf-like hologram fell. The fear of what this meant—the kind of predatory precision Katniss possessed—pressed down on them. Every move Katniss made, every arrow that struck true, reminded them how little room for error they would have once the Games began.

Johanna didn’t move, didn’t speak. Her axe was slung over her shoulder, eyes locked on the holograms as if studying every detail, every slight twitch. Finnick’s other hand flexed, unconsciously adjusting the grip on his trident as if he wanted to step in, intervene, or somehow shield Red, though he knew it was impossible. The last of the holograms—a complicated combination of multiple tributes’ moves—fell under Katniss’s relentless aim. The room fell silent for a heartbeat afterward, the only sound the hum of the machinery and the distant shuffle of tributes adjusting their stance.

Red felt her chest tighten, breath catching in her throat, as she looked at Finnick. His eyes mirrored the same mixture of awe and apprehension. Johanna’s lips pressed into a thin line, watching the aftermath with an unreadable expression, silent judgment or maybe quiet admiration. Katniss stood there, bow in hand, surveying the scattered remnants of her targets, completely calm, utterly unshaken, and utterly terrifying in the stillness that followed. The air in the room was thick with tension, respect, and fear—all for a girl who had taken out everyone in a room full of tributes, each representing a living, breathing threat, as if she’d done it effortlessly.

Red squeezed Finnick’s hand one last time, leaning into him for a second, the smallest whisper of comfort in the electric, tense aftermath. Johanna remained beside them, rigid, focused, eyes not leaving the hologram debris. Every tribute present had witnessed something unnerving—a glimpse of just how lethal Katniss was, and how much danger the coming Games held.

And in that moment, Red, Finnick, and Johanna all understood: the arena would be no joke.

Chapter Text

The waiting room smelled faintly of sweat and antiseptic, a cold, concrete gray that pressed against the skin like a weight. Tributes sat in rigid rows of plastic chairs, their hands folded, some fidgeting, some staring blankly ahead. The lighting was harsh, fluorescent, making every shadow sharp and every movement exaggerated. Red and Johanna sat side by side, shoulders brushing, hands clasped in that silent solidarity that only those who had survived the Games could understand.

Mags was perched nearby, small and alert, silver hair resting against her back, her hands folded neatly in her lap. Finnick sat next to Red, his long legs stretched out, one hand lightly holding hers, the other moving in fluid, deliberate motions as he signed to Mags. His eyes flicked between her and the other tributes in the room, sharp and attentive, a subtle protectiveness humming beneath his calm exterior. Red’s thumb brushed over his hand, the smallest touch of reassurance, while her other hand tightened around the leather strap of her training bag at her feet.

Around them, whispers floated through the air like restless shadows. Some tributes speculated about who would be called next, others nervously tested the weight of their own weapons or traced the lines of their assessment sheets. The energy was taut, heavy, a mixture of fear and anticipation that made every small sound—shuffling feet, quiet breathing, the distant hum of the intercom—feel amplified.

Then the announcement came, the intercom cutting through the room like a blade:

"District Seven: Red Briar: Report for Individual Assessment."

The words echoed in the concrete chamber, bouncing off the walls, and every tribute momentarily froze, as if the air itself had thickened around them. Finnick leaned forward just slightly, brushing his lips against hers in a quick, careful kiss. The world shrank for that brief moment, leaving only the heat of their connection, the familiar certainty of each other’s presence amidst the sterile, impersonal expanse of the Capitol facility. Johanna’s hand squeezed Red’s, firm and grounding, and Red felt a tiny spark of courage ignite inside her chest. The shared understanding between them—survivors, warriors, sisters in all but blood—was unspoken but palpable.

Red stood slowly, letting go of Johanna’s hand with the faintest touch of regret, the contact lingering in her mind even as her feet moved toward the training room. Her posture was straight, her jaw set, a mask of determination over the churning storm of nerves inside her. Finnick’s hand lingered at hers for a moment longer, then released, fingers brushing the back of her hand, a silent promise that he would be there when she returned.

She took a deep breath, the sharp scent of concrete and anticipation filling her lungs, and stepped forward into the gray corridor, moving alone now, each step deliberate. Johanna’s eyes followed her for a heartbeat, tight with solidarity and unspoken words, before returning to her own seat, still gripping her daggers and the quiet, latent fire that always seemed to simmer beneath her surface. The room felt a little emptier as Red walked away, her heart pounding in her chest, and Finnick’s gaze followed her every step. He held up a sign to Mags, subtle, precise, the only acknowledgment needed, but his eyes never left Red until the training room doors swallowed her whole.

The training room felt impossibly vast, sterile, and cold under the harsh Capitol lights, the gray concrete stretching in every direction. The bleachers above were filled with the Capitol elite—mentors, stylists, and officials whose expressions were as sharp and unreadable as carved stone. Every step Red took echoed, soft but insistent, against the polished floor, each one a drumbeat in the silent challenge she was about to issue. Her boots scuffed lightly, the metal buckles of her training outfit catching the light as she stepped forward. The black fabric clung to her, flexible and snug, a second skin that mirrored the precision of her movements. Her hair was tied back, but a few rebellious strands curled around her temples, framing a face that was sharp, predatory, and alive with calculated fire.

Her eyes swept upward, locking with Plutarch Heavensbee’s from the gallery above. The man’s gray suit seemed even stiffer under the scrutiny of her gaze. The light caught his spectacles, glinting for a fraction of a second, but Red’s eyes didn’t waver. She crouched slightly, the angle accentuating the readiness in her posture, every muscle coiled like a spring.

Her voice, low and controlled, slid across the room with an almost feline quality, a purr that carried confidence and edge: “Who do you believe are the three most lethal tributes in that room, sir?”

Plutarch tilted his head, caught off guard, his lips twitching in the faintest hint of a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Katniss Everdeen, Finnick Odair, and Johanna Mason,” he replied, calm but confused, the tilt of his head betraying that he was unsure why she was asking such a question. Red’s gaze didn’t move. Her eyes were sharp, almost dangerous, and a sly grin ghosted over her lips. She spoke again, louder this time, commanding the attention of every system and sensor in the room, every hidden microphone, every digital recorder the Capitol had installed:

“RUN TRAINING PROGRAM HOLOGRAMS: EVERDEEN, ODAIR, MASON, AND BRIAR.”

Murmurs rippled through the gallery above, subtle but palpable. Some of the Capitol elite blinked in surprise, whispering to one another, because this was not what they had expected. Four holograms—the three tributes Plutarch had named, and Red herself—blinked into existence on the floor before her. The holographic projections were impossibly lifelike: Red’s own image mirrored her every detail, the black daggers strapped to her thighs gleaming under the simulated lights, the sharp curve of her cheekbones and the intensity in her eyes unsettlingly precise. She crouched slightly, balancing on the balls of her feet, and drew two black daggers from their sheathes at her hips. One more she clenched between her teeth, a subtle glint of steel catching the light as she leaned forward, weight centered and ready. Her lips curled into a feral snarl as she grumbled, “Start.”

And then the holograms attacked.

They didn’t hesitate. Everdeen, Odair, Mason, and the mirrored Briar surged toward her in synchronized, lethal patterns, their simulated weapons raised and bodies angled to exploit any opening. Every instinct Red had honed over the years in the arena flared alive, muscles coiling, heart hammering, mind calculating the probability of every strike, every parry, every feint. The room fell away around her. The hum of the Capitol machinery, the spectators above, the fluorescent glare of the lights—all became background noise to the pulse of steel and motion, the thrill and terror of the arena condensed into a single, electric moment.

The moment Red barked, “START,” the holograms lunged, and the room exploded into motion. The first to close in was Katniss Everdeen’s projection, bow drawn, eyes sharp and calculating. Red’s dagger in her left hand flashed, slicing an imaginary arrow in midair, her reflexes impossibly fast. She pivoted on her heel, letting the mirrored Briar advance, spinning into the motion to drive her dagger between the hologram’s ribs. Sparks of light erupted on contact, the synthetic bloodless simulation flickering as if wounded in reality. Next, Johanna Mason’s hologram came at her with axes raised, eyes narrowed. Red ducked under the first swing, using her legs to propel herself sideways, letting the momentum carry her into a low roll. She kicked upward, her steel-toed boots striking the wrist of the hologram’s axe arm, twisting the weapon into an awkward angle. The hologram staggered, but Red was already on it—her dagger now held in her teeth glinting in the harsh light. She snatched the second dagger from the floor, her hands fluid, precise, closing the distance between herself and the Mason projection.

It wasn’t enough. Finnick Odair’s hologram surged forward next, trident spinning in a lethal arc. The crowd of spectators blinked in surprise, and Plutarch’s eyebrows lifted imperceptibly. The love between Red and Finnick was not a secret—anyone who knew the history could predict her reaction—but they didn’t expect what came next. Red’s grin, sharp and dangerous, was fleeting as she zeroed in on the hologram. Every instinct told her to exploit what she knew of his style, the subtle ways he telegraphed his movements, the slight weight shifts when he lunged. She sidestepped his first strike, grabbing the trident with her free hand mid-spin and redirecting it, forcing the hologram off-balance. Sparks erupted from the simulated impact, but she didn’t pause. Her reflexes were an extension of her mind, and her mind was all clarity, all lethal intent.

Finnick’s hologram tried to pivot, spinning to catch her from the other side, but Red was faster. She ducked, rolled, and slid her foot along the floor, using the momentum to launch herself upward. Her dagger shot from her teeth, spinning through the air like a small, sharp comet, striking the trident again, sending it skittering across the training floor. The movement was a blur, a seamless fluidity that left the hologram momentarily stunned.

Red lunged, caught the other dagger in her hand, and pressed forward, keeping the simulated Finnick pinned against the floor. One dagger hovered near the hologram’s chest, the other still in her grip, ready to strike if it moved. She allowed herself a fleeting smirk, a spark of wicked amusement in her eyes, knowing the Capitol elite above had never anticipated this—never anticipated that a tribute would use their personal knowledge of love and trust to ruthlessly dismantle a holographic representation of someone they cared about.

Her movements weren’t reckless, though—they were precise. Each dodge, each pivot, each parry and strike calculated to not just block but dominate. Red twisted her weight, sliding one dagger under the hologram’s arm to the back of its leg, and shoved, sending it careening to the floor with a sharp metallic clang that echoed through the room. Sparks and projected effects scattered across the floor as if in acknowledgment of her supremacy. The hologram tried to rise, pivoting for a counterattack, but Red’s foot was already braced, and she used her entire body to swing her leg underneath it, flipping it over her shoulder. Her other dagger, still held in her hand, came up in a sharp, clean movement aimed at the hologram’s neck. It paused just short, symbolic but precise enough to mark dominance. The room was silent for a heartbeat, then the soft simulated electronic hum of the defeated hologram died, flickering out like a candle snuffed in mid-flame.

Red didn’t pause to gloat. Finnick’s hologram had been the most dangerous precisely because she knew him. She had to be faster, smarter, sharper than anything the Capitol—or even the simulation—could anticipate. Her eyes darted to Johanna’s projection, slicing through its defenses with uncanny awareness, then angled toward Katniss Everdeen’s hologram, the girl of fire and arrows, who was now circling, cautious but deliberate. Her teeth clenched the dagger, hands slippery with simulated sweat, heart hammering as if she were truly back in the arena. She spun, twisting her body to deflect another arrow projected by Katniss’ hologram, rolling to her side in a low, animalistic motion that made her look like a shadow leaping over the floor. One dagger caught the arrow midair, flicking it harmlessly aside, while her other dagger stabbed downward in a fluid motion toward the hologram’s midsection, forcing it to backstep.

The room above was stunned. A few murmurs trickled through the gallery as Red’s performance—calculated, lethal, utterly devoid of hesitation—left every spectator in disbelief. Even the seasoned mentors shifted uncomfortably in their chairs. They had seen tributes train, seen them practice, but this—this was predatory. This was a tribute turning their knowledge, their instinct, and their bond with a living, breathing competitor into a weapon.

And she wasn’t done.

Red flicked her wrist, spinning her dagger between her fingers, each movement a blur. She ducked another lunge from Johanna’s hologram, slid underneath its axe in a low sweep, grabbed the simulation’s weapon mid-spin, and sent it clattering across the floor. The hologram toppled, and she didn’t pause—her attention snapped back to Finnick’s defeated projection. She crouched slightly, eyes cold, calculating, and with a twist of her body, propelled herself upward. One dagger aimed at the hologram’s chest, the other pointing toward its knees, effectively immobilizing it. Her breath came in controlled bursts, and she allowed herself a brief glance toward the gallery. The Capitol elite’s faces were tight with surprise, some even pale, though none dared to move or speak. They had expected choreography, not the raw, lethal instinct that Red displayed. She was a wolf, a predator, a girl shaped by forest shadows and sharpened by violence, and she had just turned that instinct into art—a terrifying, beautiful art that left even her own allies catching their breath.

Red didn’t gloat. She let the holograms flicker and collapse in succession, each movement precise, confident, and cruelly efficient. The simulated Finnick lay at her feet—symbolically defeated, yes, but more importantly, it was a message: she and the Capitol’s golden boy were untouchable when it came to each other. Her eyes softened for a fraction of a second, not in vulnerability, but in recognition of trust, of shared history, of a bond that no Capitol game could replicate.

When all the holograms finally fell at her hand, turning into orange dust before flickering away, she turned to the people above her and bowed. "But may the odds be ever in your favor, elites." She smiled, before walking out of the training room.

Chapter Text

The lights of the Capitol stage shimmered like liquid gold, the polished floor reflecting the overwhelming brightness of the audience cameras. The cheers of the Capitol citizens rolled across the arena like a tidal wave, drowning out everything else. Backstage, the chaos of stylists, assistants, and tributes moved around in a frenzied blur, but Red and Johanna were frozen, each of them gripping the edge of the curtain as though the flimsy fabric could anchor them to reality.

Red’s heart pounded so loudly she could feel it in her throat. Her eyes were glued to the massive screens above the stage, where Finnick Odair stood, his posture impossibly upright despite the weight of the arena on his shoulders. His golden hair gleamed under the spotlight, perfectly styled to accentuate the sharp lines of his face. Every movement was confident, every tilt of his head calculated to draw attention. But what made Red freeze wasn’t his perfection—it was the way his gaze locked onto the camera, onto her, as if he could see through miles of space, walls, and lights to pierce directly into her chest.

Caesar Flickerman’s voice rang out, cheerful and taunting, his signature flamboyant energy bouncing through the air. “Well, Finnick! I hear you have a message out there for a special someone!” He laughed, his golden teeth catching the stage lights. “Can we hear it?” He handed the microphone over with a theatrical flourish, spinning slightly to allow Finnick all the stage, all the attention. Finnick’s eyes didn’t leave the camera, didn’t leave the lens that symbolized the Capitol, the games, the entire world watching. The mic in his hand was barely noticed—he didn’t hold it as much as he claimed it, like it was an extension of his intent. His voice was steady, low, and cut through the buzzing noise of the crowd.

“My love,” he began, his tone rich and unwavering, “you have my heart, for all of eternity. If… If I die in that arena—”

Red’s hands clenched around the curtain so hard that her knuckles went white. Her breath caught in her chest, and the world seemed to tilt. A sharp, sudden sound escaped her throat, half sob, half gasp, as the weight of those words hit her like a physical blow. She could feel the heat rise to her face, and before she could even process it, Johanna’s arms were around her, squeezing tightly, a silent acknowledgment of the terror and the love bleeding through the words. The stylist’s scissors clipped somewhere nearby, oblivious to the personal storm raging just a few feet away, while other tributes whispered to each other, casting quick, nervous glances at the two girls at the edge of the curtain.

Finnick continued, his words deliberate, each one a shard of steel coated in honey. “My last thought,” he said, “will be of your lips…”

Red’s chest constricted. Her fingers dug into Johanna’s arms as if holding on could make the words less real, could pull him from the stage and deposit him safe in her arms. Her knees shook, and she pressed her forehead to the curtain, willing herself not to scream, not to collapse into the tight, protective hug that Johanna maintained.

Johanna’s arms were steady, warm, and grounding. She whispered something low into Red’s hair—a string of murmured syllables in the old District Seven whistling code, almost inaudible—but enough to remind Red that someone was there, that someone understood the terror and the thrill, the deep, gut-wrenching mixture of love and fear.

Red’s eyes were locked on Finnick, absorbing every movement: the slight tilt of his chin, the curve of his smile as he dared the Capitol to blink and miss a word, the way he carried the weight of both his district and the arena in that single posture. It wasn’t just a message; it was a promise. It was a weapon, aimed at the hearts of the spectators, yes, but most poignantly, aimed directly at her.

The room backstage seemed to shrink around Red, the fluorescent lights and hum of machinery fading into nothingness. The only thing that existed was the flickering image of Finnick on the screen, the sound of his voice echoing in her skull, and the tight, solid presence of Johanna keeping her anchored to reality. Her breath came in shallow bursts, and she tilted her head, as if craning closer to the screen might somehow make the distance between them shrink.

Her lips parted slightly, a low, quiet sound of disbelief, awe, and anguish. Every word he spoke felt like a thread weaving around her chest, tightening until it was hard to draw a full breath. Yet underneath the fear, underneath the panic and the tears threatening to spill, there was a fierce, stubborn pride—he was doing this for her, laying himself bare to the Capitol, to the world, to the arena, because he knew she would understand the depth, the meaning, the impossibility of the love threading through the chaos.

And as Finnick’s words hung in the air, the backdrop of flashing lights and screaming crowds blurred into insignificance. The entire Capitol, every camera, every spectator, even Caesar Flickerman’s flamboyant laughter, faded behind the singular clarity of that message: a promise, a warning, and a declaration all at once. Red pressed her palm to her chest as if trying to still the rapid drumming of her heart, and Johanna squeezed her once more, whispering, “He’s yours. And you’re his. Don’t forget that, Briar, and we both know the plan for that arena.”

The room backstage was alive with movement—stylists adjusting last-minute outfits, tributes muttering, but Red didn’t see them. She only saw Finnick. She only heard his voice. And she knew, in some unspoken, irrevocable way, that this arena was no longer just a game. It was a stage for promises, for love sharpened into something as lethal and precise as the daggers at her belt. Finnick’s eyes never wavered from the camera, but Red could feel them turn inward somehow, looking straight into her soul. Her throat tightened, her jaw ached from holding back the sob that threatened to escape, and she squeezed Johanna’s hand as though letting go would make him disappear. She felt the heat of the moment, the weight of the world, and the impossibility of the arena all press in—but also the undeniable certainty that he loved her, and that love was sharper, fiercer, and more dangerous than anything the Capitol could produce.

The broadcast continued, Caesar’s laughter ringing hollow against the intensity of Finnick’s words. Red’s knees threatened to buckle, and yet she stood, anchored by the arms of Johanna and the undeniable pull of a love that had already survived everything the world could throw at it.

The camera lingered on Finnick, and in that pause, in that slow, deliberate gaze, Red understood: he was willing to burn it all—every rule, every expectation, every game—to protect her heart, even if the arena demanded his death.

And with that understanding, Red’s own resolve ignited, fierce and unyielding, she knew that there was no other option.

That arena would be the start of the revolution, or it would show just how quickly the capitol could extinguish a flame.

Backstage, the hum of lights and the rustle of stylists moving frantically felt like a distant storm compared to the rage storming across the stage. Red stood slightly behind Finnick, her arms crossed over her chest as he adjusted the straps of Johanna’s outfit. The green two-piece, woven of twisting vines, clung to her like living armor and gave her the imposing silhouette of some forest predator. Her hair, red and curled upward like the flames of a twisted bonfire, framed her sharp cheekbones and heavy, precise eyeliner. Every detail screamed danger, power, and defiance.

Finnick’s hands were steady but gentle, brushing over the delicate vines, adjusting the wooden panels so they didn’t snag as she moved. He murmured softly under his breath, almost to himself, “You’re perfect.” Red’s lips twitched at the word, but she didn’t laugh. She was too focused on Johanna, watching her shift her weight onto the balls of her feet, ready, predatory.

The lights above the stage glinted across the cameras and Caesar Flickerman’s bright smile. “Well, Johanna,” Caesar said, his voice unusually clipped and tight tonight, as if trying to maintain cheer while sensing the electricity radiating from the girl before him, “we’ve seen a lot of tears tonight, but I see no tears in your eyes. No… you’re angry.”

Backstage, Red’s heart beat faster. She could see every line of Johanna’s stance, the way her shoulders squared, how she held the mic not like a tool but as a weapon. Johanna laughed, a low, harsh sound that echoed across the studio, bouncing off the polished floors and metal scaffolding. It wasn’t the laugh of someone amused—it was the laugh of someone ready to bite, someone dangerous. “Yes, I’m angry,” Johanna said, her voice carrying across the broadcast, sharp and clipped. “I’m getting totally screwed over here.”

Red caught glimpses of the other tributes backstage, heads tilting up toward the monitors, jaws tightening. A chorus of low, half-murmured “Preach”s followed Johanna’s words, soft but deliberate, like small pockets of rebellion nodding in her wake. Red felt the same spark of approval ripple through her chest, though she kept her own expression tight, studiously neutral. Finnick’s fingers brushed hers lightly, a grounding gesture, but he didn’t speak—he didn’t need to. Both of them understood the kind of fire that Johanna carried, the kind that burned too bright to be tamed.

Johanna’s gaze swept the stage like a predator scanning the forest. “The deal was,” she continued, and now every word was deliberate, punctuated by the strength in her stance, “if I won the Hunger Games, I would get to live the rest of my life in peace. But now… now you want to kill me again.” The crowd reacted with cheers, but they were meaningless, distant—every syllable from Johanna was aimed directly at the Capitol, a middle finger and a warning all in one. Red could feel her blood stirring, the thrill and danger tangling in her chest as she watched Johanna’s lips curl around each word, black eyeliner sharp as blades under the bright studio lights.

Red’s jaw clenched when Johanna spoke next, almost a scream, almost a roar: “Well, you know what? FUCK THAT. AND FUCK ANYBODY WHO HAD ANYTHING TO DO WITH THAT.” The cameras cut closer to Johanna’s face. Her pupils were dark, shadowed under the makeup, the corners of her lips upturned in a smirk that didn’t quite reach her eyes. She wasn’t just angry—she was a storm contained in human form, ready to rip the world apart if it stepped too close.

Red felt a tightness in her chest, a mix of awe and fear. She had seen Johanna like this before, in the Games, when the arena pressed every limit of cruelty against her. But seeing it here, amplified by the stage, the cameras, the Capitol audience—it was a declaration, a challenge. Every stylist, every backstage crew member, and even Finnick, held their breath as the intensity radiating from Johanna filled the air.

Red’s eyes flicked to Finnick, who had his arm around her shoulders now, steadying her just slightly. He watched Johanna with admiration, but also with a flicker of worry in his eyes. Johanna could hurt herself with this kind of rage if she lost control, and both he and Red knew it—but neither said a word. They understood: this was Johanna at her best, at her rawest, and there was no holding her back. The words had barely left her mouth when Red could see the Capitol audience reacting. Gasps, cheers, shocked murmurs—they didn’t understand. They couldn’t. This wasn’t for them. This wasn’t performance. Johanna’s words were a blade aimed at the people who thought they owned her life.

Backstage, Red and Finnick didn’t move. Their eyes never left the screen. Finnick’s thumb brushed over the back of Red’s hand, a small, grounding touch amidst the storm of adrenaline. Red’s nails dug into his palm just slightly, matching the rhythm of her heartbeat. She didn’t need to speak; the moment was already fully understood between them.

Johanna’s voice rose again, carrying over the cheering and gasps. Every syllable, every syllabic hammer of anger against the Capitol was a statement: she was not their property. She would not be controlled. And she was dragging the world with her, whether they liked it or not.

Red swallowed hard, feeling the same fire ignite inside her chest. Not the anger of Johanna, but her own—hot, ready, and lethal. Finnick squeezed her hand, a silent reminder: hold together, survive this, and perhaps—just perhaps—live to fight another day.

Finnick’s hand was warm around hers as he guided her up the narrow, slick stairs toward the stage. Every step was careful, deliberate; he was holding more than her body, he was holding the tension coiled tight inside her. Her chest was still pounding from Johanna’s firestorm earlier, and the lingering adrenaline made her feel both lighter and heavier at the same time—like she was about to take flight, yet every muscle knew the weight of the Capitol’s scrutiny.

“Steady,” Finnick murmured in her ear, voice low enough for only her to hear. She squeezed his hand once, a small acknowledgement, before nodding. The moment stretched, the world condensing down to the stairs, the mic, the lights, the electric hum of the cameras. Then, almost imperceptibly, Finnick gave her one last squeeze, and they separated: he disappeared backstage with Johanna, leaving Red to face the glaring, prying eyes of the Capitol alone. The stage felt impossibly vast, the lights bright enough to burn the edges of her vision, cameras pivoting and spinning to capture every angle, every flicker of her expression. Caesar Flickerman’s grin seemed almost carved into place, perfectly plastered over the tension in the air.

“Well, our dear Wolf of Seven,” Caesar began, his voice booming across the arena, “do you have anything you’d like to say to the Capitol, or even… some lover?” His head tilted theatrically, eyes glinting as if he already knew the potential chaos that could unravel from a single word.

Red took the mic, the cool metal grounding her fingers as a slow, feral smile spread across her face. Her teeth flashed white under the lights, sharp and deliberate, almost predatory. She held the audience for a beat, then spoke, her voice clear, even, and confident, each word measured but burning with the intimacy of her own code. “To my love, my golden-boy,” she began, letting the words roll smoothly off her tongue, “I have met you in every universe, and if this life doesn’t give us the ending we have dreamed of, then I will find you in the next.”

She lifted her chin slightly, letting her eyes trace the unseen path of Finnick somewhere backstage, imagining him catching her words in the quiet space only they shared. “And I will tie the string that has brought us together by the tips of our fingers,” she continued, voice softening for a moment, “till you forgot there was a time I was not always by your side.”

Her gaze swept outward, cutting across the cameras, across the Capitol, until it rested in the invisible lines of her family back in District Seven.

“To my brothers: Take care of mom, and—”

She paused, letting a long, low whistle exhale from her lips, the sound curling across the stage, delicate yet firm. It was more than a signal; it was a language, a warning wrapped in melody. Only those from District Seven—and the boy from the tides, Finnick, backstage—would understand its meaning.

Run far away. Stay away from the Peacekeepers. Red’s chest heaved slightly as the whistle faded into the buzz of cameras and microphones. She lowered her hand for just a fraction of a second, letting the weight of her words and their meaning settle into the air. Every eye in the Capitol might be watching, but only Finnick and the people she cared for would truly hear it. She smiled again, a soft, wolfish curve of her lips, and the stage waited, the world holding its breath with her.

Backstage, the air was thick with perfume, hairspray, and the faint tang of nervous sweat. The noise of the Capitol—the applause, the music, the chatter of stylists and handlers—felt muffled here, muted, almost like a different world. Johanna leaned against a rolling clothing rack, her arms crossed, one eyebrow arched as she watched Red fidget with the edge of her two-piece, adjusting straps and smoothing the fabric just enough to be comfortable. Finnick was on stage again, crouched beside Mags, signing rapidly with precise, fluid movements. Mags’s eyes tracked every gesture, nodding and shaking her head where appropriate, her face calm and unreadable. Even in the midst of chaos, the three of them moved in synchrony—Finnick’s hands, Mags’s attentive gaze, and the protective tension coiled tightly around Red’s shoulders.

Then the doors slid open, and a hush passed through the room, even among the stylists scrambling over last-minute touch-ups. Katniss stepped into the space, the soft whisper of fabric announcing her presence before she even fully emerged. Her wedding gown shimmered under the bright backstage lights, delicate and white and impossibly stark compared to the two girls in front of her. Red’s chest constricted with amusement, and she choked back a laugh, the sound caught somewhere between a giggle and a hiss.

Red's stylist fussed over the two-piece, tugging at straps, smoothing edges, trying to maintain some sort of Capitol-approved perfection, but Red barely noticed. Her gaze had latched onto Katniss, whose expression was a mixture of apprehension and defiance, eyes wary beneath the veil of her tightly pinned hair. Johanna, never one to hide her thoughts, rolled her eyes dramatically and let a low scoff escape. “Really? A wedding dress?” she asked, her tone dripping with mockery, the kind that only someone who had fought tooth and nail through blood and fire could get away with.

Katniss’s lips pressed into a thin line, her eyes flashing. “Snow made me wear it,” she muttered, voice low, almost resigned.

Red’s grin was slow, deliberate, dangerous in its charm. She took a step closer, tilting her head, her sharp green eyes catching the light. “Then make him pay for it, girl on fire,” she said, her voice soft but laced with something predatory, protective, and mischievous all at once. For a moment, the three of them shared a look—Johanna smirking, Red’s grin spreading wider, and Katniss’s eyes flicking between the two of them. It was a private exchange in the middle of the chaos, a silent pact among warriors who had seen too much death to bother with pretenses. A bond forged in survival and blood, unspoken but understood.

A shared smile passed between them, one that carried the weight of every arena they had ever walked, every life they had fought to keep, every enemy they had survived. For a fleeting moment, the Capitol lights, the cameras, the stylists, and the orchestrated chaos all fell away. There were only three girls, bathed in blood, cunning and fierce, and entirely unbroken.

The stage stretched before them like a shimmering arena of light, each tribute positioned carefully in a semi-circle, their outfits pale and reflective under the brilliant Capitol spotlights. The entire spectacle was designed to awe, to dehumanize, to make them appear like flawless, radiant creatures rather than human beings who had been clawing and fighting their way through death since adolescence.

Red stood near Finnick and Johanna, her fingers brushing against Finnick’s just slightly, a silent tether to anchor her in the swirling madness. Her hair glimmered under the light, the shadows accentuating the sharp angles of her face, the predatory tilt of her grin. Johanna’s hands rested lightly on her axe strapped to her back, posture relaxed but every inch aware, every muscle coiled and ready. Katniss hovered near the edge, white gown a startling contrast to the dark, battle-worn energy emanating from the other tributes. Peeta’s voice cut through the roar of the audience, smooth and controlled, yet full of weight. “The Games are supposed to be about survival, courage, skill… and about knowing the stakes of life and death. But sometimes the truth is more powerful than any performance.”

The Capitol audience leaned in, captivated by the unbroken charm and eloquence Peeta carried, hanging onto each syllable, hearts and minds under his spell. Every tribute on that stage mirrored a calm, composed figure, faces polished and immaculate while the crowd drank in the display, unaware—or maybe too willing—to ignore the subtle hints of humanity beneath.

And then, the revelation.

Peeta’s words slipped effortlessly, but the weight behind them shattered the illusion of ceremony. “…I would love to be a part of the games” His hand lifted slightly toward Katniss, the stage quieting for a heartbeat. “…If it wasn't for the baby.”

The announcement landed like a thunderclap.

For a split second, the entire room froze, the Capitol audience stunned into disbelief. Then the reaction came, a tidal wave of outrage and awe. “CANCEL THE GAMES!” voices screamed, echoing, rising into a crescendo that threatened to collapse the carefully constructed order of the night. Shouts, cheers, some terrified murmurs—an emotional hurricane tearing through the arena. Red felt the energy hit her like a physical wave. Her grip on Finnick’s hand tightened instinctively, their fingers lacing together like a lifeline. Johanna’s jaw flexed, a suppressed smirk tugging at her lips, arms tightening around her axe as if to channel the raw force in the room. Katniss’s face was pale under the lights, eyes wide with a mixture of fear, defiance, and vulnerability that only made the spectacle more intoxicating.

The other tributes moved instinctively, some exchanging uncertain glances, others holding hands as though forming a shield against the chaos. And then Finnick’s presence—the golden-haired victor, ever the Capitol darling, yet here, now—a grounding force. He pressed lightly against Red, murmuring through their fingers, and she let the anchor steady her, even as her teeth caught in a sharp breath.

Peeta sprinted up the stage steps to join the other tributes, Caesar's voice carrying over the continuing uproar, trying to reassure, to clarify, but the crowd was beyond reason. Their cheers, their fury, their disbelief—all rolled together into a deafening roar.

Caesar Flickerman raised both hands, theatrically, trying to bring order to the pandemonium. His usual charm strained under the enormity of the moment, his smile frozen but professional. “Ladies and gentlemen! Calm, calm! Please! A moment of composure!” But the crowd wasn’t listening, and the cameras continued to pan over faces both in the audience and on the stage, capturing the perfect chaos the Capitol loved to bottle and sell as entertainment.

The tributes themselves responded instinctively, hands linking, grasping firmly as they lifted them high into the air. Red’s fingers locked with Finnick’s and Johanna’s, Katniss joining the small circle of defiance. In that moment, the stage wasn’t about jewels, or costumes, or Capitol approval—it was about survival, solidarity, and a shared human heartbeat amidst manufactured spectacle.

Caesar’s voice finally boomed, taking on a tone sharp and commanding. “Cut the lights!” In an instant, the brilliance of the stage vanished. Spotlights died, reflections faded, and the tributes were swallowed by darkness. The audience’s screams continued but now sounded muted, distant, like thunder behind an opaque veil. Only the shape of the human forms remained, hands still raised, a silhouette of unity and defiance carved into shadow.

For a single breathless moment, the Capitol had lost control. For a single heartbeat, the tributes were just that—humans, connected, resisting the dehumanization forced upon them. And in that darkness, Red could feel Finnick’s hand still tight in hers, Johanna’s hand steady at her side, and somewhere across the stage, Katniss standing defiant, unbroken, a promise of reckoning shining brighter than any Capitol spotlight ever could.

The lights were off, the arena holding its breath, and the chaos still roared beyond the walls, but inside that circle, inside that shadowed semi-circle of unity, the tributes were momentarily untouchable.

Chapter Text

The night on District Seven’s floor was quiet in the way that made every creak of the building feel louder than it was. The low hum of the Capitol’s systems thrummed faintly in the walls, a constant reminder of the machine that governed their lives. Red sat on the edge of her bed, legs drawn up, arms wrapped tightly around herself. Her hair tumbled in loose waves, falling half over her face, half down her back reaching at her ankles, damp with tears. Her eyes were raw, puffy, and red from hours of silent sobbing.

The light on the small nightstand flickered, casting shadows across the walls, turning the familiar room into something alien, threatening. Red’s hands shook as she clasped them together, pressing them to her face as if she could physically will her fear and sorrow away. Her fingers dug into her palms, her nails leaving thin crescent marks in the skin, but she didn’t care. She was a predator by instinct, a victor by necessity—but even the fiercest wolves have moments of weakness.

Her thoughts were a tangle of dread and desperation. Finnick. The very idea of him in the arena twisted her stomach into knots. She prayed silently, words failing her, muttering a stream of incoherent pleas to a god she wasn’t sure existed.

Please… let him live. Please… let him come back to me. Let him—

Her voice caught in her throat, and she broke down again, shuddering, the bed beneath her seeming impossibly small against the weight of her fear. But then another thought wormed its way in, tighter and sharper than her panic: the plan.

Please… let the plan work. Let me, Finnick, Johanna, and the rest of the tributes make it out alive. Let the Capitol’s trap fail. Let us—

Her hands clenched, pressing to her face as she whispered each name like a lifeline. Each one a thread connecting her to hope, tenuous but stubborn. Finnick… Johanna… Peeta… Katniss… everyone. Let them survive. Let us all survive.

The thought of the arena, the Capitol’s cruel designs, the blood, the screams, made her chest tighten again. Yet within the panic, within the sobs, there was a flicker—a fragile ember of determination. She wasn’t just praying for survival; she was praying for defiance. For their chance to burn the system from the inside.

Let us break the cage. Let the arena fall. Let them not take us without a fight. Let the plan work… let all of us come home.

Her tears fell freely now, unchecked, but the prayers continued, whispered and desperate, urgent as a heartbeat in the quiet night. The fear, the longing, the hope—it all coiled together, a knot in her chest that refused to unravel. She pressed her forehead to the cool sheets, inhaled a shaky breath, and whispered again, letting the words stretch and tremble with the weight of the world:

Let us survive. Let us survive…

And then—softly, impossibly faint, almost like a ghost weaving through the darkened room—she heard it.

A whistle.

Her heart jumped, catching in her chest. It was low, rising and falling twice, the rhythm familiar and precise, almost like a heartbeat she hadn’t realized she was missing. The timber of it was pure, unbroken, carrying a meaning so deeply ingrained it bypassed her mind and sank straight into her bones: District Seven is still here.

Red froze, listening, her pulse hammering. The darkness of her room felt heavier, pressing in on her from all sides, the shadows twisting like claws around the corners. Yet the whistle cut through it, sharp and certain, carrying the promise of presence, of solidarity, of loyalty unbroken by the Capitol’s schemes. Her lips trembled as her hands shook in the bed sheets, but she lifted her breath and let it shape itself into a reply, echoing the same two-note call. She sent it across the short distance of the floor, almost as if she were extending her own heartbeat back to Johanna.

The sound hung in the room for a heartbeat longer than it should have, reverberating off the walls and leaving Red shivering with recognition. That single, small whistle—one only her District could understand—was a tether. A lifeline. She whispered it again softly, as though saying it twice would keep the shadows at bay: District Seven is still here. A faint scrape of footsteps followed. Slow. Careful. Measured. Red’s gaze followed the shadow across the floor as it stretched from the doorway toward her bed. Every step carried reassurance, and yet every movement reminded her how fragile all of it was.

Johanna emerged, hair loose around her shoulders, eyes heavy with fatigue but hard and clear, bright with that unspoken fire Red had known from the moment they’d met. No words passed between them, because none were necessary. The whistle had said everything. The meaning, the weight, the promise: we are here. We are still standing. You are not alone.

Red’s chest tightened as Johanna climbed into the bed beside her, pulling the covers around them both. The physical contact was secondary—less important than the fact that she was there, that her sister-in-arms had crossed the short expanse to sit with her in the quiet dark. Red buried her face against Johanna’s shoulder, inhaling the faint scent of woodsmoke and pine that seemed permanently tied to her.

They lay like that for a long, trembling moment, letting the silence speak, letting the small sounds of the Capitol-controlled building fade around them. In that shared darkness, with only the low hum of the floor beneath them and the ghost of the whistle in their ears, Red whispered a prayer that felt slightly more hopeful: for Finnick, for Johanna, for herself, and for the others who would step into the arena.

Johanna, without a word, tightened her arm around Red. The silent embrace carried its own message, a reassurance in the quiet: we survive, together, or not at all. Red’s tears, still hot and unbidden, traced down her cheeks as she let herself melt into the moment, letting the fear, the rage, and the desperate hope mix into a single, sharp edge of resolve. The whistle had said what no words could fully capture. District Seven was alive. And as long as that call could reach her, she knew she was not alone. Not now, not ever.

The mattress dipped under her weight, warm and solid, and Red turned into her immediately, pressing her face into Johanna’s shoulder. Johanna’s arm wrapped around her like armor, strong and sure, and Red’s body went completely slack for the first time that night. She clutched at Johanna’s shirt as if she could hold onto both the woman and the fleeting sense of safety she represented.

“I’m here,” Johanna murmured, the words low but certain, vibrating through Red’s chest. No one else existed in that moment. No Capitol cameras, no arena, no crowd screaming for entertainment. Just the small, steady rhythm of another human being holding her, letting her fall apart without judgment. Red’s tears soaked through Johanna’s shoulder as she whispered prayers, half words, half sobs, her chest rising and falling erratically. Johanna tightened her grip, stroking the back of her head gently, murmuring nothing, saying everything. No advice, no platitudes—just presence.

Red’s mind replayed the day’s events in jagged flashes. Finnick laughing, spinning his trident in the training room, teasing her as always. The way he had held her hand during assessment, kissed her quickly before she walked into the training room alone. The thought of him facing the horrors of the arena without her—or worse, dying—made her lungs tighten and her vision blur.

“You’ll be fine,” Johanna whispered, though she knew it wasn’t true, not really. But she pressed the words to Red anyway, letting her strength pour into them, letting Red cling to them like life itself. Red buried her face deeper, and for the first time in hours, the tremor in her limbs began to slow. The sobs remained, ragged and unsteady, but the sense of sheer, raw panic dulled slightly in the warmth of Johanna’s embrace.

The night stretched endlessly around them. Red felt small, raw, human in a way that the Capitol would never understand, and Johanna held her there, still as stone and soft as moss, a paradox of comfort and strength. In the dark, two victors—both hardened by blood, by games, by the brutality of a world that demanded perfection—allowed themselves a moment of fragile humanity.

No words were spoken beyond the occasional whistle, soft and reassuring. No promises could change what awaited them in the arena, and no prayers could undo the danger. But in that room, for that night, Red was not alone. And Johanna, her mentor, her sister in survival and scars, her steadfast protector, simply held her, letting her cry, letting her fear exist, without trying to fix it, without trying to explain it, without pretending it could all be okay.

Red’s hands finally loosened around Johanna’s shirt, letting them fall limp, and her sobs slowed to a low, ragged exhale. Her chest heaved, lungs filling again, eyes wet and red but more controlled. Johanna’s grip didn’t falter; it never did.

Outside the room, the floor hummed with the quiet hum of the Capitol, the hum of inevitability. But inside, for those fleeting hours before the arena, Red allowed herself to be human. And someone else, a survivor who had earned every scar, every kill, every whisper of the wind through a forest she knew like the back of her hand, let her.

The wolf of District Seven, the lethal Red Briar, the girl who had faced death and survived, was for a single night just a girl afraid for the boy she loved.

------

The first hint of light seeped through the blinds, soft and pale, brushing the floorboards with a silver glow. The quiet of the District Seven floor was almost sacred, broken only by the occasional hum of the Capitol’s distant machinery and the soft, insistent tapping at their door. Red stirred beneath the blankets, her hair a tangled halo of red against the pillow, eyelashes still heavy with sleep. Johanna, already awake, moved toward the sound with practiced ease, every motion precise even in the haze of morning grogginess. She opened the door, and there, waiting like a silent promise, were two boxes.

Red climbed from the bed, stretching and letting out a low groan as she approached, her eyes immediately locking on the objects Johanna held. There was a weight to them, both literal and symbolic, as if they contained far more than metal and stone.

Johanna picked the boxes up carefully, turning them slightly in her hands as she studied them. One was small, sleek, gleaming with polished gold. Red’s gaze fell immediately on the contents: a pair of delicate stud earrings, each shaped like a tiny axe. The other box, slightly heavier, held a bracelet with a dagger pendant that glinted sharply in the early light, the chain delicate but unyielding, like the promise it carried.

Neither girl needed to speak. They shared a look, an understanding that had been forged in fire and blood long before this morning. The accessories weren’t mere decorations. They were symbols, signals, a quiet start to something far larger than either of them individually.

Red’s fingers hovered over the earrings, brushing against the cool metal, while Johanna traced the dagger pendant with a thumb, her eyes flicking up at Red with a mixture of mischief and resolve.

Both girls knew exactly what it meant. The alliance was forming. The revolution could begin.

And somewhere deep in the pit of Red’s stomach, amidst the fluttering hope and gnawing fear, she allowed herself the tiniest spark of a smile.

Chapter Text

Red’s chest tightened as the platform began to rise, the noise of the Capitol and the roaring crowd fading beneath the hum of machinery. The artificial sunlight hit her eyes like a punch, hot and unrelenting, forcing her to squint and lift a hand to shield her face. Every muscle in her body coiled with tension, her heart hammering like a war drum in her chest. When the platform reached its apex, the world spread out before her in dizzying clarity. The arena was massive, water glinting under the harsh synthetic light, forming a perfect circle around the central Cornucopia. Across the shallow pools, she could make out the other tributes, spaced evenly in a clockwise formation, each poised like predators on the edge of a hunt. Their expressions were masked behind a mixture of fear, calculation, and grim determination—each one aware, in their own way, that this wasn’t a game.

Red blinked, adjusting to the brightness, and felt a surge of adrenaline curl through her veins. She could see the tension in the water, the subtle shifts of weight as the tributes prepared, waiting for the single moment that would dictate life or death. Her fingers itched for her daggers.

Then came the voice, cold, crisp, and impossibly loud, cutting across the space like a guillotine through fog:

"May the 75th Hunger Games commence, and may the odds be ever in your favor."

The words rang in her ears, though their false cheer couldn’t touch her. They didn’t understand. None of them did. The odds weren’t in anyone’s favor here—especially hers. Without another thought, Red dove. The water swallowed her in a sharp, icy rush. It crashed against her skin and hair, stinging and bracing, and for a heartbeat, all sound was muffled. She kicked, angled, and propelled herself toward the center, eyes fixed on the Cornucopia where she knew her daggers waited. Her mind raced—Finnick, Johanna, Katniss. None of them were in sight. Her chest constricted with panic for a split second, but then she pushed it down, letting the cold water sharpen her instincts. She had survived worse. She had killed worse.

Her daggers. They were the first priority. She needed to get to them before anyone else.

Red cut through the water with purpose, muscles coiled, eyes burning with that familiar, feral determination. Nothing else mattered.

Not the fear. Not the chaos. Not the absence of her allies.

Only the daggers.

The Cornucopia.

Red hit the muddy bank of the Cornucopia with a splash, boots skimming over the slick terrain as she swung herself onto solid ground. Her chest heaved, eyes scanning the chaotic, blood-streaked battlefield. Bodies were sprawled, some moving, some already gone. Shouts, screams, and the metallic clash of weapons echoed in the air, but Red’s focus narrowed to the motion she saw near the far side of the Cornucopia.

Katniss.

The girl from District Twelve was kneeling with an arrow nocked, bow taut, eyes trained on Finnick, who hadn’t noticed yet—too focused on his own corner of the chaos. Red didn’t hesitate.

With a snarl that sounded more animal than human, she launched herself forward, barreling toward Katniss. Her body slammed into the girl, pinning her to the muddy ground with a force that made her knees dig into the dirt. Red’s growl rumbled low in her chest, her teeth bared in a predator’s snarl, eyes wild and focused.

“You touch him and I swear to God, not even the peacemakers will find your remains.” Her voice was barely a whisper, more a warning than a plea.

Finnick’s golden arm cuff glinted in the artificial sun as he twisted, spotting a tribute creeping up behind them. Without a thought, he hurled his Trident with deadly precision. The weapon spun through the air, embedding itself firmly in the chest of the unsuspecting tribute. Red’s eyes flicked to him as he turned, that familiar lopsided smirk crossing his face. “Good thing we’re allies, right?” he said, pointing at Red’s wrist where her bracelet gleamed, a symbol of their silent bond. Katniss’s gaze dropped to it, eyes narrowing.

“Where did you get that?” she demanded, breathless from the fall and shock.

Red grinned beneath the dirt and sweat, helping her to her feet. “Where do you think, Mockingjay?” she growled, voice low, predatory, before turning sharply toward the opposite side of the Cornucopia. Her daggers gleamed in her hands, ready, hungry.

Finnick followed, trident in hand, the adrenaline making him sharper, faster. “Don’t trust one or two,” he warned, eyes scanning the chaos. “We’ll hold this side; you keep the other. We’ll find Peeta.”

Red’s teeth clenched as she sprinted toward the next cluster of tributes, muscles coiled like springs. Finnick yanked his Trident free from the lifeless body, the clang echoing in the air, and she could hear the cannon go off in the distance—a sharp, unforgiving reminder of death already claimed. Finnick grabbed her two daggers off the bench, and threw them at Red, and Red perched back on her leg ready to fight.

The arena was alive, a predator’s playground, and Red thrived in it. But she wouldn’t survive this alone. Not without Finnick. Not without her allies. And she certainly wouldn’t let the boy she loved be taken without a fight.

Red sprinted across the blood-slicked ground of the Cornucopia, boots squelching in the mud, daggers dripping with the remnants of the first few skirmishes. Her uniform was already splattered—streaks of red and dark brown smeared across the black and gray fabric, the weight of the fight pressed into every fiber. Her chest heaved, lungs burning, but there was no slowing down. “Katniss!” she bellowed, voice sharp and urgent over the din of screams and metallic clangs. “Mags found him—he’s in the water over here!”

Katniss’s green eyes snapped to Red’s, bow already in hand, arrows nocked with deadly precision. She didn’t ask questions, didn’t hesitate. She followed, her feet silent over the wet sand, scanning the water for the flash of gold that marked Finnick’s trident, or the thrashing figure of Peeta struggling.

Before Red could say another word, Finnick was already diving into the murky depths, slicing through the waves with practiced strokes. Panic hit her chest like a hammer. "FINNICK!” Red screamed, heart hammering, voice cracking, but before she could run into the water herself, strong hands—Mags—grabbed her, holding her back on the narrow stretch of land.

Katniss crouched low, arrow aimed, bowstring taut. Her eyes followed the movement beneath the waves, calculating, ready. Red’s heart felt like it was drowning with Finnick and Peeta as three bodies disappeared underwater. She held her breath, knuckles white on the hilt of her dagger. Then—the sharp, deafening crack of the cannon. Red gasped, finally allowing herself to exhale as Peeta’s head broke the surface, coughing, sputtering, gasping for air. Relief slammed into her chest, but there was no time to linger.

Moments later, Finnick emerged carrying Mags on his back, muscles rippling, water streaming down his skin, golden hair plastered to his head. His eyes met Red’s for a split second, a grin flashing despite the chaos—just for her—before he pushed forward.

They ran. Red at the back of the line, daggers still gripped, scanning the water’s edge for other threats. Mags clung to Finnick, small and surprisingly light for someone so aged, and Katniss and Peeta flanked them, bow in hand and eyes sharp. The forest loomed ahead, shadows stretching like waiting predators.

Katniss’s gaze flicked back toward the Cornucopia, toward the carnage, and Red’s voice cut through without hesitation:

“Katniss—fucking run!”

The words were sharp, biting, leaving no room for hesitation. Katniss didn’t argue. She ran, boots slapping the dirt, arrow still nocked, keeping pace with the pack. They tore through the forest, leaping over roots, dodging broken branches, adrenaline keeping them faster than their own exhaustion should have allowed. The sounds of screaming and metal echoed behind them, the Cornucopia a boiling cauldron of death and bloodshed, but the group didn’t look back again. When they finally slowed, chests heaving, lungs burning, Red’s boots sank into soft earth, hands trembling as she took in the brief reprieve. Finnick set Mags down, who immediately collapsed into a shallow crouch, exhausted but alive.

Red didn’t pause to celebrate. Her eyes locked on Finnick, heart pounding, fury radiating off her like heat from a fire.

The forest was chaos — the air thick with smoke, screams, and the dull percussion of cannons firing one after another. The ground trembled beneath their feet as the death count began to climb.

Red’s pulse was still hammering from the sprint, from the blood and the water and the sight of Finnick disappearing beneath the waves — but now that he stood in front of her, breathing, smirking, alive — all that terror turned into something sharper, something that could only be expressed through violence. She launched at him, slamming him down into the dirt with a snarl that didn’t sound human. Her knees pressed into his hips, her forearm locked against his collarbone, and her breath came out in harsh bursts as her eyes burned with fury.

“Where the fuck is Johanna, Finnick?” she growled, her voice low, dangerous, guttural. Her hair stuck to her cheeks with sweat and blood, her pupils wide and wild like a cornered animal. “You better tell me she’s still apart of this fucking plan, I swear to god—” Finnick didn’t fight her. He just laughed — soft, maddeningly calm despite the blood and chaos around them — his grin all sharp edges and teasing warmth. “You pin me down like this, and you expect me to focus?”

“Finnick!” she snapped, shoving him harder into the dirt, and he only laughed again, that low, infuriatingly charming sound that had no right existing in a place like this.

“Relax, sweetheart,” he murmured, voice all velvet over steel, one hand coming up to brush a streak of blood from her cheek. “Johanna’s fine. Meaner than ever. You think she’d let the arena take her before she’s done swearing at the sky?”

Another cannon boomed, close enough to rattle the trees. Katniss flinched, looking over from where she and Peeta were catching their breath. Red barely noticed — her attention still locked on the boy beneath her, her chest heaving. Finnick tilted his head, eyes glinting with that dangerous humor even as the world burned around them. “You done growling at me, woflie?” he asked, his grin widening just slightly. “Because if you keep this up, I might start thinking you missed me.” Red’s lips twitched, her fury wavering just a fraction. “You’re unbelievable,” she spat, but the sharpness in her tone faltered into something softer, something that sounded suspiciously like relief.

Another cannon. Then another.

She finally pushed herself off him, the tension still vibrating through her limbs as she stood, brushing dirt and blood from her arms. Finnick rose slowly behind her, retrieving his trident with a lazy grace that made her want to punch him and kiss him at the same time. Behind them, Peeta said something to Katniss — something about needing to move, about getting higher ground — but Red didn’t hear a word. Her attention lingered on Finnick, on that damn smile that hadn’t faded even once since she’d tackled him.

The jungle had gone quiet except for the echo of cannons rolling through the air — one after another, like thunder that wouldn’t stop. The group sat among the trees, damp leaves sticking to their skin, the smell of blood and smoke still clinging to the air. Finnick laughed — soft, humorless, almost like he couldn’t help himself. “Guess we’re not holding hands anymore,” he said, glancing between Katniss and Peeta with a crooked grin.

Katniss glared at him, her eyes sharp as the arrow she held. “You think that’s funny?” she asked, her voice tight.

“Every time that cannon goes off—” Finnick began. “Music to my ears,” Red finished for him, her tone disturbingly serene as she tilted her head toward the sky. Mags sat behind her, quietly weaving bits of twine and grass into Red’s tangled hair, her wrinkled hands gentle in the midst of so much violence. Red’s expression softened slightly at the touch — that blissful, faraway smile still ghosting on her lips.

“I don’t care about any of them,” Finnick said finally, his grin fading into something harder.

Katniss’s gaze snapped toward him, dangerous and cold. “That’s good to hear,” she said, sliding her arrow back into its quiver. “You want to face the Career pack alone? What would Haymitch say?” Finnick asked, his tone teasing but sharp around the edges. “Haymitch isn’t here,” Katniss replied flatly.

The silence that followed was broken only by another cannon — closer this time.

Peeta’s voice came quietly, but firmly. “We need to keep moving.”

No one argued. They stood, gathering what little they had, and began their slow, weary trudge through the thick green of the jungle — the sound of death still following them like a heartbeat. The air in the jungle was heavy, wet, and humming with the noise of unseen creatures. The five of them moved through the dense foliage, one careful step at a time. Mags rode quietly on Finnick’s back, her small frame leaning into him, her silver hair tangled with vines.

Peeta walked ahead, machete in hand, slicing through the thick green that swallowed their path. Every swing echoed through the air, dull and rhythmic — thwack, thwack, thwack. Red stayed near the back, daggers in both hands, her eyes darting between the shadows. The sound of the cannons still haunted her ears. She’d stopped counting. It didn’t matter how many had died — only who was still alive.

Katniss was just behind Peeta, her eyes constantly scanning, her bow always ready. Then — she froze. Her instincts screamed. “Peeta, no!” she shouted. Peeta swung the machete again — and the instant the blade connected with something invisible, there was a blinding crack. The world exploded with blue-white light.

The force of it sent Peeta flying backward — his body slammed into the damp ground, the machete clattering out of his hand as his head hit with a sickening thud. “PEETA!” Katniss screamed. Finnick dropped Mags without hesitation and lunged forward, grabbing Katniss by the arm and shoving her out of the way. “Move!” he barked.

But Katniss saw him crouch over Peeta’s still body — saw his hand press against the boy’s chest — and for a split second, the only thing she could see was the Trident, the deadly gleam of his weapon. She drew an arrow, hands shaking. “Get away from him!” she hissed.

In a blink, Red was there.

She moved like a shadow, catching Katniss’s wrist mid-draw, her dagger already pressed against the girl’s throat. Her voice was low, feral, full of warning. “Try me, girl on fire.” Katniss’s breath hitched — her eyes darted from the dagger, to Peeta’s body, to Finnick’s frantic hands pressing down on his chest. Finnick’s voice cut through the chaos, breathless and desperate.
“Come on, Peeta. Come on.”

His hands pumped against Peeta’s chest, over and over, his face pale and tight with panic. Mags knelt beside them, her old hands trembling, tears streaking through the grime on her cheeks.

Red didn’t move until Katniss’s bow lowered. Only then did she ease her dagger away, stepping back just enough to give Katniss room to drop to her knees beside Peeta. “Peeta,” Katniss whispered, her voice breaking. “Peeta, please.” Finnick didn’t stop. “Breathe, dammit.” Katniss’s tears hit Peeta’s still chest. She shook his shoulder, whispering his name again and again, like if she said it enough, he’d hear her.

Then — a gasp. A sudden, choking intake of air. Peeta’s eyes flew open, his chest jerking up. Katniss sobbed — raw, broken — and threw her arms around him, holding him tight as if afraid he’d vanish again. Finnick slumped back onto the dirt, drenched in sweat, breathing hard. Mags smiled faintly, reaching over to smooth Peeta’s hair with shaking fingers. Red watched from a few feet away, her eyes softer now but unreadable. The jungle seemed to quiet around them — just the heavy drip of rain and Peeta’s shallow breaths breaking the silence.

“I guess they do love each other,” Red murmured finally, voice barely above the hum of the jungle.

Finnick glanced at her, something tired but warm in his expression. He reached over and took her hand, giving it a small squeeze.

For once, neither of them spoke. They didn’t need to.

-------

Chapter Text

Red’s dreams were shallow things—shards of memory stitched with fear. When she slept, it was never deeply, never safely. But this time, in Finnick’s arms, something inside her had quieted. His heartbeat against her back was steady, grounding. She could feel his breath in her hair, the soft murmur of jungle insects, and for the first time since the Games began, the world didn’t sound like a threat. Katniss had taken this watch, perched on a fallen log with her bow in hand, her eyes darting through the dark. The air was thick and heavy—too still, too quiet.

Finnick’s arm was curved protectively over Red’s waist, their legs tangled in the dirt, his body forming a barrier between her and everything else. Mags was asleep a few feet away, and Peeta’s soft breathing came in rhythm with the pulse of the arena’s night sounds.

It was a fragile kind of peace. The kind that doesn’t last.

Katniss felt it first—something shifting. A faint hiss in the distance, like steam escaping from a crack in the earth. Her brows knitted together. The sound grew louder, closer. And then she saw it. A creeping wall of pale mist pushing through the jungle. It didn’t move like fog—it pulsed, rolled, hungry and alive, swallowing trees and branches and leaves in seconds. And where it touched, the plants blackened and curled inward, hissing like they were burning.

Katniss’s stomach dropped. She stood, stepping back once, twice—
Then her voice shattered the night.

“THE FOG IS POISON!”

Red’s eyes snapped open.

She didn’t think—she reacted.
Daggers in her hands. Muscles tensed. Her eyes locked on the pale cloud that glowed faintly in the moonlight. For a moment, she couldn’t breathe.

Because she knew that fog.
She had seen it before. In her Games, when the Capitol had flooded the arena with acid mist just to flush the tributes from their hiding places. She remembered the screams—the skin sloughing off bones, the air tasting like melted metal. She had run through that same kind of fog once before. And she had lost people to it. Her breath hitched. Her heart stopped. “Red—” Finnick’s voice cut through the paralysis. He was already moving—slinging his trident over his shoulder, grabbing Mags by the waist with a strength that looked effortless. Peeta stumbled to his feet, coughing from the acrid air already seeping toward them.

“Red!” Katniss shouted, grabbing Peeta’s hand and pulling him forward as the mist devoured the undergrowth behind them. But Red didn’t move. She stared into the approaching white wall, her mind frozen between memory and present. It was the same sound, the same smell, the same burn.

Her fingers went slack around her daggers. Her throat was dry.

Then Finnick’s voice tore through her haze—raw, panicked, real.
“FUCKING RUN, WOLFIE!”

It was enough.

The sound of her name—his voice—dragged her out of her nightmare.

Her lungs filled again, sharp and painful, and suddenly her body obeyed her. She turned and ran.

Branches whipped her arms as she bolted after them, her feet pounding the wet ground. She could hear the others ahead—Peeta’s gasps, Katniss’s shouted directions, the splash of Finnick’s feet as he carried Mags like she weighed nothing. The fog hissed louder behind her, so close now she could feel it eating at the air.

Her legs screamed, her chest burned. The jungle was a blur of green and gold and poison white.

Chapter Text

Johanna shook her head, still catching her breath, her arms trembling slightly as she gestured wildly. “We thought it was rain at first, you know? Just the arena trying to freak us out,” she said, voice cracking slightly from exhaustion. “But no. Suddenly—suddenly we were choking on it. Thick, dark blood—pouring out of nowhere. I swear, it was like we were back in the forests of our districts as kids, climbing trees with branches that weren’t supposed to hold us, scrambling, running blind. I’ve never—never felt anything like it.”

Red groaned low in her throat, the sound half frustration, half memory. “I remember,” she muttered, rubbing at the back of her neck, her fingers tracing invisible patterns over the sand as the memory of the fog and its searing burn crept back into her mind. “I thought I’d lost my legs climbing up the edge of that cliff last time…”

Wiress didn’t stop. She murmured over and over, a monotone chant that cut through the tension like a saw. “Tick… tock… tick… tock…” Her eyes were wide, darting across the beach, hands fidgeting at her sides.

Katniss frowned, glancing between the trembling woman and Beetee. “What’s wrong with her?” she asked, voice sharp with concern.

Beetee, still shaking water out of his hair, straightened with Finnick’s help and rubbed at his sleeves. His voice was calm but carried a gravity that made even the sand seem heavier. “She’s in shock. Dehydration isn’t helping. The blood, the fog… it hit her harder than any of us expected. We need water. Fresh water. Do you have any?”

Red’s eyes narrowed, scanning the horizon and the river they had fought so hard to reach. She shook her head, grit and determination lacing her voice. “No. Not here. But we can get some." And suddenly Wiress was clinging to Johanna, her hands tight on her shoulders, whispering in that monotonous, panicked way. Johanna shoved her hard to the ground, snapping, eyes flashing. “Get off of me!”

Katniss yelled, voice cracking over the morning wind. “Get off of her!”

“I got them out—for you!” Johanna barked back, voice rough, nearly shoving Wiress further into the sand.

Red didn’t hesitate. She grabbed Johanna by the arm, yanking her toward the shallow water of the river. “Shut the fuck up, Jo!” she growled before shoving her partner into the water, holding her down long enough to wash the grime and blood from her skin.

Katniss waded in beside them, helping to rinse Wiress off, murmuring soothingly as the girl finally stopped twitching in place. Johanna spluttered and coughed, finally wrenching herself free from Red’s iron grip, grumbling as she climbed onto the sand. “I can’t listen to her say that anymore,” she muttered, shaking her head.
Red, still dripping, let herself be dragged along as Johanna stomped back onto the beach, the weight of the day pressing down on both of them. Their hands stayed close, fingers brushing like a silent promise—they’d survive this together, no matter what came next.

Suddenly, Katniss’s eyes went wide, a spark of realization lighting her face. Her voice cracked over the roar of the waves and the cries of distant tributes. “IT’S A CLOCK!” she shouted, pointing toward the cornucopia. The group froze, and then instinctively moved toward it, boots crunching against the gravel. Red’s muscles tensed, daggers at her sides, every nerve alert. She kept her eyes sweeping the edges of the arena, scanning for movement, for threats.

Katniss continued, pointing and tracing arcs in the air as if drawing invisible hands of a clock. “This entire arena is laid out like a clock. Every wedge has its own threat, and it only appears at its hour.” She exhaled, eyes darting to Finnick and Peeta. “It all starts with the lightning strikes, then the fog rolls in, then the blood rain, then the monkeys. That’s the first four hours. At ten, that massive wave hits over there.”

Red’s eyes flicked to the waves, then to the shifting shadows across the arena. She barely registered the ongoing conversation, focused instead on the daggers scattered across the cornucopia. Each one gleamed under the artificial sunlight, promising both death and defense. She bent to pick them up, spinning them between her fingers, testing balance, weight, and grip. Finnick leaned closer, helping to sheath one across her thigh, another strapped to her forearm, a smaller one tucked behind her back. His fingers brushed hers briefly as he fastened the last one across her chest, and Red caught herself smiling slightly under the tension.

She passed Wiress, who was muttering in that low, patterned cadence only she could manage, and Red’s lips curved. “You’re a genius, Wiress,” she said softly, and the girl’s eyes flickered with the smallest hint of acknowledgment.

Peeta pointed toward the cornucopia, voice steady, calm. “The tail of the cornucopia is at twelve.” Katniss’s expression sharpened. “The lightning strikes that big tree at midnight and noon. Every other hazard is anchored to that.” She bent slightly to pick up another arrow from her quiver, eyes scanning the horizon for the first signs of the deadly cycle beginning.

Red barely heard the words now, focusing on securing her weapons across her body, testing the balance and movement. Finnick adjusted a sheath across her calf, then her shoulder, whispering in her ear as he did, “Ready to dance, Finneas?” She smirked, teeth glinting, and Finnick rolled his eyes placing a kiss on her neck "You know it's Finnick, sweetheart."
The rest of the group talked quietly, voices low but urgent, plotting and pointing, while Red moved through the cornucopia like a shadow, daggers gleaming, every muscle primed for the clock to start its deadly sequence.

Red’s instincts flared like wildfire. Her head snapped toward Wiress just in time to see a Career raise a weapon and strike. Time slowed for her eyes — the motion too familiar, too precise, too deadly. Without hesitation, she lunged forward, dagger in hand, but before she could reach him, Katniss’s arrow whistled through the air, striking the boy in the chest. He tumbled backward into the shallow edge of the water, letting out a sharp gasp.

But there was no time to breathe. Other tributes — a mix of Careers and hungry newcomers — were converging on them, and the chaos erupted instantly. Red shoved Finnick to the side, barely giving him time to react, and launched herself at a man twice her size. The sound of steel meeting flesh echoed as her daggers sank deep, her movements a blur of calculated rage and lethal precision.

Johanna’s axe spun in her hands, carving arcs of destruction through anyone daring to get close. Katniss’s bow was taut, arrows singing through the air, each one finding its mark with deadly efficiency. Finnick’s trident whipped in sweeping arcs, deflecting attacks while striking with precision. Peeta’s machete cut wide swaths, felling anyone who dared breach their circle.
And then — the ground beneath their feet began to shift. Slowly at first, then faster. Red’s stomach dropped as she realized the cornucopia itself was spinning, lifted by the arena’s hidden mechanisms, water sloshing violently against the edges. Rocks, broken wood, and bodies tumbled as the platform rotated at an alarming speed.

Finnick grabbed Red, pulling her against his chest with all his strength. “Hold on!” he shouted, voice nearly lost above the roar of chaos and water. She clutched him, muscles coiled, her daggers still ready in case someone breached their spinning perimeter.

But the platform jolted again, faster this time. Red’s hands slipped, water splashing over them, her weight tilting the balance. Finnick’s eyes widened in disbelief as she twisted free, her body sliding from his grasp. “Red!” he screamed, the sound raw, ragged, almost unrecognizable. “RED!” Johanna’s voice cut through the chaos as she swung her axe wildly, trying to regain control, but the spinning cornucopia had other plans. Katniss and Peeta flailed against the sudden centrifugal pull, their weapons useless in the momentary chaos.

All they could do now was hold on for dear life, hearts hammering, adrenaline screaming, as Red slipped into the churning water below, disappearing beneath the waves. Finnick’s hands reached desperately, fingers grasping at empty air, and the world seemed to tilt, spin, and collapse around them.

Red plunged under the churning waves, her heart hammering in her chest as the cornucopia spun violently above. Water clawed at her face, cold and unyielding, each breath a desperate gasp she could not take. A tribute emerged from the blur of water and shadow, a wild, desperate figure like her own reflection in some twisted mirror. Steel met flesh as Red lashed out with her daggers, swinging blindly, kicking against the uneven current, fighting against both the human predator and the relentless weight of the water itself.

The ocean seemed to conspire against her, waves crashing over her head, debris slicing past, and the spinning platform above sending tremors through the water. Every strike she attempted was slowed, every movement resisted by the thick, uncooperative mass of the flood around her. Panic clawed at her mind, the primal urge to survive overriding all else.

And then — abruptly — the water stilled. The waves calmed as if the arena itself had drawn a breath, the chaos stilled to an eerie silence. The tribute she had been wrestling with vanished, as if swallowed by the liquid abyss, leaving her alone in the calm, suffocating quiet. Her lungs burned, every muscle screaming, and she kicked desperately toward the surface. Finnick’s hands broke through the water, steady, strong, gripping her shoulders and hauling her up with all the power of his arms. She burst through the surface, coughing violently, spluttering water into the air as her body shook. Finnick held her tight against his chest, arms wrapped around her like a shield, patting her back firmly, murmuring words of reassurance as he tried to dislodge the water from her lungs.

“Breathe, sweetheart, just breathe,” he whispered, voice strained in worry but steady. Red’s hands clung to his arms, nails digging into his skin, chest heaving as she coughed and gasped, the taste of salt and adrenaline thick on her tongue. Finally, her body began to settle, though tremors ran down her arms and legs. Finnick kept her close, unwilling to let her go, as if letting go might mean the ocean itself would claim her again.

She blinked, water streaking her hair across her face, chest still rising and falling in ragged rhythm, and Finnick’s eyes held her completely — a mix of relief, awe, and that familiar teasing light that always came when she thought she was invincible.

“You okay?” he asked, still holding her close.

Red could only nod once, too drained to speak, but her fingers brushed his chest in a silent promise: she was alive. And she was furious.

---

The group trudged back onto the beach, sand sticking to their soaked skin, breaths still heavy from the chaos in the water. Only six of them remained: Finnick, Red, Johanna, Katniss, Peeta, and Beetee. The remnants of the arena’s carnage still lingered in the salty air, the cries of distant tributes fading into uneasy silence.

“Brutus and Enobaria… who’s left?” Katniss asked, scanning the horizon while keeping her bow ready. Johanna’s grip on Red tightened from behind, arms wrapped around her like a shield, pressing her forehead to the back of Red’s neck. Red’s hands were already itching for her daggers, but she allowed herself to be held for a moment, grounding herself against the storm of adrenaline still coursing through her.

“Chaff?” Peeta offered cautiously, eyes darting toward the tree line.

“They know they’re outnumbered,” Finnick replied, his voice low, a half-smile curling despite the tension. “I doubt they’ll attack. We’re safe on the beach… for now.”

Red and Katniss exchanged a glance, silent communication passing between them. But then the air shifted. A chill prickled Red’s skin, a flash of her arena instincts flaring as she froze mid-step. From deep in the forest came screams — sharp, agonized, and horrifyingly familiar. Two… maybe three separate cries, each cutting through the morning haze like a knife.

Red’s chest tightened, her daggers already in her hands, knuckles white. Her heart hammered not from fear, but recognition. Each scream carried the cadence of someone she knew — her brothers. Suddenly, Katniss’s ears picked up a scream, sharp and unmistakable. “KATNISS! HELP!” Her heart leapt into her throat, and without thinking, she bolted, legs pumping through the tangled undergrowth, Red right on her heels.

Then another cry rang out — guttural, desperate, filled with all the fear and pain of someone she loved. “RED! PLEASE!” One of Red’s brothers.

Red didn’t hesitate. She tore through the forest like a wild animal, muscles coiled and daggers ready, tears streaming down her face. “ROWAN!” she screamed, her voice cracking as the rest of the group scrambled behind them. Finnick’s hands reached out, calling her name, his voice rising over the chaos, but she didn’t slow for him. “Red, wait!” he yelled, but it was like he was speaking into a void.

Katniss barely had time to process as they burst into a clearing, and the world seemed to pause. Jabberjays circled above them, their wings slicing through the morning light, their piercing cries mimicking the screams of her sister and Red’s brothers. Red’s chest heaved, and she was calling out every name she could remember, her voice raw with desperation.

“They’re jabberjays, Red,” Katniss shouted, anxiety clawing at her chest. “It’s not real!”

Red whirled to her, eyes blazing, tears streaking down her cheeks. “They copy sound, Katniss! Where the hell do you think they got it from?” Her voice was sharp, almost feral, shaking with rage and sorrow.

The forest around them seemed to close in, alive with the cries of the mimicking birds, and for a moment, the world narrowed to just the screams, the fear, and the impossible ache of trying to protect family that may already be lost. Suddenly, Red froze mid-step as a voice cut through the chaos — raw, terrified, unmistakable. “BABY GIRL! PLEASE!”
Katniss stumbled beside her, eyes wide in horror, as the jabberjays descended in a shrill, relentless swarm. Their wings sliced the air, their cries twisting into impossible echoes — Red’s mother, her brothers, every voice she loved and feared.

Red spotted Finnick up ahead, reaching for her, calling her name, but the invisible barrier of the arena cut her off, stopping her mid-step, leaving her unable to reach him. Katniss tried too, only to be slammed against the same invisible wall.

The sounds intensified, filling every corner of their minds. The two girls collapsed fully onto the ground, clawing at their ears, writhing and sobbing as the haunting cacophony threatened to drown them alive. The forest around them seemed to pulse with the echoing cries, and for the first time, Red felt utterly powerless — trapped in sound, trapped in grief, trapped by the arena itself.

Finnick’s voice tore through the forest, raw and ragged, though the girls couldn’t hear it. “Red! Sweetheart, it’s okay! You’re gonna be okay, I swear to God, you’ll be okay!” His hands slammed against the invisible barrier, the reverberations jarring through his arms as he tried desperately to reach her. His chest heaved with every scream, every beat of his fists. “You’re strong! You’re the strongest person I know, baby! Don’t let them—don’t let them take you!”

Beside him, Johanna’s own fists pounded on the barrier, red knuckles snapping against the cold, unyielding field of the arena. Her face was a mask of fury and frustration, every strike fueled by the desperate need to save her friend, the girl who had always been fire incarnate, the wolf of District Seven, now crumpled and undone before them. “Come on, dammit!” Johanna yelled, her voice nearly breaking. “You’re stronger than this, Red! Fight it, goddammit, fight it! You know it's not real god damn it!”

But the soundless barrier was merciless. Finnick’s words and Johanna’s blows meant nothing on the other side — nothing but a jarring vibration that Red couldn’t interpret over the screaming, screaming, screaming of the jabberjays. Red’s hands clawed at her ears, nails digging deep into her skin, but it did nothing to quiet the horrifying cries. The birds’ songs, impossibly twisted and amplified, mimicked voices from her life — her mother, her brothers, friends long gone, all screaming in terror, pleading, begging. It wasn’t just sound; it was memory weaponized, grief sharpened into a blade. Each cry stabbed through her heart, each mimicry shredded her composure.

Katniss was on her knees beside her, equally stricken, her own hands pressed to her ears, trembling as she tried to shield herself from the auditory onslaught. Her teeth were clenched, but even that didn’t block the gnawing sensation of helplessness. She could barely breathe, could barely think, as the jabberjays repeated the voice of Prim — “KATNISS! HELP ME!” — over and over, echoing, twisting, elongating every syllable until it was a constant, maddening scream.

“Katniss, breathe!” Peeta’s voice rang through the barrier, though it was futile. He pounded with both hands, fists connecting with the unyielding field as he tried to shock some sense of air into her lungs. “You’re okay! Look at me, breathe! Katniss, I swear, it’s okay!” But the cries of the jabberjays were deafening, drowning out his pleas. His chest heaved, his arms ached from the repeated impact, and he cursed under his breath, the panic rising like a tidal wave. He could see her shaking, see the raw terror etched into her features, and it nearly broke him.

Red’s sobs were wet and ragged, shaking through her entire frame. Her body convulsed as she fell forward slightly onto her hands, leaning against Katniss, who was equally stricken. The clawing at her ears had left scratches, thin streams of blood marring the sides of her face, but she didn’t care. She couldn’t care. The screams — the voices of those she loved, mangled by the jabberjays’ cruel mimicry — filled every inch of her mind, and every fiber of her being screamed to flee, to fight, to escape.

Finnick’s chest rose and fell in frantic, uneven breaths. “I’ve got you, Red,” he said again, shouting against the silence of the barrier, hoping she could somehow feel it through the vibrations. “I’ve got you, sweetheart, it's not real, I promise you wolfie, it's not real! Come back to me!” His hands shook, raw from pounding, but he refused to stop. Johanna’s voice joined his, relentless: “She’s here! She’s still here! Don’t let them win, Briar!”

Red tilted her head back, gasping through ragged sobs, feeling the weight of every scream, every plea, every memory-laced shriek. Her entire body shook, shoulders racking, teeth chattering from adrenaline and terror. She could feel Katniss trembling beside her, the girl’s hands pressed so hard into her ears that her knuckles were white. Red’s voice came out in a strangled, almost inhuman growl. “MOM! ROWAN! STOP! LET THEM GO!” But the jabberjays only mimicked, only multiplied the sound, turning it into an endless chorus of anguish.

Peeta’s arms beat against the barrier again, desperation raw and naked. “Katniss, breathe! Just breathe, please, look at me! Look at me!” Peeta gritted his teeth, watching helplessly, every instinct screaming to break through the barrier, to pull her and Red away from the madness. But he couldn’t. The barrier was absolute.

Johanna’s eyes were wild, filled with both fury and terror. She was gripping the invisible field as if she could somehow rip it apart, and still, Red and Katniss were on the ground, sobbing, clawing, shaking. Red’s teeth were clenched, and a scream tore out of her throat that had nothing to do with the jabberjays — it was the pure, unfiltered cry of a wolf cornered, of a girl stripped of every sense of safety. She twisted, desperately trying to shield Katniss as if she could somehow absorb the violence of the sounds into herself, taking it away.

Every moment dragged, seconds stretching into eternities. The forest around them seemed to close in, the shrill cries of the birds echoing endlessly. Red’s breath came in short, ragged gasps, her body pressed against Katniss’s as if proximity could somehow protect them both. The helplessness, the horror, the rage — it was almost too much to bear.

Finnick’s voice, hoarse and urgent, rose above the invisible wall again. “You’re going to be okay! I’ve got you! Just hold on!” His hand twitched as he pounded once more, every blow a prayer, every vibration a promise. Johanna was still at his side, hammering the barrier with feral energy. “Don’t let them break you, Briar! You’re stronger than this!”

Red’s sobs peaked, echoing over the cries of the jabberjays, and for a heartbeat, it felt as though she might shatter completely, crumble into the forest floor. Her claws dug into the dirt beneath her, and she squeezed her eyes shut, teeth gritted as she tried to anchor herself. Somewhere deep in her mind, beneath the agony and terror, a spark flickered — a reminder that she had survived worse, that she was still here, that Finnick, Johanna, Katniss, and Peeta were all still fighting for her.

The jabberjays screeched on, the mimicry relentless, but through the fog of tears and panic, Red’s instincts — wolf instincts, survivor instincts — began to sharpen. She felt the vibrations of Finnick’s pounding, the energy of Johanna’s attacks on the barrier, the presence of Katniss’s trembling strength beside her. And slowly, agonizingly, a tiny thread of resolve formed in her chest, unbroken, wild, unyielding.

-----

Red’s forehead slammed into the dirt again and again, each strike echoing in the forest as if she could punish the earth into answering her. Her nails tore shallow furrows into the soil, daggers clenched in white-knuckled fists. The screeching of the jabberjays had vanished, but her ears still rang with their echoes, the taunting voices of her brothers and her mother looping in her mind.

Then, faintly at first, a voice cut through the haze — unmistakably warm, teasing, yet urgent. “Sweetheart, wolfie… it’s me.” Finnick’s voice, the one that could make her laugh even in the darkest days, pierced the storm in her head. Her head snapped up, eyes wide, wild, and unfocused, searching for him. Before she could even form a coherent thought, Finnick was there, hands under her arms, lifting her off the ground. She flinched violently, body stiffening like a trapped animal, daggers poised in defense.

“Finnie! Where the FUCK are my brothers?!” Her scream cut through the air, ragged and raw. She lashed out, jabbing her daggers instinctively, but Finnick caught them with ease, a grin ghosting across his face, even as he held her firm.

“Baby,” he said gently, his hands steadying her, “the hour… it’s up. It wasn’t real. I promise you.” Red’s chest heaved as adrenaline coursed through her veins, betrayal and rage twisting in her stomach. She lunged at him, fists and daggers momentarily lowered, only to wrap herself around him with desperate ferocity. Her tears soaked his shoulder, and she clung as though letting go would mean losing him forever. Finnick held her tighter, letting her grip him, whispering soft, grounding words against her hair. “I’ve got you, wolf. I’ve got you. Nothing can hurt you here. Not now. Not while I’m breathing.”

Meanwhile, Johanna had dropped her axe and threw her arms to the sky, voice booming across the forest. “How does THAT sound, Snow?! Huh?! What if we set YOUR backyard on fire?! You think you can lock us all in here and control us? You know you can’t!”

Katniss and Peeta exchanged uneasy glances, frozen between awe and disbelief, watching the chaos. “What… what is she doing?” Peeta whispered.

Johanna’s glare didn’t soften. “What? They can’t hurt me! The only two people in the world I give a damn about are right over there,” she shouted, pointing toward Red and Finnick, “and they ALREADY FUCKING HURT ONE OF THEM!” She thrust her fists toward the heavens again pointing at Red, and her voice cracked with rage, grief, and a simmering, uncontainable fury.
Red finally pulled back just enough to breathe, her face pressed against Finnick’s chest, eyes still wide and shimmering with tears. Her hands clutched his triceps like anchors. “They… they can’t… they can’t take them from me,” she murmured, voice trembling, barely above a whisper.

Finnick’s lips pressed to the top of her head. “No one’s taking them, Briar. I promise. Not while I’m standing.”

And as Johanna’s furious shouts still rolled over the forest like thunder, Red’s body began to relax, just slightly, against Finnick’s steady heartbeat. The forest seemed to hold its breath with them — the chaos of the arena paused, if only for a heartbeat, as the four of them — Red, Finnick, Johanna, and the silent, watching shadows of Katniss and Peeta — steadied themselves for whatever came next.

Finnick’s arms were steady as he waded into the shallow surf, the water lapping at his knees, and Red trembling in his embrace like a leaf caught in a storm. Her body was still shuddering from the adrenaline, the terror, and the pain of the past moments, and he held her close, forehead against her temple, murmuring soft reassurances into her hair. The water was cool against their skin, a stark contrast to the fire still burning through her veins.

Red’s hands clutched at his shoulders, knuckles white, her daggers tucked uselessly against her sides. She wasn’t speaking, her chest heaving with ragged, uneven breaths, eyes glazed with unshed tears, haunted by the phantom screams of her brothers. “I’m okay,” she whispered finally, though the words were small, trembling, and entirely unconvincing. Finnick shook his head gently, pressing a kiss to the top of her hair.

“No, wolfie,” he said softly, voice low and tender, “you’re not okay. Not yet. But I’ve got you. Right here. You’re safe. I swear.”

Behind them, the others had made it to the beach — Katniss sitting on a drift of sand with her knees drawn up, hands trembling, Peeta clutching her shoulder in quiet support. Johanna leaned against a jagged rock, arms crossed, her face set in a mask of grim amusement that didn’t reach her eyes. Beetee sat a little apart, scanning the horizon, silent and steady, but the tension in his posture betraying the unease gnawing at all of them. Katniss’s gaze finally drifted to Johanna, voice quiet but laced with curiosity and concern. “Who’s Rowan?” she asked gently. Johanna laughed — a harsh, hollow sound without warmth — and shook her head, the sound carrying a weight that made the question feel heavy in the air.

“Red has five younger brothers,” Johanna said slowly, almost like counting them off in her head, her tone carrying more sorrow than humor. “Five little idiots, five reasons she stayed in Panem when she could have run far, far away. The whole reason she didn’t disappear long ago… because of them.”

The words hung in the salty air, sinking into the group like stones. Katniss felt a tight ache in her chest, imagining the burden of responsibility, the weight of constant vigilance Red must have carried for all those years. Peeta’s jaw tightened, and he reached out to brush sand from her shoulder, as if to remind her that she wasn’t alone now. Johanna’s laugh had faded into a hollow sigh, and she looked at Red, who had buried her face against Finnick’s chest, silent, trembling. “You have no idea,” Johanna muttered under her breath, shaking her head. “All the things she’s done, all the fights she’s survived… and for what? To keep five kids alive while the rest of Panem watched her play their games.”

Johanna’s arms tightened around herself as she muttered, “You have your sister, Prim, right? Well Red has her brothers.”

On the water, Finnick held Red tighter, murmuring promises she barely heard over her sobs, while the sun climbed higher, the salty air pressing down on the beach, and the forest beyond seemed endless — full of dangers, full of ghosts, full of all the burdens Red had carried alone for so long.

Chapter Text

Red’s body felt like lead as she finally lifted herself from Finnick’s arms. Every muscle screamed in protest; her skin burned where the blisters had only just begun to heal. The saltwater clung to her, dripping from her hair in slow, sticky trails that traced the bruises along her neck and collarbone, leaving behind faint white salt lines as they dried. The ocean that had just saved them now felt heavy, pressing against her ankles with the weight of a thousand ghosts. Her breath came in shallow, uneven pulls — a sound somewhere between a gasp and a growl. For a moment, she stayed still, half-leaning against Finnick’s shoulder, staring down at her own shaking hands.

They didn’t look like her hands anymore.

The arena had taken too much. Finnick’s fingers brushed against her wrist, gentle, tentative, the way you might touch something fragile and dangerous at the same time. “Red—hey, wolfie,” he said quietly, his voice the kind of softness that carried the edges of panic he refused to show. “Just rest a little longer. You’re no good to yourself if you can’t even stand.” He shifted as if to follow when she moved, half-rising out of the shallows.

His golden cuff caught the morning light, glinting like a small piece of warmth in the cold dawn. His sea-green eyes were tired but still impossibly focused on her — on every tremor in her shoulders, every labored breath she took. Red turned, her expression sharp even through her exhaustion, eyes glassy but defiant. “Rest?” she rasped, the word breaking halfway through. “I’ve had enough rest for a lifetime.” And before he could say another word, she flipped him off — the motion slow and shaky but deliberate — before trudging through the knee-deep water toward the beach.

The sound of her boots dragging through the sand was uneven, a limp between steps, but she didn’t stop. She never did. Finnick let out a deep sigh, the kind that came from somewhere older than his years. For a moment, he just sat there, the water curling around his waist, listening to the waves crash and retreat. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, staring after her silhouette as she walked toward the others. He could see the faint tremor in her shoulders, the way her braid hung loose and uneven, still streaked with blood and salt. She looked like the ghost of the girl he’d fallen in love with — fierce and feral and bleeding, but still standing. Always standing. “Yeah,” he murmured under his breath, the words a sigh and a prayer all at once. A small, helpless smile tugged at the corner of his mouth despite the ache in his chest. “That’s my girl.” He stayed in the water a moment longer, letting it lap at his skin as if it could wash away what had just happened — the fog, the screams, the memory of Mags walking into the mist like it was nothing.

His hands trembled, so he clenched them into fists until they steadied again. Then he rose, wading out of the sea to follow her. By the time he reached the beach, Red was already sitting in the sand beside the others. Peeta had wordlessly tossed her one of her daggers; she’d caught it midair, her reflexes still sharp even through the exhaustion. He watched her turn the blade over in her palm, the metal flashing dull silver in the sunlight, before planting it point-first into the sand beside her. For all the pain, all the loss, there was something unbreakable in her stillness. Finnick watched her for a long moment before dropping down behind her, resting his chin briefly on her shoulder, the faintest whisper against her ear. “Still breathing?” “Barely,” she muttered. “But breathing.” He smiled faintly at that — because that was enough. In this place, it had to be. The group sat in a loose circle, their exhaustion evident. The horizon shimmered gold with morning light, the waves crashing soft and rhythmic against the shore — an illusion of peace that none of them trusted. Katniss sat cross-legged, her bow across her lap. Johanna leaned against her axe, dragging a sharp-edged stone against the blade in slow, measured strokes. Beetee’s hands fidgeted with the broken remnants of wire he’d managed to save from the Cornucopia. Beetee’s voice broke the silence, calm and even as ever.

“Where do the Careers feel safest?” It was an obvious question, but one with a meaning underneath it — a test, a strategy forming in his head. “The jungle’s a nightmare,” Johanna said first, her tone sharp and dry. She didn’t even look up as she spoke, still scraping the stone along her axe. “Fog, monkeys, blood rain—take your pick. They’d be insane to stay there.” “Probably here,” Peeta said, leaning forward, his elbows on his knees. “The beach is open, flat, and easy to defend. You can see anything coming from a mile away.” Beetee’s gaze slid toward him, patient and probing. “Then why aren’t they here?” The air went quiet again. Even the waves seemed to still for a moment. Red looked up then, brushing a wet strand of hair from her face, her eyes narrowing with a tired sort of defiance. “Isn’t it obvious?” she said, her voice low, almost a growl. “We claimed it. They’re not coming anywhere near us.” Johanna gave a humorless chuckle, still sharpening her axe. “She’s right. They’re scared. About time someone else was.” Beetee tilted his head slightly, his fingers still working over the copper wire. “And if we leave?” Finnick finally spoke, his voice quiet but certain, the tone of someone who’d been through this game too many times. “They’d come back,” he said simply. “Either they’d take the beach or wait in the tree line until we do. We’ve got the high ground for once — and they know it.” Katniss looked toward the jungle, the leaves swaying with the faintest wind, her brows furrowing. “So we can’t leave the beach,” she said, half to herself. “Not unless we want company,” Johanna muttered.

“Company we’d have to kill,” Red added, twirling her dagger idly before stabbing it into the sand point-first. Finnick’s hand brushed against hers, steadying it, his thumb tracing over her knuckles in a quiet gesture that no one commented on. Beetee’s gaze flicked around the group, nodding once as if he’d confirmed what he already knew. “Then we hold the beach,” he said. “Until the next threat finds us.” The silence that followed was heavy — not just the silence of exhaustion, but of acceptance. They were safe for now, but every hour in the arena had a clock, and the ticking never really stopped. Red leaned back on her hands, staring out at the horizon where the sun bled gold over the ocean. Her voice was quiet, almost lost to the sound of the tide. “Let them come,” she murmured. “We’ll be ready.” Finnick looked over at her then, watching the stubborn set of her jaw, the haunted glint in her eyes, and reached for her hand again. “Yeah,” he said softly. “We always are.” Beetee adjusted his glasses, eyes narrowing as he glanced from the tree line to the waves and back again, as though studying invisible math written across the air. “And in just about four hours,” he said, “this beach will be soaked in water from the ten o’clock wave.” He turned to face them, voice quiet but deliberate. “Then what happens at midnight?” Katniss’s gaze followed his, tracing the distant shape of the tree that towered above the jungle canopy — the one that had loomed over them since their arrival. “Lightning strikes that tree,” she said, her tone flat, her stomach already twisting.

Beetee nodded, his eyes brightening as he pieced the thought together aloud. “Exactly.” He straightened slightly, motioning toward the tree with a hand that trembled from exhaustion but not from uncertainty. “Here’s what I propose. We leave the beach at dusk. We head to the lightning tree—” At the mention of it, both Red and Johanna flinched almost in unison. Johanna’s hand tightened around her axe, her jaw locking tight. Red looked down at the sand, lips pressed into a hard line, her reflection flickering faintly in the polished curve of her dagger. “That should draw them back to the beach,” Beetee continued, pretending not to notice their reactions. “Prior to midnight, we then run this wire—” he lifted the coil slightly, its gleam catching the light, “—from the tree to the water.” He paused, letting the implication hang there. “Anyone on the water, or in the damp sand, will be electrocuted.” The group exchanged looks — wary, weary, but also something sharper. Hope, small and dangerous. Red’s dagger caught a glint of sun as she lifted it again. She ran the flat of the blade through the sand, scooping up a small mound that shimmered between metal and grit. Her tone was quiet, almost thoughtful. “How do we know the wire’s not going to burn up before it hits the shore?” Beetee’s mouth curved into a small, tired smile, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Because,” he said simply, “I invented it.” the wind shifted then, carrying the scent of ozone and salt — and for the first time in hours, they had a plan. Beetee didn’t flinch under Red’s question, though the faintest shadow of a smile pulled at the corner of his mouth. “I know,” he said calmly, straightening his glasses, “because I invented it. I assure you—it won’t burn up.” His voice carried an almost eerie calm, that scientist’s certainty that both comforted and unsettled the others. For a long, quiet moment, the only sound was the wind combing through the trees and the faint whisper of the tide curling over the sand. Finnick’s gaze slid from Beetee to Red, then to Johanna. The three of them didn’t need to speak. Years of instinct—of surviving the Capitol’s games long before the Games themselves—had trained them to read each other with a look. A single glance passed between them, a silent exchange that said everything words could not. Watch each other’s backs. No matter what. Johanna broke the stillness first. “Red,” she said sharply, jerking her chin toward the treeline. Red blinked once, then followed without a word. The two women moved away from the circle, just far enough that the crash of the waves drowned out their footsteps. They didn’t go more than a few yards before they stopped—turning their backs slightly to the group, shoulders close, heads dipping toward one another. What came next was quiet, soft, and almost melodic. A series of low, breathy whistles passed between them—short, clipped bursts followed by longer, lilting notes. The sound wasn’t random.

It carried rhythm. Pattern. The kind of secret language only allies who had been through too many battles together could share. Katniss glanced at Finnick, eyebrows raised. “What are they doing?” she whispered. He gave a small shake of his head. “Talking,” he murmured. “Just… not in words we understand.” From where he sat, Peeta leaned forward slightly, curiosity written across his face, but no one dared interrupt. After a few more quiet exchanges, the whistles stopped. Johanna let out a heavy exhale and clapped Red on the shoulder before they both turned back toward the group. “Well,” Johanna said, dragging the back of her hand over her mouth, “it’s better than hunting them down.” Her tone was casual, but there was a flicker of unease behind her eyes. Katniss nodded, arms folded, staring at the jungle. “Yeah, why not?” she said, voice steady but weary.

“If it fails, no harm done anyway.” Finnick gave a low, doubtful hum at that but didn’t argue. Peeta looked between them all, his expression thoughtful before he finally spoke. “Alright,” he said, nodding once. “I say we should try it.” Beetee smiled faintly, the kind of small, tired smile only a man running on intellect and adrenaline could manage. Red, who had been absently twirling one of her daggers against her thigh, looked up at him. “What can we do to help?” she asked, tone flat but earnest. Beetee’s eyes crinkled behind his lenses. “Keep me alive for the next six hours,” he said evenly, “that would be extremely helpful.” Red snorted, an ungraceful laugh slipping past her before she could stop it. It wasn’t humor—it was exhaustion laced with disbelief—but it was the first sound that didn’t feel like fear. Johanna gave her a look that said finally, and Finnick reached out, brushing his fingers against Red’s arm as if to ground her. The faintest smile ghosted across her face before she looked away, out toward the ocean that glimmered with the last light of day.

Chapter Text

Red’s eyes shot open.

The air was too clean. Too still. For a heartbeat, she didn’t move. Didn’t think. Didn’t breathe. Her body froze in the strange stillness, muscles taut, every nerve screaming that something was wrong. The hum of the hovercraft, normally comforting in its monotony, sounded foreign—too quiet, too precise. Too controlled. Her lungs rebelled against the hiss of recycled oxygen filling them, sharp and sterile, scraping against the inside of her chest with every inhale. Each breath felt wrong, unnatural, as though she had been breathing in a cage, through someone else’s lungs, through someone else’s rhythm. The air had no weight. No bite. No scent of pine or wet earth, no tang of salt from the river. Just metal and sterilization.

Panic surged before she could even think to understand where she was. Her chest heaved, a reflexive, desperate surge of energy that made her hands twitch. Fingers curled, then clawed instinctively at the mask pressed to her face. She didn’t stop. Nails scraping against the smooth plastic, whining and screeching as the mask resisted, pressing back against her fingers. Every second stretched, taut as a bowstring, until finally, with a sharp hiss that made her jump at the sound, the mask tore free.

The air slammed into her lungs all at once, cold and biting in a way that wasn’t natural for the hovercraft. She coughed, hacked, gasped, each inhale rasping as if she were clawing at life itself. Her ribs burned from the sudden, desperate need for air, and her head spun slightly as her eyes darted around. The sound of her own ragged breathing filled the silence, echoing against the metal walls and ceiling, bouncing back at her in a distorted, unfamiliar rhythm. Each intake of breath was loud, invasive, intimate. Every exhale sounded like a declaration: I am alive. I am here. And yet the panic didn’t leave.

Red’s eyes swept over the room in frantic arcs, taking in the sterile cots, the rigid metal tables, the quiet hum of the machinery overhead. Everything was too perfect. Too controlled. Too calm. Her mind raced, running through possibilities, dangers, betrayals, all the things she had learned to anticipate in the arena—and yet nothing in her memory matched this stillness, this suffocating order.

Her hands trembled. Fingers clenched and unclenched, hovering above the table beside her cot as if they were ready to strike, to grab, to defend. Her heartbeat thudded violently, hammering against her ribs like a warning drum, a rhythm meant to alert her to immediate danger. And yet, even as the fear coursed through her, the wolf in her—the instinctive part of her that had survived countless trials, countless deaths—kicked in. She felt it coil, tense, waiting, ready.

Red’s gaze fell on the opposite cot. The figure slumped there, still and pale beneath the harsh light—Katniss. Her chest heaved slowly, evenly. Not dead. Not gone. But the presence of another, so vulnerable and human, sparked a new fire in Red. Her body shifted, muscles taut, claws still metaphorically extended, daggers of instinct ready. Every nerve in her body screamed to move, to act, to protect. She drew a shaky breath and took stock. She was alone here, as far as she could tell. No Finnick. No Johanna. No one she trusted implicitly in this artificial silence. Her body rebelled at the uncertainty, the vulnerability. She could feel the adrenaline in her veins, thick and sweet, priming her for motion.

Her fingers brushed against the metal beside her cot—daggers, smooth, cold, and familiar. They weren’t just weapons; they were extensions of herself, part of her being. They knew her movements, her intentions, her anger. Her relief. Her fear. She slid her hands along their hilts, feeling the weight, the balance, the sharp promise of them. The connection sent a small, grounding pulse through her racing heart.

Red stood on shaky legs, body taut like a coiled spring. Every step, every movement, carried the echo of the arena, the forests of District Seven, the rivers, the blood, the screams, the victories, the losses. She didn’t just move—she prowled, prowled like she had to survive, like she had to find them, like she had to know the truth before she could breathe again. The hovercraft hummed beneath her feet, the metal floor cold and unyielding, but she felt ready, senses sharp. Every sound, every shift of air, every whisper of movement made her instinctively crouch, pivot, ready for attack or flight. Her hands tightened around the daggers, her breath still ragged but purposeful, controlled.

For a moment, she simply froze, scanning the room, listening, letting the sterile air fill her senses, filling the spaces between her panic and her instinct. The sharp hiss of recycled oxygen, the distant hum of machinery, the soft thrum of metal—all became markers, indicators of presence and absence, signals to be interpreted.

Red swallowed hard, her lips trembling as she whispered to herself, half-breath, half-command: “Where are you… Finnick? Johanna… where are you?” Her words faded, swallowed by the vast metallic room, leaving only the sound of her ragged breathing, her pulse pounding, and the coiled tension in her limbs ready to spring.

Her eyes flicked back to Katniss for a brief moment, registering the familiar form, the steady rise and fall of her chest, and then back to the empty spaces. She wasn’t safe. She didn’t trust the stillness. She couldn’t. But she had her daggers. And for Red, that meant she had a thread of control, a tether to the world, a weaponized heartbeat to navigate the unknown.

Each breath now was a ritual, a slow, deliberate act of reclaiming herself from the panic that threatened to consume her. Every movement measured. Every step forward cautious but determined. Every glance and every small shift a silent promise: she would find them. She would protect them. She would survive.

The air remained sterile. The silence stretched, threatening to swallow her again. But Red’s breathing had slowed slightly, steadied by the weight of her daggers in her hands, by the familiar sense of control they brought. She crouched, poised, alert, wolf instincts rippling through her body, ready for whatever—or whoever—might emerge from the shadows of this clean, still, sterile prison.

And in that moment, alone with the sound of her own ragged breaths, the hum of the hovercraft, and the cold metal beneath her knees, Red understood with chilling clarity: she was not safe. Not yet. But she was ready.

The hum above her head—steady, mechanical—was the first clue. The second was the smooth metal beneath her, cold even through the torn fabric of her arena uniform. The third was the faint vibration in the soles of her feet, the unmistakable rhythm of engines thrumming through a hovercraft.

For one long, silent heartbeat, everything else fell away — the steady hum of the hovercraft, the ache in her muscles, even the dull throb behind her eyes. The world narrowed to a pinpoint of light and the two cold, familiar shapes in her hands. She stared at the knives as if they were holy relics, because in the clotted, ruined geography of her life they might as well have been.

No one touched her daggers.
No one could.

They were not mere tools. They were the rhythm of her body mapped into metal: pulse, memory, grief, and stubborn future all fused into sharpened edges. Each blade carried the small, private geometry of home — a weight learned in a mother's hands, a balance honed on rough boards under a winter sky, the faint nick near the hilt where she’d caught a splinter and healed it with dirt and stubbornness. They were the last pieces of District Seven she carried with her and would carry with her into anything that tried to make her less.

Even now, in the antiseptic light of a hovercraft’s belly, with the world scrubbed and clinical and wrong, the blades felt like bone. Her mother had carved the grips on cold nights with a lamp and a cigarette, her hands smelling of sawdust and iron. She'd taught her how the forest listened for steel — how a good edge sings against a knot like a bird’s call. She could still remember her mom, oh god her mom- pressing the first weight into her small, fumbling palms. “Listen,” Mira had said. “Listen and you’ll know where to put it.” She had learned to listen until the whispers of the wood braided themselves into muscle memory.

They had been with her through everything the Games, and Panem, and life had hurled at her. They had tasted mud and river silt and the copper of other people’s blood. They had been slid between shoulders in the dark, gripped during breathless waits under overturned roots, and flashed in the sudden white heat of a fight. Their edges held the geometry of survival: a certain micro-tilt of wrist that severed tendon instead of knuckle, the small clockwise flick that sent an opponent off-balance, the way to angle a blade so it glanced a rib instead of lodging bone-deep and being lost. When she fought, these knives were not instruments; they were a language. Her hands spoke through them long before her mind caught up.

Now, seeing them placed so deliberately on a sterile table — clean as if someone had polished the memory right off them — made her chest clench. There was a betrayal in the tidiness. The blades should smell of the forest; they should have the faint grit of bark under their hilts. To find them shorn and shining in a place that smelled of disinfectant felt like opening a chest and finding your childhood replaced by someone else’s careful arrangement.

Someone had touched them.

It landed in her like a blow. The thought of another pair of hands sweeping the blades free of arena blood, handling the steel that had worn her into being, was a violation that crawled under her skin. The knives were her history; to see them handled by anyone untrusted felt like seeing a photograph of a dead friend with someone else’s hands across its face. Her fingers tightened reflexively, white-knuckled. If those hands had belonged to the Capitol — to whatever polished, smiling corruption buoyed this sterile vessel — she swore, the promise rising hot and clean in her throat, she would rip them down to their marrow.

Her steps toward the table were slow and reverent. Each footfall made a soft metallic ring on the floor, and for a moment that was the only sound — the metal singing under her weight, the faint thrum of machines somewhere in the belly of the craft. The light above caught the blades and raked along them, making the edges flare like a promise. Up close she could see the faint scores and pitting where metal had met bone, hairline scratches like pale veins mapping battles past. Each imperfection was a story: the time she’d taken a fall through thin ice and the dagger had nicked a tendon; the night she’d held a dying tribute’s hand while the world applauded elsewhere; the long, savage afternoon she’d spent learning to hunt with Johanna until their fingers bled where ropes cut into skin. The blades carried names and hours and smells and were honest in a way people never were.

She lifted one. The cold bit into her palm — not unpleasantly, just a reminder of the world’s edge. The weight settled into the old place in her hand as if it had always belonged there. A small, involuntary sound escaped her — a hollow, almost reverent exhale — as the tiny muscles in her fingers remembered how to be precise. The center of gravity was true; the balance she trusted returned like a tide. The world snapped back into a manageable geometry. Her breath steadied. The tremor at the back of her throat slowed as instinct, that old animal sense, filled the space fear had occupied.

Her hand hovered with them for a moment, shaking—not from fear, but from the unbearable flood of relief and rage that came all at once. Her fingers twitched, uncertain yet magnetic, drawn toward the familiar weight, the cold certainty. She could feel the electricity in her veins humming at the thought of touching them. Her whole body seemed to lean toward the daggers, as if gravity itself had conspired with her instincts.

Then she curled her fingers around the hilts. The contact sent a shock through her system. The cold bite of the metal, the familiar grooves of the grips fitting perfectly against her palms—every nerve lit up. A shiver ran down her spine, sharp and grounding. It was like coming back into her body after being gone too long, like reclaiming a part of herself that had been held hostage in the chaos of the arena. The tremor in her breath stilled. Her mind snapped into focus, the storm of chaos and adrenaline quieting to a single, pinpointed clarity.

There you are, she thought, almost aloud, reverence lacing the thought.

The balance was the same. The weight. The silence that came with holding them. The slight give of the steel in her grip. The way the blades rested against her wrists when she adjusted her stance. It was familiar in a way that made her ache. Every movement felt like a memory etched into muscle and bone. The air around her seemed sharper, more precise, keyed into the subtle vibrations of her own heartbeat.

She flipped one in her hand, testing the center of gravity, the way she always did before a fight. It spun through her fingers, a whisper against the air, so natural that her body moved before her mind could give command. The motion was fluid, innate, like it had been stitched into her from birth. The dagger turned, twirled, landed perfectly balanced in her palm, and she felt the familiar rush of readiness, that pulse that told her she was alive in the only way she truly knew. This was who she was. Not a tribute. Not a rebel. Not a survivor. Not even a friend, not even a lover. A weapon. Her mother’s daughter. The forest’s daughter. The one who had learned how to listen to steel instead of people. The trees, the river, the roots and the wind—they all whispered guidance into her hands, and she obeyed without question.

She held them up toward the light, catching her reflection in their polished surfaces. Her eyes were too wide, pupils alert and intense. Soot and sweat smeared her face, lines of exhaustion carved deeply into her skin. But beneath that, in the quiet curve of her lips, the flicker of fire still burned. She hadn’t realized she was smiling—a small, bitter thing that hurt more than it healed—but it was there, faint and stubborn.

Her fingers traced the edge of one dagger, grazing lightly, careful not to draw blood but enough to feel the truth beneath the steel. Every scratch, every tiny imperfection in the surface, told a story. She remembered the sharp laugh of Johanna calling them “your fancy little toothpicks,” the way Finnick had teased her endlessly for naming them, and the quiet, almost sacred moment by the fire when Katniss had asked softly, “Do they have names?” And she had whispered back, “They don’t need them.” Because they didn’t. They were extensions of her, conduits of her will and her memory.

Red flexed her fingers, letting the daggers shift slightly in her grasp, feeling the weight distribute evenly. The balance in her palms felt like an anchor, pulling her back into the world she had fought to survive. Each motion of the blades spoke to her—subtle, quiet commands: move, defend, survive, protect, strike. She remembered the forest floor under her boots, the sway of branches overhead, the metallic tang of blood in the air, the way the river had guided her like a pulse through her veins. All of it coalesced in the grip of her daggers.

Her breathing slowed, measured, deliberate. The rhythm of her heartbeat synchronized with the hum of readiness in her limbs. She rotated the blades in a slow, reverent circle, the motion almost ceremonial. Each pass through her hands seemed to draw out every memory, every lesson, every fear and every triumph. They were not mere weapons—they were her identity. The dance of the daggers reminded her of herself when she had been most alive, most alert, most unyielding. Red’s eyes narrowed slightly, scanning the room even as her hands explored the daggers’ contours. Every scratch and dent was a roadmap of survival, a history of battles fought, a promise of battles yet to come. The weight of them anchored her, gave her a tether to reality, to her instincts, to the wolf that had carried her through the arena again and again.

She shifted her stance, knees bending slightly, daggers now poised just beyond the edge of her vision. The familiar scent of metal seemed to fill her nose, mingling with the sterile air of the hovercraft, grounding her, calming her, fueling her focus. Every motion was conscious, deliberate, a silent declaration of ownership—not of the blades themselves, but of the self that wielded them.

Her fingers slid along the hilt again, memorizing every ridge, every contour. She tested the swing once more, letting the air whistle against the blade as she twirled it smoothly between her fingers, landing perfectly balanced. The rhythm of it soothed something deep inside, a part of her that had been battered and scattered by fire, fog, blood, and loss. Each motion stitched her back together, knitting her nerves and sinew into a single, razor-sharp entity.

She exhaled slowly, the ragged edge of panic fading into purpose. The daggers were her tether, her identity, her reminder that she had survived, that she was still here, that she was still the wolf of District Seven—the girl who listened to steel, who obeyed instinct before thought, who carried the forest in her bones and the pulse of battle in her hands.

And as she crouched there, daggers ready, the reflection of her fire in the metal, the weight familiar in her palms, Red understood that she wasn’t just holding weapons. She was holding herself. Every memory, every loss, every victory, every whispered prayer and silent scream—held steady in the grip of steel that knew her better than anyone ever could.

They didn’t. They were her.

Without them, she was unarmed in every way that mattered. So when she sheathed them both at her sides again, the world felt a little less alien. Her breathing evened out. Her muscles loosened, like her body had been waiting for the weight of them to come home.

If she was still in the Games, she could live.
If she wasn’t, she could fight her way out.

Either way, she wasn’t defenseless anymore. Red bent to scoop up a fallen oxygen hose, tucking it aside. Her eyes lingered one last time on Katniss’s still form, and her grip tightened around her daggers. She didn’t know who had taken her out of the arena, but she prayed it was the District everyone believed was long forgotten. She didn’t know where Johanna or Finnick were, or whether this hovercraft belonged to the Capitol or to rebels she barely trusted.

But she knew this—

If anyone tried to take her weapons again, she would carve the truth out of their throats before they could speak a single word. She exhaled once, steady and silent, then stepped toward the door—daggers low, movements fluid, predator-smooth. Each step forward was a promise.

If she couldn’t protect her family, her district, her brothers, she would protect what little she had left—the part of herself that no one could ever strip away.

The part made of steel and memory.

Her daggers weren’t just extensions of her body.

They were extensions of her soul.

The voices grew clearer as she begin creeping to the door “…she’s stable now,” one said—calm, calculated. Plutarch. She recognized that polished tone anywhere, the sound of someone who thought they controlled the board. “She won’t understand what’s happened,” another answered. Haymitch. His voice carried the weight of exhaustion, years of it. “Not right away.”

And then—

A third voice. Soft. Hoarse. Cracked at the edges.

Finnick. "We need to get the ones out of the capitol."

Red stopped breathing.

Her fingers went slack, and one of her daggers slipped from her grip, clattering to the floor. The noise echoed too loud in the sterile room, but she didn’t care. Her heart had already dropped into her stomach. She ran. The door slid open before she even touched it.

“Finnick!”

His head snapped up. His eyes widened in disbelief. And then the shock broke into something softer, something that almost hurt to see—relief. He barely had time to speak before she was on him, crashing into his arms with the force of a wave. The daggers clattered again to the floor as she threw them aside, gripping him with shaking hands, burying her face into his chest. She could feel the thud of his heart against her cheek. Alive. Warm. Real.

“I thought—” she gasped, voice breaking, “I thought you were gone.”

“I’m here,” he whispered, his voice barely audible over the hum of the engines. His arms wrapped around her tight, like he was afraid she’d vanish if he let go.

The smell of sea salt still clung to him, faint beneath the antiseptic air, and it nearly undid her.

She pulled back just enough to see his face, and that’s when she noticed the hollowness in his eyes. Not emptiness—pain. The kind that settled deep, behind the ribs, the kind that didn’t fade even when you survived.

Something was very wrong.

Red’s breath came out in quick, uneven bursts, her pulse still hammering from the adrenaline that hadn’t quite left her veins. She was grinning—wild and disbelieving—as she stumbled forward toward Finnick, relief softening the sharpness of her face. “Where’s Johanna, Finn?” she asked breathlessly, her voice almost girlish despite the rasp in her throat. Her grin wavered, hopeful, as she looked around the group as if expecting the fiery girl to appear already a flurry of curses.

For a second, no one spoke. The hum of the hovercraft filled the silence instead—steady, hollow, mechanical. Finnick’s face didn’t change, but something in his eyes did. That brightness that always clung to him—his spark, his humor—dimmed. Plutarch’s hand moved. He reached beneath the grid-lined table, the same one littered with scattered maps and medical charts, and pulled something out—a small cloth bundle, delicate, reverent. He set it down between them and unfolded the fabric with slow, careful fingers.

Two tokens lay inside.

A miniature golden axe, its blade curved and clean. Beside it, a tiny tree molded in pure gold, roots curling into a perfect spiral.

Red froze. For a moment, she could only stare at the two small shapes glinting under the sterile white lights. Her mind wouldn’t move. Her breath caught, shallow and sharp in her throat. Those tokens weren’t decoration. They weren’t trinkets.

They were burials.

District Seven didn’t make graves for their own—not when the forest took so many of them. They left gold offerings for Antheia, the goddess of the wild, and pressed them into the dirt where the roots could find them. Gold for remembrance. Gold for safe passage. To see two—an axe and a tree—wasn’t just a symbol. It was a message.

Someone was gone.

The grin fell from Red’s face like it had never been there.

Her stomach turned cold, colder than the steel walls around them. Her hands, still clutching her daggers, began to shake. “Wha—” she tried, but her voice caught. She blinked rapidly, as if the motion could make the scene in front of her disappear, but the tokens stayed, silent and gleaming. “What… what is this?” Plutarch didn’t look at her. He couldn’t. Haymitch sighed. "I'm sorry, kid." Red’s eyes darted to Finnick. “Finn?” she breathed. He didn’t answer. His throat worked as he swallowed hard, and for the first time since she’d met him, he looked helpless. Truly helpless. Like he wanted to reach for her but didn’t dare.

“Finnick,” she said again, her voice breaking now. “Where’s Jo?”

He blinked rapidly, his jaw locking, his expression a careful kind of pain. When he finally met her eyes, there was nothing left to hide behind. “Finnick…” she whispered. He exhaled shakily, stepping forward. “Sweetheart,” he said softly, voice barely a whisper. “I’m so sorry.” Her heartbeat stopped for a second—one suspended moment of silence before the words came crashing down. “She’s in the Capitol.”

Red blinked once, twice, her mind fighting the meaning like a body fighting poison. Then she shook her head, stepping backward until her spine hit the cold wall of the hovercraft.

“No…” she said, the sound almost inaudible. “No, she—she’s not. Don't fucking lie to me Finnick Odair-" Finnick’s face twisted, grief breaking through the practiced calm he’d been wearing since she’d seen him. “Red—”

“No!” Her voice cracked this time, sharp and desperate, and she shoved off the wall. “Don’t say that, Finnick. Don’t—” The golden axe caught the light again, burning too bright to look at. Her throat closed. The air around her thinned until she could barely breathe. Those tokens weren’t just symbols. They were goodbyes. And District Seven didn’t bury gold unless they believed there was no coming back.

Red’s knees hit the floor before she even realized she was falling. The sound echoed through the hovercraft, metallic and hollow, a sound too small to hold the weight of what it meant. Finnick was beside her in an instant, dropping to his knees and wrapping his arms around her before she could pull away. She didn’t fight him this time. Her body folded in on itself, the way the forest did after fire.

The little golden axe and tree lay on the table between them—symbols of a promise, a loss, and the thin line between life and whatever came after.

And as Red’s breath hitched in Finnick’s arms, she realized what District Seven had always feared most wasn’t death.

It was the waiting.

The not knowing if the ones you loved were still out there—alive, suffering, or gone to join the roots beneath the soil. Haymitch knelt beside them, his weight pressing lightly against the cold floor of the hovercraft. Finnick sat just behind Red, hands hovering as if ready to hold her, but careful not to touch. Red’s body shook in silent waves, her breaths coming fast and uneven, the tremors radiating from her core.

“No… no… no…” she whispered over and over, each repetition sharper than the last, a fragile mantra against the cruel reality she faced. Haymitch lifted his hands slowly, holding up the trinkets: the tiny golden axe, the delicate tree, and a small pot of dirt he’d gathered from the arena before they’d picked them up. “We got this from the arena, kid,” he murmured, voice low, hoarse. “Before we brought you guys out… Just in case, I knew someone from District Seven long ago, and she did this ritual.” Red’s eyes, wild and haunted, fixed on the tokens. Her lips trembled, and for a moment, it looked like she might scream. But instead, she pushed Finnick away, her hands moving with precision, almost mechanical.

Without a word, she took the trinkets from Haymitch’s hand, holding them for a fraction of a second as if gauging their weight against the world. Then she pressed the little golden axe into the dirt, letting her fingers curl around the edges of the tiny tree as well.

------

The stark white lights of the medical bay buzzed faintly overhead, a sterile hum that contrasted sharply with the suffocating chaos of the arena still lingering in Red’s chest. She sat on the edge of a narrow cot, still in her arena uniform, boots scuffed, blood caked and dried in places, sweat cooling to a thin, clammy layer over her skin. Finnick crouched beside her, hands hovering, unsure if they should touch yet, unsure if touching would somehow undo the fragile thread of composure she’d stitched together to get them here.

A medic, clipboard in hand and eyebrows knitted in precise concern, approached first, glancing between the two of them. “District Seven… female, severe dehydration, multiple abrasions on arms and legs, minor lacerations on torso and left shoulder. District Four… male, lacerations on arms, right leg bruised, minor water inhalation. Heart rates elevated—both of you in shock.”

Red’s fingers twitched over the seams of her uniform. She didn’t answer; she didn’t speak. She was counting breaths, timing them, feeling her pulse hammer against the stress still stored deep in her chest. Finnick kept his gaze low, taking in the detail of her hands—the slight tremor in her fingers, the way her knuckles whitened when she flexed them just enough to feel the blades she wasn’t holding.

The medic’s assistant carefully guided Red onto the examination table, a soft, padded surface that seemed absurdly luxurious compared to the jagged metal and stone of the arena. She resisted for a heartbeat, stiff as a tree in winter, before Finnick leaned over, whispering just enough for her to hear, “I’m right here. You’re safe now.”

Her eyes flicked to him, wolflike, shadowed with exhaustion and rage, and for the briefest moment, the relief in her gaze cracked through the armor she carried. The lines of her face were drawn tight, etched with every hour of the arena—the hours spent running, hiding, fighting, praying. Even here, on solid ground, away from fire and fog and jabberjays, the memories pressed against her like a physical weight, heavy and unyielding.

“We’re… supposed to be safe?” she asked, voice raw and brittle, almost breaking under the tension of hope and fear mingled together. The words were fragile, almost swallowed by the hum of ventilation fans overhead, yet Finnick caught them, and the tenderness in his gaze was enough to anchor her, if only slightly.

“You are,” he said firmly. “You made it out. You and me.”

Red’s chest heaved, not from exertion but from a flood of unshed tears, anger, relief, and grief all competing for space. She wanted to collapse, to curl into him and let herself be small, unafraid, untethered—but her mind would not allow it. Not yet. Johanna’s absence tore at her, a raw, unhealed wound that made every breath taste bitter. The thought of her friend—her sister of sorts—lost in the Capitol’s hands tightened her throat, sharpened her panic into a cold, gnawing edge. Her fingers itched, restless, grasping at the invisible threads of control she could still claim, the rituals, the daggers, the rhythm of her own survival.

She drew in a breath, slow and deliberate, trying to steady the storm in her chest. “Finnie… Johanna…” Her lips barely formed the words, but the tremor betrayed the fear that had been clawing at her the entire journey from the arena. “She’s still… missing. We… we don’t know if she—”

Finnick’s hand moved, brushing against her shoulder, steady, grounding, and for a second she leaned into him, not fully surrendering, but allowing herself a fragment of trust. “I know,” he whispered, voice low and warm. “I know, wolfie. And I swear—we’ll find her. We’ll get her back.”

Her breath hitched, raw and ragged, as the weight of the arena still clung to her lungs. She shivered, a violent, involuntary reaction not to cold but to the memory of every step, every scream, every struggle she had survived and every friend who had not. The underground building beneath them hummed steadily, a steady heartbeat compared to the wild pounding in her chest. Her fingers curled slightly around the edge of the cot, nails digging into the thin fabric, grounding her. She needed that tether. Finnick’s presence was more than safety—it was a lifeline.

Her gaze flicked downward for a moment, tracing the lines of her uniform, the grit that clung to it, the faint scorch marks from the arena’s chaos, and she felt a sharp, bittersweet pang. They had survived, yes, but Johanna had not. That realization cut through the relief like a knife, leaving a hollow ache in its wake. She let herself bow her head slightly, letting the exhaustion settle across her shoulders, but not fully—never fully. The vigilance was still there, a coiled wire of instinct and worry.

Finnick’s thumb brushed lightly against her knuckles, tentative, as though the simple contact could draw her out of the whirlwind in her chest. Red’s lips parted slightly, as if to speak, but no words came. Only a tremor ran through her fingers, the unspoken acknowledgment of every fight she had survived, and the fight she knew she would face for Johanna. Her wolfish grin, sharp and fragile, flickered briefly as she let herself inhale the sterile air of the medical bay. It was clean, it was safe, and yet it was alien. The arena had taught her that safety was temporary, that it was fragile as the dirt she had buried the gold in, as fragile as every life she tried to protect.

She shifted slightly, her knees pressing into her stomach, the weight of fatigue mingling with the edge of tension that refused to dissipate. Johanna’s absence gnawed at her, a persistent shadow. Red’s eyes, dark and reflective, flicked to Finnick again, searching for certainty in his steady gaze. “We… we have to find her,” she whispered, not a question, not a plea—an unbreakable promise to the friend she could not lose. Her voice cracked, brittle and haunting, echoing softly against the medbay of District 13.

Finnick pulled her closer, folding her against his chest, letting her rest her forehead on his shoulder. His warmth, steady and calm, seeped into her like a balm she had not realized she needed. Her body shook slightly against him, tremors of adrenaline, grief, and relief intertwining. She let herself press closer, inhaling the familiar scent of salt and sun and him, and for a fleeting moment, the arena and the Capitol and the terror seemed to recede. But only for a heartbeat. Johanna’s face flitted behind her eyelids, a constant reminder of the stakes that still hung over them.

Red’s hands clenched weakly against his uniform, not in anger, but in the desperate need to hold onto something real, something steady. She whispered, almost inaudibly, fragments of promises she could not fully voice aloud: “I won’t let them take her… I swear… not her… not Johanna…” Her words were tangled with sobs that threatened to spill over, and Finnick’s hand moved to cradle her head, brushing a damp strand of hair from her face.

Her breathing slowed imperceptibly, settling into a rhythm that mirrored his heartbeat against her own. The tremor in her fingers eased slightly as she allowed herself a single thought, unbidden but sharp: I am here. I am alive. Finnick is here. Johanna… I will find her.

Red pressed her forehead closer into his shoulder, and for a fleeting second, she let herself feel the gravity of what they had survived—the arenas, the fear, the chaos, the brutality—and allowed it to coexist with the burning, gnawing fear for Johanna. The juxtaposition made her whole chest ache. Yet she clung to Finnick as if the pressure of her grasp alone could pull Johanna back from wherever she was.

Her lips parted again, a whisper barely carried above the soft hum of ventilation. “She’s still out there… she’s still fighting… she has to be…” Red’s voice trailed off, cracked and low, a murmur of hope wrapped in terror. Finnick held her tighter, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head, and she let herself close her eyes for a heartbeat, inhaling the comfort and allowing a sliver of the nightmare to ebb away.

Even in the sterile safety of the medical bay, even with Finnick holding her, Red’s heart was tethered to the missing piece of her soul—her Johanna. The ache, the dread, the love, the rage—they all converged into a single, potent thrum in her chest. Her wolfish instincts, tempered by exhaustion and grief, whispered that this was only the beginning. That the fight was not yet over. That Johanna needed her.

Her knees dug slightly into the floor as she adjusted herself against Finnick, pressing closer, letting the tremor of exhaustion pulse through her. Her arms instinctively circled him, anchoring herself to the only constant in a world that had attempted to tear everything apart. Each heartbeat, each shallow inhale, each tremor in her chest was a vow: I will not lose her. Not Johanna. Not now. Not ever.

The subtle weight of Finnick’s hand on her shoulder, his steady breath against her temple, became a tether strong enough to let her shoulder some of the unbearable truth, but not all. Her mind raced ahead, over the logistics, over the arena, over the Capitol, over the countless threats still lingering. And yet, here, in this perfect, terrifying stillness, she could let herself exist in fragments, she could let herself ache, she could let herself hope, even if it was just a fragile, trembling thing.

Red lifted her head slightly, just enough to see his face. Her gaze locked with his, and in it she saw reflection, understanding, and silent promise. Finnick didn’t need her words; he already knew the gravity of the missing, of the incomplete, of the sister lost to danger. He squeezed her shoulder gently, grounding her, letting her feel that even in the absence of Johanna, she was not alone.

And still, she whispered, barely audible, almost to herself: “I will find her… Johanna… I will bring you back…”

The medic guided her to lie back carefully, checking each limb methodically. “We’ll start with the basics,” he murmured, almost to himself, as he lifted her arm, inspecting scrapes along the forearm where her daggers had sliced her through instinctual parries. He murmured the observations, not as if addressing Red, but almost cataloging her survival. Red’s jaw was set, teeth grinding faintly as she let the assessment continue. She hated being so vulnerable, hated the way the sterile lights seemed to expose every inch of her body as if it were a thing to be judged.

Finnick’s hand brushed hers once, lightly, a tether. “You don’t have to fight right now,” he whispered, low, meant for her only. The words were soft, almost fragile, like they might shatter if spoken too loudly, and in that instant, the sterile hum of District 13’s medical bay seemed to fade away. The smell of antiseptic, of clean metal and warmth, no longer felt alien—it felt like a buffer, a buffer between her and the chaos that had been the arena, a place where the world had tried to eat her alive, over and over again.

Red’s eyes were wide, glossy, fixed on the floor as though staring long enough could somehow stitch the last few hours of terror into something comprehensible. Her chest tightened, a vise slowly closing, squeezing against her ribs, a painful rhythm she could not will away. “I—” Her voice caught, raw, strangled, somewhere between defiance and despair, stuck behind the weight of every scream she had heard, every footstep she had raced from, everybody she had seen fall, every betrayal of the senses when the arena had turned against her.

Her hands, coiled slightly on the thin sheet beneath her, betrayed her resolve. They quivered—not from weakness, but from the cumulative storm of adrenaline, exhaustion, and the instinctive memory of her own lethal grace. Each tremor spoke the language of survival: the echo of fights fought, daggers thrown, a body tuned to the rhythm of danger. She couldn’t yet relax. Her spine was taut, each vertebrae strung like wire, and the faint ache along her muscles reminded her that even here, safe and removed from the arena, she carried the arena within her.

Finnick’s thumb traced gentle, tentative circles along the back of her hand, each pass slow enough to anchor her, precise enough to be a statement. A promise: that he would not let her fall further into herself, that he would remain tethered to her, a lifeline she could grasp if she allowed herself. The contact was minimal, almost delicate, but it set a pulse thrumming through her veins in a way nothing else could—the lingering reminder that she wasn’t alone, that the wolves of her past, her family of one, were still here in the flesh, breathing with her.

Red’s mind raced even as her body attempted to comply. Her instincts, honed from years of survival, screamed for alertness. Every fiber of her being was attuned to fight or flight, even in this safe space. Her pupils dilated slightly, scanning the corners of the medical bay, noting the sterile white light reflecting off instruments, the quiet shuffle of medics adjusting monitors, the faint hiss of airflow through vents. Every small sound and scent was amplified, and yet Finnick’s presence acted like gravity, pulling her attention inward, reminding her that she could, for the first time in hours—or maybe days—let herself breathe without fearing for her life.

Her jaw clenched automatically, teeth pressing against her lower lip as she struggled to untangle herself from the knots of instinct, trauma, and raw emotion. She refused to cry. Couldn’t. The arena had taught her that tears were weaknesses. But the subtle tremor in her fingers, the tiny shiver in her shoulders, and the slight shake in her breath were betrayals her body made against her mind’s orders. She wanted to vanish into herself, to curl into a tight ball and let the sobs come unchecked, yet she couldn’t—Finnick’s hand kept her tethered, kept her present, and something in that quiet insistence made her stay upright.

Each inhale felt strange in this environment. Not the hot, smoky, chaotic breaths of battle, not the waterlogged, panicked gasps from near-drowning, not the heavy, ragged pulls of running through mud and blood. This air was too clean. Too predictable. Yet, it was enough to make her skin itch, her chest constrict, and her mind spin in a thousand directions simultaneously. And still, she clung to the touch of Finnick’s hand, like a fragile raft amid a tidal wave of memories and adrenaline.

She allowed herself a micro-movement, the ghost of a sigh, a tremulous exhale that nearly betrayed her stoicism. Finnick’s fingers tightened fractionally, and for the first time in what felt like eternity, Red noticed that the world outside her own pulse—the sounds of footsteps, quiet murmurs from the medical team, the faint beep of monitors—existed, that it was stable, that it was hers to inhabit again, if only for a moment.

Her throat felt raw. Not from the air, but from the words unsaid, from screams stifled, from prayers mouthed silently beneath the mask of survival. She wanted to tell him everything. The terror. The despair. The fire that had lit in her chest as she fought and killed and survived. But the words lodged in her throat, thick and unformed. All she could do was let her gaze, sharp and feral even in exhaustion, meet his, letting the unspoken language of connection and shared history pass between them: I am here. I am alive. I am still myself.

Finnick’s breath was slow, controlled, an anchor in a storm, and it mirrored her own rhythm gradually. The tremor in her fingers lessened just slightly. Her knuckles were white around the sheets; the coils of tension in her back and shoulders loosened infinitesimally. She could feel the blood pumping in her ears, warm and insistent, a reminder of her heartbeat, of life persisting even after the horror. And she clung to that small, imperceptible victory like she had clung to every other she had ever taken in the Games.

Her body remembered the arena before her mind could comprehend this safety. She felt the ghost of every fight, every dive, every slash, and every dodge. The memory burned in her muscles, but Finnick’s hand tempered it, reminding her that she was not alone. It was not time to fight. Not yet. And maybe, finally, it would be.

Her lips parted, tasting the sterile, metallic tang of the medical bay, and she let a small exhale, barely a whisper, escape. It was not a surrender. It was not relief. It was acknowledgement—a fleeting, fragile claim over the moment that she could let herself exist outside the arena, if only because someone who loved her refused to let her disappear.

Her gaze drifted to his again, and she found herself allowing the faintest curve of a grin, wolfish and sharp, a reflection of the fire still simmering beneath the surface. Not all of it was gone. The edge of the fight, the spark of her survival, the fierce, untamed need to protect and conquer—everything was still there, but she was breathing, and she was tethered. That tether, so small, so soft, so intimate, anchored her better than any dagger could.

Even now, her mind whispered, even as her hands still curled into tiny fists, that she would not crumble. That she was Red Briar, wolf of District Seven, and the girl who fought not just for survival, but for the people she loved. And in that tether, that single, light press of his hand against hers, she recognized the first fragile thread of hope.

The arena might have clawed at her body, her soul, her senses—but here, in this quiet, sterile room, with Finnick’s steady, unwavering presence brushing against hers, Red found a single thing she had not felt in days: the possibility of calm. The possibility of being just herself again, just for a heartbeat. And even as her muscles remembered the fight, even as her heart pounded in sync with her trauma, for the first time in a long, impossible time, she allowed herself to feel safe—if only by a thread, held by the hand of the person who would never let go.

The medic began probing the cuts, cleaning each carefully. The sting of antiseptic made Red flinch once, and Finnick murmured again, leaning closer, whispering reassurances that were felt more than heard. “It’s just clean-up. Nothing else. Nothing here can touch you.”

Red’s eyes tracked the movement of the cleaning tools like a predator, still wary, still scanning for threats, her body instinctively coiled even when every rational part of her knew she was in a safe space. Her hands clenched the edges of the cot, fingernails pressing into the padding.

“They’re… not real,” she muttered at one point, more to herself than anyone else. Finnick’s lips pressed against her temple in response. “The arena isn’t here. You’re safe now. You’re breathing in air that isn’t made to kill you. Feel it.”

She took a shuddering breath, and for one moment allowed herself to relax, letting the antiseptic sting fade against her heightened senses. She watched Finnick’s eyes, which held the same mixture of awe, worry, and relief she’d seen countless times on the battlefield and in the forest—he wasn’t panicking, but he knew the weight of what they’d survived. Her legs were checked next. Bruises, scratches, the faint impression of ropes or pressure against her skin where she’d been pinned or forced to scramble over rocks. The medic worked methodically, quiet but precise. Red’s jaw tightened again, resisting every instinct to pull away, to strike. Finnick placed his hand lightly over hers for the briefest reassurance. She let it stay, though her fingers twitched, longing for the balance of steel in her palms.

“Hydration first,” the medic instructed, offering a small, sterile cup of water. Red’s hand hovered over it. Her throat felt raw and foreign, every swallow a reminder of the panic, of the suffocating air from the arena. Finnick tilted it gently for her, holding the cup just beneath her lips. She drank in tiny, desperate sips, each one a fragile reclaiming of control over her own body.

When she set the cup down, her eyes flicked back to Finnick. “I… I need to move,” she murmured, voice low but intense. She could feel the residual tension crawling along her spine, the need to stretch, to flex, to feel her body respond to commands again. Finnick didn’t argue. He rose, adjusting his posture to mirror hers, letting her set the pace.

The medic turned to Finnick next, checking him in the same deliberate fashion. Bruises, cuts, abrasions, a waterlogged chest, and a leg that had taken too much of a fall in the arena. Finnick winced when a tender spot was pressed, but he kept his composure for Red’s sake. She watched each movement, calculating, tracking, ensuring he was whole. The small flicker of his flinch at a jab of antiseptic drew a flicker of worry across her face. She had survived alone before, but seeing Finnick marked by the arena in even minor ways made her stomach twist. Red’s hands absently flexed and unclenched on her thighs, memorizing the rhythm of her own muscles, the fine lines of movement she’d relied on to survive. Finnick’s check complete, he finally sank beside her, hand brushing against hers again, just for presence. She let it stay for a heartbeat, then pulled back slightly, still alert, still conscious of every twitch in her own body.

“You’re okay,” she whispered finally, voice rough. Not because she believed it fully yet, but because she needed to say it aloud.

“Yeah,” Finnick breathed back. “We’re okay.”

The medics continued their rounds in quiet efficiency, dressing abrasions, measuring vitals, recording every note. Red’s eyes followed every movement, taking in the stark whiteness, the sterile metal, the hum of fluorescent lights, the faint vibration of the underground walls around them. It was nothing like the arena—no threat, no traps, no invisible horrors waiting for the wrong breath. But the memory of it pressed into her chest like weight. She flexed her fingers, wanting to feel the grip of her daggers, wanting to reconnect her body to the part of her that had been sharpened by combat.

Finnick leaned closer, whispering against her hair, “You did it. We did it. You’re alive. We’re alive, now we just need Johanna.”

She closed her eyes for a fraction, the weight of exhaustion settling into her bones. Her shoulders sagged minutely, but her posture remained alert. The medics worked in tandem around her, their presence a soft, methodical rhythm against the backdrop of her adrenaline still screaming through every nerve.

Red’s gaze swept the room, cataloging every sound—the distant hum of the machinery, the quiet shuffle of feet, the faint clatter of instruments—but the constant undercurrent, the awareness that she was no longer fighting for survival but for something else entirely, never left her. Each measured movement of the medics, each careful touch on Finnick or her own body, each whispered instruction, became part of the rhythm of a world she could exist in without immediately trying to kill or flee.

She flexed her toes against the cold metal floor, the first small, deliberate motion that reminded her she could choose the motion, the intent, the rhythm of her body now. Finnick mirrored her subtly, a quiet anchor. And as the medics wrapped a minor laceration on her shoulder, cleaned a deep abrasion along her arm, and measured her vitals again, Red allowed herself a flicker of relief. Not safety, not yet. But a pulse of control. A moment of reclaiming the body she had only survived in by will and instinct.

She looked at Finnick again, and a very faint, almost imperceptible smile brushed her lips, wolflike in its sharpness, as if the tiniest piece of the arena’s terror had been exorcised simply by being touched and held in this safe, sterile place.

Chapter Text

The underground air was thick and still, humming faintly with the low mechanical pulse that kept District 13 alive. The medbay smelled like antiseptic and recycled air — clean, but too clean, the kind of clean that erased everything human. The lights above were soft, dimmed to something close to starlight. Somewhere down the hall, a machine beeped in rhythm with someone else’s heartbeat. But in their small corner of the underground, there was only quiet.

Finnick lay on his side on the narrow cot, the thin white sheets barely enough to separate the two of them from the cold metal frame beneath. Red was pressed against him, her forehead buried into the hollow of his chest, her breath slow but uneven. They had given her morphling, but even the sedative couldn’t smooth out the tension that lived in her body. It trembled beneath the flimsy medical gown, the muscles in her back drawn tight, as if she were still waiting for the next explosion, the next scream.

Finnick’s arms wrapped around her loosely — not holding, not restraining, just there. His fingers moved through her tangled hair, tracing small, rhythmic patterns down her spine like he could draw peace into her skin. Every now and then, she would shiver, and he’d whisper something soft and wordless against her temple, the kind of comfort that didn’t need language. On the metal table beside their cot sat the small pot of dirt. The same one from the hovercraft. A patch of forest in a world of metal. The golden axe and golden tree were buried beneath the soil, invisible now, but their presence filled the room as surely as breath. The dirt was still dark and damp from Red’s tears, the surface uneven from her shaking hands. Under the dim fluorescent light, it almost looked alive — like it was breathing with them, listening.

Finnick’s eyes drifted toward it. His own morphling drip hung from the pole beside the bed, the tubing disappearing into his arm, but he didn’t feel the slow warmth of it anymore. His mind was somewhere else — in the prayer he had heard a hundred times, whispered between trees and waves, in the soft cadences of a forest goddess who didn’t belong underground. He started to hum — barely at first, like a memory trying to find its shape. A soft tune, low and wavering, built from the words Red had once taught him during a night of storms. He barely knew what it meant, not really, but he knew the rhythm of it. The way her voice had caught when she said Antheia. The reverence in it. The ache.

He whispered now, his lips near her ear, the hymn fragile and steady at once:

“Roots below, branches high,
keep her safe where shadows lie.
Blood to soil, gold to stone,
guard the lost, bring them home.”

 

Red didn’t respond. She didn’t even move. But he felt the faintest shift in her breathing, the smallest tremor against his ribs. Her hands fisted in his gown, not from fear, but as if she were anchoring herself to him — the only real thing left in a world that kept taking. Her nails dug in lightly, almost apologetically, her grip desperate but silent. He kept whispering. The words came haltingly at first, then with more certainty, the melody soft enough that it could’ve been mistaken for breathing. He remembered the first time she’d sung it, her voice rough and raw, surrounded by jungle sounds and the taste of salt on their lips. She’d said it wasn’t a prayer for the living. It was a promise for those who might not make it back.

Now, it was the only language they had left between them.

Finnick’s thumb brushed beneath her jaw, tilting her chin up slightly. She didn’t open her eyes, but her lips parted on a small, shaky exhale. “She’s still out there,” he whispered. It wasn’t reassurance. It was fact. “She’s too stubborn not to be.” Red didn’t answer. Her silence was heavier than any words she could’ve given him. He felt her body tremble once, then settle again, her heartbeat pressed to his chest — fast, uneven, alive.

The morphling line at her wrist pulsed faintly with each heartbeat, a slow drip of gold against her pale skin. Finnick watched it like it was sacred. Like even this — the faint, artificial rhythm of survival — meant something holy.

He turned his head slightly, resting his cheek against her hair. His whisper returned to that hymn again, the one he only half-understood, but somehow always knew how to finish.

“By branch and root, by sun and stone,
keep her safe, bring her home.”

Red’s hand twitched. She still didn’t look up, but a sound escaped her — a low, broken thing between a sob and a sigh. Her fingers clutched tighter at his chest.

Finnick exhaled slowly, the hymn dissolving into quiet hums. His hand found hers, threading their fingers together where the IV lines tangled between them. The monitors in the room beeped softly, marking life in digital rhythm — the only proof that they’d survived the arena at all. Beyond the closed door, District 13 moved on — soldiers marching, orders being given, the world preparing for the next war. But in this small, sterile room, time stood still.

There were no rebels.
No victors.
No Capitol.

Just two broken people clinging to each other beneath flickering lights, with dirt and gold and grief between them.

Finnick kissed the top of Red’s head, his voice a ghost of sound: “We’ll bring her back, wolfie. Somehow.”

Red didn’t speak. She didn’t have to. Her silence said everything — the prayer unfinished, the vow unbroken. Her face was hidden against his chest, her breath uneven, the faint scent of soil still clinging to her fingertips.

And beside them, on the metal table, the pot of dirt sat quietly.
Still. Sacred. Waiting.

Katniss stood in the doorway, the sterile light from the hall spilling across the floor in a pale strip. Her medical gown hung loose on her thin frame, her hair damp and tangled from sweat. She looked small against the cold metal walls, and yet her voice carried a sharpness that cut through the hum of the machines. “Red? Finnick?” The sound of her voice made both of them stir—Finnick’s arm tightening around Red’s shoulders, Red’s head lifting from his chest just slightly. Katniss’s voice cracked on the second name, trembling with something between rage and heartbreak. It wasn’t the fury of a soldier; it was the raw, desperate sound of someone who had lost too much and was terrified to lose more.

She stepped further into the room, blinking hard. Her eyes were red, her face pale, and when she spoke again, it came out in a breathless, shuddering whisper that still somehow sounded like an accusation. Red whispers, hoping the girl will believe her. “I wanted to go back for Peeta and Johanna…”

Finnick’s throat worked before he could find words. His hand brushed against the tube in his arm, the slow pulse of morphling dripping into his veins. His voice was hoarse, barely audible, a confession heavy with regret. “I wanted to go back for them too,” he muttered, voice trembling. “God, Katniss, I wanted to go back, but I couldn’t move. The blast—” he faltered, eyes darting away, “the blast knocked us out.”

Red pushed herself upright beside him, the thin blanket falling from her shoulders. Her hands were shaking, her pulse hammering against the fragile veins at her wrist.
“Katniss, you have to believe us,” she whispered, her voice hoarse, pleading. “I wanted to go back, but I couldn’t… I couldn’t even breathe. The smoke—the noise—I…”

Her voice broke. She swallowed hard, eyes glassy and wild. “Katniss,” she said again, quieter this time, “they have Johanna too.” Her hands balled into fists against her knees. Her whole body trembled. “They have my sister.” Her voice cracked on the last word—sister—like it physically tore through her chest. She drew a shaking breath, then used one hand to hit her own forehead lightly, once, twice, as if she could knock the reality out of her skull.

“I wish—” Her voice faltered, a whisper dissolving into a tremor. “I pray her death is quick. I wish our friends die peacefully and we do too.”

The words hung in the air, brittle and heavy.

Finnick’s arms came around her immediately, pulling her close before she could hurt herself again. His hands, though trembling, held steady against her forearms, grounding her in that moment. His face pressed into her hair, his breath ragged.

“I know,” he whispered, so quietly only she could hear it. “I know.”

For a long moment, none of them moved. The only sound was the soft hiss of morphling through the tubes and the faint, rhythmic beeping from the machines.

Katniss stood still by the door, her hand braced on the frame. Her jaw tightened, and tears slipped soundlessly down her face. She didn’t wipe them away. She just stood there, shaking, staring at the two of them tangled together on the cot.

Chapter Text

The lights never went out completely in District 13.
They dimmed, yes—soft, artificial twilight that hummed faintly in the corners—but darkness never fully settled here. Not the kind of darkness Finnick knew from before. The kind that hid the sea, the kind that lived under his eyelids, the kind that used to mean home.

Now, even in sleep, the hum of the underground bunker pressed against him—constant, sterile, alive in a way that suffocated instead of soothed.

He slept with Red curled against his side, her breath slow and shallow against his chest, the faint scent of antiseptic and morphling clinging to her hair. He tried to match her rhythm, to sink into the false peace the quiet promised, but it didn’t last. It never did.

The dream came like it always did—fast, sharp, cruel.

He’s standing in a forest that isn’t his. The air is thick and gold and wrong, dripping like honey from the branches, clinging to his skin. It smells of blood and smoke, the iron tang of something freshly broken. The trees around him are too tall, their trunks splitting open like wounds. Beneath his bare feet, the ground pulses faintly—alive, beating, like the heart of some dying animal buried just beneath the soil.

It’s silent, at first. Too silent. Until he hears it—chains dragging, the faint crackle of electricity, a voice he knows better than his own.

“Hey sailor-boy.”

Johanna’s voice. But it’s not her voice—it’s thinner, shredded, trembling through the air like a ghost’s whisper. He turns, and there she is, hanging by her wrists from a tree made of white ash. Her body is broken in ways that shouldn’t be possible. Her back is a map of burns, her skin carved with the Capitol’s seal, her mouth half-open as though mid-scream. There are no weapons, no fight left in her—just blood. The blood paints the ground beneath her, running down in slow, steady rivulets that pool around his feet.

He takes one step forward and the forest groans. He wants to call her name, wants to reach for her, but his throat won’t work. His legs feel like they’re sinking into the ground, roots curling around his ankles to hold him in place.

Johanna’s eyes flutter open, barely. Her voice comes out in pieces, cracked and hollow.

“You failed Red.”

Finnick shakes his head violently. “No—I tried—”

But another voice cuts through the air like a blade.

“You didn’t try hard enough.”

He turns, and she’s there. Red. Except she’s not. Her shape flickers—her face and body shuddering in and out of form, melting into something wild and wrong. One second, it’s her—the curve of her jaw, the fury burning in her eyes—and then, in the next, it’s a wolf. The same eyes, but brighter, glowing gold, teeth bared. Her voice keeps coming through both mouths at once, human and beast, layered and broken, like a chorus of anger that doesn’t belong to just one soul.

“You let her die.”

He takes a stumbling step backward, his chest tight, his voice cracking. “No, Red—please, listen—”

“You let my SISTER die,” she repeats, louder this time. “You let them take her. You watched while they broke her. You did nothing. YOU PROMISED YOU'D PROTECT THE PEOPLE I LOVE FINNICK ODAIR." He shakes his head, tears burning his eyes. “I didn’t know—they didn’t tell me—I swear—” The wolf’s form shudders again, becoming her, her hair tangled, her face pale and streaked with dirt and tears. She looks at him like she’s looking through him, as if he’s already dead. Her hands shake, clutching her daggers, but when she speaks, her voice is steady enough to slice him open.

*“You always say you protect people,” she says, her words trembling with rage. “You always say you’ll save them. But she begged for us, Finnick. She begged, and we weren’t there, and it's ALL YOUR FUCKING FAULT.” He tries to reach her. “I didn’t leave her—Red, I swear—” She laughs, sharp and bitter, and the sound splits into a snarl halfway through. “You didn’t save me either.”

The forest hums. The trees bend toward them, their white limbs creaking, dripping ash that turns to blood when it hits the ground. The gold in the air curdles into smoke. Everything smells like burning skin. He can see Johanna’s body twitch behind her, the Capitol’s wires still biting into her wrists, her head lolling forward like a puppet whose strings have been cut. Red steps closer, her image glitching—her face blurring, then sharpening again, her voice switching between a growl and a cry.

“Do you know what they did to her?” she whispers, her eyes glowing like molten amber. “Do you know what they made her say before she died?”

He shakes his head, but she keeps going, her tone twisting, turning cruel.

“She screamed for us, Finnick, she screamed for the only family she ever got to keep.” The words hit him like fire. He staggers. He wants to scream, to run, but the forest keeps him still. His breath comes in short, shallow gasps. He can’t tell if the shaking in his chest is from sobs or fear or both. Red’s body flickers again—fur, claws, a jaw lined with blood—and then she’s her again, human, but trembling, her teeth gritted, tears cutting tracks down her face.

“I hate you for letting her die,” she says, voice low, shaking, her hand raised like she might strike him. “You let them take her. You didn’t even try to bring her back.”

“Red, please,” he chokes out. “Don’t—don’t say that. Don’t look at me like that.” But she does. She looks at him with the kind of hate that could crack the world open. The kind of hate that could undo him completely. Her form shudders one last time, and then she’s the wolf again—huge, radiant, terrible. Her teeth drip blood, her eyes like twin suns. She steps toward him, her voice echoing through the forest, layered and hollow and endless. “You couldn’t save her,” she growls. “And now you’ll lose me too.”

He’s crying, reaching for her, but she’s already fading, her shape dissolving into the golden smoke. The forest trembles with her last words, echoing through the trees until they sound like the earth itself is whispering them back to him.

“You let her die.”

“You let her die.”

“You let her die.”

And as the forest burns red around him, he screams—but his voice makes no sound at all.

He wakes with a strangled sound lodged in his throat, half a gasp, half a sob. His hands are shaking so hard the thin blanket slides off him. Sweat slicks his skin. His heart feels like it’s trying to claw its way out of his chest. He presses his palms to his face, trying to remember where he is. The room is quiet except for the hum of the vent and Red’s faint breathing beside him. She doesn’t stir. Not yet.

The air is too still. The walls feel too close.

He can’t breathe.

The dream clings to him—Johanna’s eyes, Red’s voice, that forest made of ash—and he can’t stay in bed. Not here. Not with the echoes still crawling under his skin. He swings his legs over the edge, feet hitting the cold floor. The IV scars on his arm ache faintly when he moves. The morphling is gone now, burned out of his system, leaving behind only the hollow ache of its absence. He reaches for the grey uniform shirt folded on the chair but doesn’t put it on. He can’t think straight enough to.

He moves through the dark quietly, a ghost through metal halls, his reflection catching in the dull walls of their small apartment. Everything in District 13 looks the same—sterile, controlled, lifeless. The color of nothing.

The small living room glows faintly with the light from the corridor. His trident stands in the corner, gleaming faintly where it catches the light. Beside it, a practice dummy—some officer thought it would be therapeutic for the two arena born people (weapons). “A way to train again,” they said.

He stares at it for too long.

Then the fury hits him like a wave. Before he can think, before he can stop himself, he grabs the trident. The weight is perfect, familiar, like it’s always been a part of him—but tonight, it feels heavier. Like every nightmare, every scream, every moment he couldn’t protect someone he loved, someone she loved, is dragging through the weapon’s spine. He drives it into the dummy once. Twice. Again.

The sound it makes is dull, unsatisfying. Not like flesh. Not like reality.

He twists the trident harder, slamming it until the rubber torso splits and the stuffing spills out like entrails. His breath turns ragged. His muscles burn. He can’t stop. Every strike is another image flashing in his mind—Johanna screaming, Red bleeding, Mags crying in his arms, the sound of the arena exploding, the hovercraft, Snow’s smile— He can’t stop. He doesn’t even notice that he’s crying until the tears hit his bare chest, cold and silent. His breath shudders out of him, sharp and uneven. The trident slips from his hands and clatters against the floor, the metal echoing like a gunshot in the quiet room.

He presses his palms to his face again, his whole body shaking. The air burns his lungs. He feels raw, stripped open, haunted by things that haven’t even happened yet but feel real enough to scar.

A sound breaks behind him. Bare feet against the floor.

“Finnick…?” Her voice is soft, heavy with sleep, but there’s something else in it too—fear. The kind that comes from seeing someone you love breaking quietly in the dark. He doesn’t turn at first. He can’t. He’s afraid that if he does, he’ll see her the way she looked in the dream—blood on her skin, hatred in her eyes. But then Red says his name again, a little stronger this time, and the way it leaves her mouth—fragile, worried, full of love—pulls him back to himself. Finnick’s shoulders sag. He exhales a shaky breath and lowers his hands, the light from the hallway catching the faint glimmer of tears on his cheeks.

The dummy lies half-destroyed in front of him. His trident gleams faintly in the low light. The air between them hums with silence and sorrow and the soft sound of two broken people trying, somehow, to keep each other alive in a place built for ghosts.

He finally turns his head toward her, just slightly, and in the dim light, Red looks like she hasn’t left the arena at all—hair tangled, eyes hollow, but steady, always steady. Her voice breaks the silence again, softer now, fragile as a promise. “Finnick…?”

And that’s where everything stops.

The underground corridors of District 13 were quiet enough to hear the faintest pulse of the city beneath them—the hum of ventilation, the distant clatter of boots on metal walkways, the low, murmuring voices of those who hadn’t yet surrendered to sleep. It was the kind of silence that pressed against the skin, that filled the lungs with expectation, with something unspoken, something waiting.

Finnick moved through it like a ghost, the weight of the dream still coiled in his chest, tightening with every step. The trident at his side felt heavier now, not just from the metal, but from the burden of every scream, every memory, every shadow of guilt he couldn’t shake. He had never felt so small, so raw, so entirely incapable of protecting anyone, even her—Red, his wolf, the fire that could tear through everything but somehow also keep him alive.

And then she appeared.

Red Briar. Not flickering, not wolfed, not anything but her, standing in the dim glow of the hallway. Her hair tumbled in dark waves around her shoulders, catching what little light there was and throwing it back like embers. Her eyes—those molten eyes he fell for—were steady, unshakable, and they were fixed on him. Finnick froze, chest heaving, the instinct to deflect, to charm, to flirt, rising like bile against his throat. He forced a crooked smile, one he knew would never reach her eyes.

“Wolfie,” he said, his voice rough and uncertain, the nickname tasting bitter on his tongue in the middle of the night. “What are you doing up? Can’t sleep either, gorgeous?”

Red didn’t respond at first. She just stepped closer, the concrete floor cold beneath their boots, the distance between them shrinking until it was nothing. The shadows clung to her like they belonged there, and still, she didn’t speak. Finnick’s heart kicked against his ribs, frantic, hope and fear tangled in the same pulse.

And then she moved, finally, and everything slowed. Red’s arms wrapped around his neck, firm and certain, pulling him down until their eyes were level, until the world—every single fear, every single ghost—was condensed into the space between them. She held him as though the very act of holding him could stop the spinning of the world, stop the tides of memory and nightmare that had battered him.

“It’s not your fault, Finnie,” she whispered, voice low and trembling, but steady in its truth, curling into him like a warm current. He froze. The words hit him like a wave he hadn’t thought he could survive. His chest constricted. Breath caught. Heart tried to explode in his chest. The nicknames he had always used to mask his fear, to shield himself behind charm and smirk, dissolved. “Wolfie…” he tried to murmur, but the sound faltered, caught in the raw ache of everything he had held inside.

And then he collapsed.

Not gracefully, not heroically. Just… let himself fall, and she was there to catch him, her arms wrapping him tighter, solid, unshakable, anchoring him to something that wasn’t broken. The concrete floor pressed cold against his knees, but the ache in his chest—the impossibility of all the things he couldn’t undo—was eclipsed, just barely, by her warmth. His tears came then, unbidden, hot and blinding, leaving streaks down his face, down his neck, soaking into the front of her shirt. He buried his face against her shoulder, inhaling the faint scent of her hair, antiseptic and smoke and something inherently hers, and he sobbed like the world was ending, like every scream from the dream had been stored in his chest and finally released.

Red’s fingers tangled in his hair, thumb stroking the nape of his neck, whispering over and over, low, soft, unrelenting in their truth: “It’s not your fault. It’s not your fault. You didn’t fail. You didn’t fail me, you didn't fail her,"

Finnick’s body shook, chest wracking with every word, every whisper, every note of her voice. He could feel her heartbeat beneath his ear, steady, insistent, a reminder that she was here, that she wasn’t a ghost, that he wasn’t alone. Every muscle, every bone, every ounce of tension in him gave way to the surrender of it, the aching relief of letting himself be small, helpless, human.

And she held him. She held him through the tremors, through the sobs, through the guilt and the terror and the shame, until there was nothing left but the soft weight of her presence, the simple, devastating truth that it wasn’t his fault. They stayed like that in the dim, humming silence, the world beyond the concrete walls fading into a distant, muted hum, and for a moment—brief, fragile, aching—they were just two people, broken and bleeding and real, holding each other through the night.

Finnick’s sobs shook the air between them, his chest heaving so violently he thought his ribs might crack. Every heartbeat screamed guilt, every inhale burned with the memory of Johanna—her broken body, her pleading eyes, the Capitol’s cruelty he couldn’t stop. He was terrified, utterly terrified, that Red’s wolfish eyes, molten amber and fierce as wildfire, were searing him alive with judgment. That she would look at him and see only failure. “Wolfie…” he whispered, voice cracking, desperate. “I—I couldn’t… I didn’t—I—” The words fell apart, tangled with tears, and he buried his face deeper into her shoulder, wishing he could disappear, wishing he could take the pain from Johanna and store it in himself alone.

Red’s hands were suddenly on his face, rough with calluses from fighting, steady in a way that made his knees tremble. She cupped his jaw, thumbs brushing against his cheekbones, tilting his face so he had no choice but to look at her. Her eyes softened, even through the wolfish glow that lingered just beneath her human guise, and she smiled—small, fragile, but breathtaking, like dawn breaking in a world that had been all night.

“Baby,” she whispered, voice low and trembling, but certain, unshakable. “You are so strong… so, so strong.” Finnick froze, breath caught in his chest. His lips parted, almost to argue, almost to deflect, almost to say he wasn’t—but he couldn’t. Every thought, every worry, every fear of losing her, of her hating him for Johanna, dissolved into the heat of her hands, the quiet power in her gaze, the undeniable truth that she saw him—not the mistakes, not the failures, just him.

Red leaned closer, forehead pressing against his, hands still holding his face, fingers tangling in his damp hair. The faint hum of the bunker pressed against them, distant voices drifting up from the lower levels like ghosts, and the concrete floor beneath them was cold and hard, but it might as well have been clouds. For the first time since the dream, Finnick felt something like air again—not the suffocating weight of guilt, not the echo of screams, but release.

“I was so scared you’d hate me,” he murmured, trembling, “because… because I couldn’t save her, Red. Johanna… please know I didn't mean for her to get taken, I know you love her, she's like my sister too I'm so—” His voice broke, a sob hitching in the middle, and he buried his face again, but she didn’t pull back. She didn’t recoil. She held him tighter. “Shh,” she murmured, brushing the tears from his cheeks with thumbs that burned with warmth. “Baby… listen. Look at me. You did everything you could. Everything. You fought, you tried to be strong for all three of us. That’s strength, Finnie. That’s everything.”

Finnick’s knees gave out beneath him, and he sank fully to the floor, Red’s hands never leaving his face, arms still wrapped around him, holding him upright even as his body crumpled against hers. He couldn’t stop crying—the sobs wracking him until his voice was nothing but gasps, until his chest shook like it might break. And through it all, she whispered, over and over, her lips brushing against his temple: “You’re not guilty. You’re not failing. You’re safe. You’re here. You’re alive. You’re so strong.”

Each word fell like water over fire, searing and soft, burning away the edges of fear, the jagged cuts of guilt, leaving only the ache of love and relief. Finnick pressed himself into her, arms wrapping around her waist, fingers clutching her shirt as if holding her could tether him to reality, to something real, to something unbroken.

Red tightened her hold, murmuring his nicknames with a voice that was both tender and feral, human and wolf, and every syllable struck him with an ache so deep it felt like the earth itself was folding into him. “Finnie… love… sweetheart… you’re my strongest one. Always.” And for a long time, they stayed like that, two broken pieces pressed together on cold concrete, breathing, trembling, crying, until the world outside the hallway, the horrors of the Capitol, the nightmares of dreams—they all faded into a quiet hum, and all that remained was this: Red, holding him, and him finally letting himself be held, finally letting himself be human, finally letting the tears fall where they could be caught, finally letting someone see the pieces he had spent too long hiding.

Red pressed her hands against Finnick’s shoulders, firm and grounding, and slowly helped him to his feet. His legs trembled like saplings in a storm, weak from sobbing, weak from guilt, weak from letting himself fall apart. But her strength flowed through her touch, steady and unwavering, anchoring him to something real. She guided him through the dimly lit apartment, the new clutter and worn furniture of their small space feeling strange and unreal in the quiet aftermath of his nightmare.

Every step was slow, measured—she never let go of him, never let him stumble, never let him feel alone. The lights were dim, casting soft, muted shadows along the walls, the faint hum of District 13’s machinery a low lullaby all around them them. Their shared bed waited, simple and unadorned, a thin mattress and blanket that had witnessed too many quiet, fragile nights.

Red slid onto the mattress first, patting the space beside her. Her hand found his, strong fingers curling around his trembling ones. “Come,” she whispered, soft but commanding, the tone that always made him listen without hesitation.

He hesitated, chest tight, haunted by the memory of Johanna—their Johanna—her laughter, her teasing, the way she had always leaned toward Red first, always Red’s shadow, always Red’s sister, and him only ever a companion in the space Red created. He feared that Red’s gaze would now judge him for failing her, for failing Johanna, for letting the Capitol take her from them, even in dreams. But the weight of her presence, the warmth in her hands, and the unwavering steadiness in her voice pulled him forward.

Red drew him down beside her, their bodies aligning in a quiet, fragile intimacy. She pressed a soft kiss to his lips, lingering, tasting the salt of his tears, grounding him, reminding him he was alive. And finally, he let himself collapse fully, wrapping his arms around her, burying his face into her side. Her warmth pressed against him like a shield against the cold, sterile world of the bunker outside.

She pulled the thin blanket over them, the fabric falling softly around their joined bodies. Her hand moved in small, slow circles along his back, gentle and insistent, coaxing him to breathe, coaxing him to let go. Finnick let himself be held fully, every tremble, every ragged breath, every whispered apology and confession of guilt melting into her presence. Finnick clung to her, whispering through shuddered breaths, “I—I should’ve… I should’ve protected her, Red. Johanna… she’s like your sister, your—your everything, and I couldn’t… I wasn’t enough.” Red’s hands tilted his face toward hers, thumbs brushing his cheeks, eyes softening, molten amber glowing with a gentle fire. “Baby… you were so strong. So, so strong. You did everything you could. You held her in your heart, even when the world tried to tear her from us.”

He pressed himself closer, letting the shame, the grief, the fear of losing them both dissolve into her warmth. He could feel the echo of Johanna in their closeness—not just the sister they had lost in the dream, but the bond that tied them all together. Red’s presence was steady, anchoring him, reminding him that even in the absence, even in fear, love was not gone.

She pulled him fully into her, her arms tightening around him as if to imprint her strength directly onto his bones. Her lips brushed his temple again, soft, lingering, a gentle promise. “You’re safe. You’re here. You’re alive. You’re my strongest one, Finnie. Always.” And for the first time since the nightmare, Finnick let himself stay. He let himself be held. He let himself be human. He let himself feel the ache of guilt, the echo of Johanna’s absence, and still, the undeniable warmth of Red’s love surrounding him. He buried his face into her side, and she pulled the thin blanket over them, hand rubbing circles along his back, whispering reassurance, until the world outside—the bunker, the Capitol, the horrors of the past—faded into the quiet hum of their shared presence.

Finnick’s sobs had quieted into soft, uneven breaths, but the tension in his body still trembled under Red’s hands. Her fingers traced small circles along his back, slow and steady, until he let out a shaky exhale and pressed closer, forehead resting against her chest. “You’re safe here,” she whispered again, brushing damp hair from his face. “You’re safe with me.”

Finnick shivered against her warmth, but sleep still felt distant—his mind replaying the nightmare over and over. Red paused, thumb brushing lightly against the curve of his jaw, and then, quietly, she began to speak: “Do you want me to tell you a story, Finnie?” Her voice was low, intimate, carrying him back to something far away from District 13, far away from nightmares and guilt. “From when I was… little. About me and Johanna.”

Finnick nodded against her side, the simple gesture small, trembling, but receptive. Red’s smile softened, and she began.

“When we were nine, Johanna and I used to play this… game. Up in the trees near our home back in our District.” Her voice was slow, winding, like a river flowing over stones. “We would climb as high as we dared, careful not to slip, and we’d whistle to each other from branch to branch. Johanna… she was always the smallest, the youngest, but she was fearless. I swear, she’d leap from a branch I didn’t even know I could reach.”

Finnick shifted slightly, letting her words wrap around him, a balm against the echoing nightmare. “I'm older than her, just a little, and she would look up at me with those wide eyes, and I’d tell her she had to be quiet, not to make the trees tremble, cause you know my mom would smack us into the peacekeepers vans. But she’d laugh—this tiny, wild laugh—and whistle back at me anyway. And I’d try to catch her, hold her hand, keep her safe, because that’s what we did. That’s what sisters do.” Red paused, tracing a line down Finnick’s spine with her thumb. “Sometimes we’d climb so high I thought the wind would carry us away. And Johanna… she’d lean into me, trusting me to hold her, and I always did. Always.”

Finnick’s body relaxed slightly more against hers, the trident of guilt and fear in his chest easing, just enough to let sleep edge closer.

“She was mine, you know?” Red whispered, her forehead resting lightly against his hair. “Not in a way that would make you… uncomfortable—but she trusted me first. She leaned on me. I was her sister, her anchor. And I—” she paused, letting the weight of memory settle in the quiet between them, “I always tried to be there for her. Always.” Finnick’s chest pressed into hers, his arms tightening just slightly, and she let him. She let the silence fill with memory, with warmth, with the soft laughter of a younger Red and a fearless, smallest Johanna. “And the trees,” Red continued, voice soft, almost a lullaby now, “the trees would creak around us, and the wind would whisper through the leaves, and we’d whistle back at each other. Just us, just the two of us, up there, safe from the world.” Finnick closed his eyes against her side, listening to the rhythm of her words, imagining the two girls scaling branches, fearless, joyful, alive. The nightmare, the Capitol, the guilt—they receded into the hum of the bunker, replaced by the echo of laughter, the memory of trust, and the unwavering bond of sisters.

Red pressed her lips to the top of his head. “And that’s how we always did it, Finnie. That’s how we stayed safe. And I’ll keep you safe, too. Always.”

The words folded around him like a soft blanket, and Finnick finally let himself drift, arms tight around her, face pressed to her side, as her hand rubbed slow, comforting circles along his back. The bunker, the nightmares, the fear—they all faded to distant echoes, replaced by warmth, memory, and the unspoken promise of protection and love. Finnick’s breathing had slowed, little by little, the tight, ragged sobs giving way to soft, shuddering inhales. His face pressed into Red’s side, arms wrapped around her like he could anchor himself to her warmth. The thin blanket cocooned them both, the hum of District 13 a low, constant lullaby in the background, distant voices drifting faintly from the levels below.

Red held him close, her hand still rubbing gentle circles along his back, but her other hand drifted to rest lightly on his shoulder, fingers flexing as though shaping a plan in the air. Her voice, low and deliberate, slipped through the quiet like smoke curling around him, both soft and urgent:

“Finnie…” she whispered, brushing a loose strand of hair from his forehead. “When we get her back… Johanna… and Peeta… we can’t rush. Not yet. We have to be smart. Watch, wait, and strike only when the Capitol thinks we’ve forgotten them.” Finnick stirred slightly but didn’t pull away, eyelids heavy with the pull of sleep, his body finally beginning to surrender to exhaustion. “I know it’s hard to imagine, with everything that’s happened,” Red continued, voice low, almost a lullaby now, “but we’ll need to find out who we can trust here. I know we have Katniss, and maybe that one boy with her, whatever his name is. Quiet ones. People they won’t suspect. We can move under their noses, Finnie. Careful, measured, precise. Johanna trusts me—she always does—but we need to be the ones who protect her, who bring her back alive. No mistakes this time.”

Her lips brushed the top of his head as she spoke, and he let out a soft, shuddering sigh, the tension in his shoulders slowly melting into her arms.

“We’ll watch the patterns,” she said, voice steady but almost ethereal in the quiet. “Every patrol, every hovercraft, every movement in the Capitol. We wait for the right moment. And when it comes…” She paused, letting the words hang, full of promise and fire. “…we strike, and we bring them home. All of them. Johanna, Peeta… no one left behind. Not this time.” Finnick’s arms tightened around her, a small tremor passing through him, and he murmured something incoherent, soft, like a half-formed promise. Red kissed the top of his head again, a quiet affirmation.

“Sleep now, Finnie,” she whispered. “We’ll make a plan together tomorrow. Tonight, rest. You need it. You’re strong—stronger than they’ll ever know—and I’ll keep you safe while you do.” Her hand moved gently along his back, slow, comforting circles that matched the rhythm of his heartbeat. His eyelids fluttered, heavy with exhaustion, and he let the tension slip away, letting sleep claim him fully while her voice carried the promise of hope, strategy, and vengeance whispered softly against the shadows of the bunker.

And for the first time since the nightmare, Finnick’s breath evened, his body relaxing, as Red held him, whispered to him, and the two of them—love, trust, and determination entwined—faded into the quiet, fragile night of District 13’s underground.

Chapter Text

Red sat cross-legged on the concrete floor of their small apartment, fingers tapping a restless rhythm against her knees. The gray walls, bare and sterile, seemed to press closer with each passing second, but she couldn’t stop herself. She counted the cracks, the hum of the underground ventilation, the silence, anything to keep from thinking too much.

Finnick knelt behind her, braiding her long hair into two thick plaits that nearly reached her ankles. His fingers moved carefully, methodical, threading each strand with quiet precision. Every so often, he’d brush a loose piece of hair from her face, murmuring soft, soothing words, his tone meant to calm but only making her chest ache with relief. “You’ve been this morning, wolfie,” he said finally, voice low, leaning close enough for her to feel his breath against her ear. “Lost in thought?”

Red shrugged, not meeting his eyes. “Just thinking. Nothing important.”

Her tapping paused briefly, only to resume again when a sharp knock echoed through the apartment. Red startled, and Finnick’s fingers froze mid-braid. Another rap came, sharper and more impatient.

The door slid open, and there he was: Haymitch Abernathy. But something about him was… different. Gone was the familiar haze of liquor; this Haymitch was bone-dry, his sharp eyes scanning them both with almost painful clarity. His uniform was perfectly straight, sleeves rolled neatly, but the crankiness radiating from him was tangible. “Well, look who’s here,” he said, voice dripping sarcasm, eyebrows raised. “You two lovebirds finally decided to stop staring at the floor and breathe? Marvelous timing, really. Just marvelous.”

Red blinked at him, tension tightening in her chest. Finnick’s hands lingered in her hair for a moment, then let go, stepping quickly to her side. “Move,” Haymitch barked, his voice sharp and impatient. “Follow me. And before you ask, yes, I’m sober. No, it doesn’t make me nicer, Effie says I'm more of a jackass then normal actually. Come on, don’t dilly-dally.” Red’s heart raced. “What is it?” she asked, trying to keep her voice steady.

Haymitch gave a look that could slice concrete. “News you’ll want to see, but if you stop me with questions, I’ll leave you here pacing the floor like rats in a cage. So, unless you’re keen on that, move your feet.” Finnick squeezed Red’s hand reassuringly. Red and Finnick’s eyes locked for a brief second, unspoken questions passing between them, neither willing to voice what their hearts were screaming. Finnick squeezed Red’s hand reassuringly. She drew in a shaky breath, letting him guide her. The braid hung loosely behind her, a reminder of the quiet intimacy they had shared just moments ago, now trailing like a soft tether to the calm she had almost forgotten she could feel.

Haymitch led the way down the narrow corridor, boots clicking sharply against the concrete floor. The hum of District 13’s ventilation seemed louder here, echoing in the long, gray hallways, mingling with the distant, muffled voices of those still moving through the underground city. Every step forward pulled Red’s nerves tighter, anticipation coiling in her chest. They passed similar doors, plain and gray, each one a tiny capsule of someone’s life tucked away beneath the bunker. Then, they stopped briefly outside a slightly ajar door. Through the gap, Red could see Katniss, seated on a low stool, her dark hair being carefully braided by Prim. The quiet, meticulous weaving of strands seemed almost ceremonial in its calmness.

Katniss looked up as they passed, and her eyes met Red’s. In that simple, weightless moment, they shared a nod—a silent acknowledgment that no words could capture. No explanation was necessary: a mutual understanding of loss, fear, and determination, of battles fought and survived, and of the family bonds that had to be protected at all costs.

The nod was brief, but it carried the weight of a thousand unspoken thoughts, a bridge connecting one heart to another in the strange, suspended reality of District 13. Red’s lips twitched slightly—a small, almost imperceptible curve—and Finnick squeezed her hand once, grounding her before she could linger too long in the intensity of it. Haymitch coughed, sharp and impatient, breaking the moment. “Right. You guys can all hold hands at the playground later. Move.” Red and Finnick followed him without hesitation, their boots clattering lightly on the concrete as they reached the elevator at the end of the hall. The metal doors were cold under Red’s fingertips as she pressed the button, the soft hum of the lift beginning to vibrate beneath them almost immediately. The cage-like lift doors slid open smoothly, and they stepped inside, the narrow space illuminated by harsh white lights overhead.

Red felt the walls close in slightly, not from claustrophobia, but from the weight of everything they had just passed through—the apartment, the small moments of tenderness with Finnick, the glance with Katniss, the constant, omnipresent anxiety of what was waiting at the top.

Haymitch leaned against the elevator wall, arms crossed, brow furrowed. “You two look like hell,” he muttered, voice laced with sarcasm and the edge of perpetual crankiness only heightened by being sober. “And I don’t mean in a good way. Eyes like you’ve been staring down the Capitol itself. Well… technically, maybe you have. Whatever. Don’t get used to me being like this I'm going to fucking attack someone for a whiskey.” Red rolled her eyes, resisting a smile, though the tension eased slightly at his familiar, biting tone. Finnick murmured something under his breath, a teasing comment only Red could hear, but she barely caught it—too wrapped up in the hum of the elevator, the slow, steady rise through the bunker levels.

The metal walls vibrated faintly as the elevator climbed, carrying them upward through the gray expanse of District 13. The hum of machinery was joined by distant metallic clanks from other lifts and maintenance crews above them, the underground city alive but distant, muffled, and intentionally hidden from the Capitol’s eyes. Red’s gaze drifted to the elevator ceiling, then to the smooth walls beside her. The ride felt longer than it should have, each second stretching as anticipation and fear warred inside her. Her hand instinctively tightened around Finnick’s again, seeking the warmth, the grounding presence she had always found in him.

Finally, the lift slowed, the hum of the motors fading into near silence. The doors slid open to reveal the top floor of District 13, the cavernous expanse where the hovercrafts were stationed. Metal gleamed under harsh overhead lights, the machines lined in precise rows, engines silent but poised, ready for deployment.

Red’s breath caught slightly, a mixture of awe and nervous excitement. The smell of metal and oil was sharp in the air, the vast open space a striking contrast to the cramped apartment corridors. The floor was alive with movement: officers checking systems, engineers hurrying past, and the quiet, efficient hum of life readying itself for action. Haymitch gave them a shove toward the center of the room, voice rough and impatient. “And this is where the real work happens. No time to linger staring at the shiny toys, got it? Keep up.”

Red and Finnick exchanged a glance, the weight of everything still heavy, but the edges softened by the faint glimmer of hope in the enormous, buzzing expanse around them. Together, they stepped fully into the hovercraft deck, the cavernous floor swallowing their small figures in contrast to the immensity of what lay ahead.

Red and Finnick’s eyes locked for a brief second, unspoken questions passing between them, neither willing to voice what their hearts were screaming. The cavernous floor of the hovercraft deck felt impossibly large, and yet, in the midst of it, every noise—the clank of machinery, the hum of the engines, the distant shouts of officers—seemed to fade into silence. A single hovercraft descended from the upper bay, its engines roaring faintly, stirring the air into a low, vibrating wind that made Red’s hair lift around her face. She squinted, uncertain, her hand instinctively tightening around Finnick’s. He mirrored her tension, muscles coiled, eyes narrowed, as though squinting harder would somehow make sense of what he was seeing.

The hatch of the hovercraft groaned open, slow, deliberate, and six figures stumbled out, blinking against the harsh lights of the top deck. Red froze, chest tight, fingers curling into Finnick’s hand as if clinging to him could anchor reality itself. The first figure moved forward, and she blinked again, her mind refusing to comprehend the truth. Her mother. Mira. Taller than Red remembered, with her wild, fierce energy somehow contained beneath the gray uniform, her Irish-tempered fire softened only by the exhaustion and relief etched across her face. She paused mid-step, scanning the deck, and Red’s breath caught in her throat.

Then, one by one, the boys followed—Rowan first, tall and guarded, eyes scanning every corner, mouth tight with disbelief and cautious hope. Alder, impossibly serious even now, stayed close to his mother, his gaze flicking between Red and Finnick as if measuring everything carefully. Birch, grinning despite the tension, elbowed Flint lightly, who was already loud and jittery with barely contained excitement, and Ash, the youngest, practically bouncing as his eyes found Red, full of wonder and uncontainable curiosity.

Red’s mind went numb, disbelief washing over her in waves. She could hardly breathe, could hardly move. Was this real? Could it be real? Her family—her mother, her brothers—here, safe, in District 13, in front of her? Finnick’s hand tightened over hers, grounding her, a quiet reminder that she wasn’t imagining this. Yet even he couldn’t hide the stunned awe in his eyes, the mixture of relief and incredulity. Haymitch’s voice cut through the hovering silence, sharp and dry. “Yep. They’re real. Don’t faint. They’re yours. Now move before I lose my patience.”

Red’s eyes watered, and she could feel the first tentative tremors of hope stirring in her chest, fragile and bright. Slowly, shakily, she began to step forward, and her mother’s sharp, loving gaze met hers. Mira’s lips twitched into a smile—relieved, fiery, full of life—and the distance that had felt endless dissolved in that single, trembling heartbeat.

Red stood frozen for a heartbeat too long, hand still clutched in Finnick’s. Then Mira moved. Her mother’s strides were quick and deliberate, sharp eyes locking onto Red. Before Red could even breathe, Mira’s arms were around her, pulling her into a fierce, overwhelming embrace. Red stumbled forward, wrapping her arms around her mother’s torso, feeling the strength, the relief, the sheer weight of being held by someone who had been lost to her for so long. “Red!” Mira’s voice cracked, loud and unrestrained, shaking with a mixture of joy and pent-up fury. “You’re here! By Antheia, you’re really here!”

Red pressed her face into her mother’s shoulder, laughing and crying at once, the world collapsing into this one perfect, terrifying, beautiful moment. Finnick’s hand lingered at her back, and Mira’s gaze flicked toward him, softening as she took in the man who had kept her daughter alive. “And you,” Mira said, spinning slightly to grab Finnick by the shoulders, her voice booming across the deck. “You! Finnick, goddess above you saved my daughter!”

Her brothers were everywhere at once, their voices bouncing off the hovercrafts and the walls. Rowan, towering and cautious, hung back at first, eyes scanning, hands flexing as he took in Finnick. Alder stood close to Mira, serious and calculating, already measuring the safety of every move. Birch elbowed Flint, smirking, whispering something Finnick couldn’t quite hear but that made Flint bark a loud laugh in response. Ash, curious and unstoppable, had already darted halfway across the deck, examining every shiny panel and engine, peeking into corners, asking rapid-fire questions about the hovercrafts.

Red laughed through tears, holding Mira’s hands as the rest of her family swarmed her. “You’re all insane,” she gasped, still trying to steady herself, “but I’ve missed you so much.”

“You’ve missed us?” Birch shouted, grinning. “You weren’t here, remember? We survived, but barely! You better make it up to us, wolf-girl!” Flint clapped his hands, loud and dramatic. “And I need to know everything about your adventures! Every single thing! Start talking!” Rowan, still cautious, finally stepped forward, letting Finnick stand slightly closer to Red. He gave Finnick a measured nod, the barest hint of a smile tugging at his lips. “You kept her alive,” he said simply, voice low but firm. “That counts for something.”

Alder, serious as always, crossed his arms but gave a small, approving nod. “Don’t mess this up,” he muttered, though his eyes were soft.

Ash climbed onto a nearby crate, balancing precariously, and yelled, “I saw her! I saw Red! And you—are you going to tell me everything about the Capitol?” His excitement was uncontainable, nearly bouncing him off the metal. Red laughed again, tears still streaking her cheeks, overwhelmed by the sheer energy and love radiating from her family. Finnick, still red-faced and half-dazed, wrapped an arm around her as the chaos unfolded, letting Mira pull him into a brief, crushing hug before he could even protest.

“You’ve done well, Finnick,” Mira said again, voice softening slightly but still commanding. “You’ve done well by her, Odair. I’ll never forget it. Never. And now…” She let go of him, hands on Red’s shoulders, eyes blazing with pride and relief. “Now we make sure she—and all of you—stay safe. You are still kids.”

The family’s laughter, shouts, questions, and exclamations bounced off the metal walls. The hovercraft engines hummed silently in the background, a stark contrast to the chaotic, fiery, vibrant energy of Red’s family finally reunited. Finnick laughed softly, shaking his head, exhausted but exhilarated. Red leaned into him, letting her mother’s grip and her brothers’ energy wash over her, the weight of separation finally lifting in a whirlwind of noise, love, and relief.

Red hugged her mother tight, and Red and Mira finally pulled apart just enough to look at each other, faces streaked with tears, breaths shaky from the intensity of their hug. Mira cupped Red’s face, eyes blazing with fierce love and relief. “Baby-girl,” Mira whispered, voice low but thunderous all at once. “You’re really here. By Antheia, I thought… I thought—” She broke off, shaking her head, pressing her forehead against Red’s. “I’m never letting you out of my sight again, you hear me kid? Never.”

Red laughed through tears, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face. “I’m here, Mom. I’m here. And I’m not going anywhere.”

Behind them, the brothers had formed a semi-circle around Finnick, who was still half-stunned by Mira’s hug and the emotional tsunami of seeing Red’s family alive. “Hey!” Birch piped up first, smirking. “You’re the famous Finnick Odair? Really? This is who my sister trusted to protect her?” He pointed a teasing finger at Finnick, eyes sparkling with mischief. Flint leaned in, loud as always, grinning ear to ear. “Yeah! You let our stupid sister—get captured at least three times! I saw it on the news!” Ash had already climbed onto a crate nearby, squinting down at him. “And you’re supposed to be strong? She’s stronger than you! And faster! And—” he paused dramatically, “she could probably beat you in like… one second.”

Rowan, ever cautious, gave Finnick a narrow-eyed glare, folding his arms. “Don’t hurt her. That’s your main job. Got it?”

Alder added seriously, “If she comes to any harm while you’re around, there will be consequences. Understand?”

Finnick grinned, though his nerves still made it tremble slightly. “Alright, alright, I get it—you’re all formidable little warriors—”

“Ohhh, don’t even try to look heroic!” Birch interrupted, laughing loudly. “I see that sweat, old man! You’re terrified of us!” Finnick rolled his eyes, letting a teasing grin spread. “Terrified? Please. I’ve survived the Quarter Quell, a bunch of mutts, and an arena designed to kill me—and you’re worried I’m scared of you?” Flint leaned in, wagging a finger with mock menace. “Yeah! Well, don’t mess up, or we’ll—” He paused for effect, eyes wide, “we’ll do… terrifying kid stuff to you! Like… tie your shoelaces together while you sleep!”

Ash popped down from the crate he’d been inspecting, leaning close and whispering conspiratorially, “Or I could climb on your shoulders and poke your eyes. Totally fair game.” Finnick groaned, rubbing the back of his neck and laughing despite himself. “You’re all… absolutely terrifying. I think I might surrender now.” Birch smirked. “Surrender, huh? That’s new.” Red laughed, pressing closer to Finnick. “They’re loud as hell but it's good to see you smile,” Finnick laughs into her hair right before Birch shouted, “Fire-face! You’re supposed to protect me too, not just Finnick!”

Finnick tilted his head at her, smirk playful. “Excuse me? I protect both of you, remember? And I cook for you, too—don’t forget that!” Flint’s hand shot to his chest dramatically. “You cook? You mean those disgusting fish gut eggs? Yeah… heroic indeed.”

“Hey!” Finnick shot back, laughing. “Those were fish gut eggs. Gourmet. And you all loved them.” Ash leaned forward again, eyes wide. “They were okay… but could be improved with more fire.” Rowan, ever serious, gave Finnick a scrutinizing look, hands on his hips. “We know you’ve met us before,” he said flatly, “but don’t think that excuses anything. You better keep her safe.”

“Yes, sir,” Finnick said, bowing slightly, his grin softening as he wrapped an arm around Red. “I’ve got this. Your Fire-face is safe with me.” Alder frowned in mock disapproval. “Safe doesn’t count if you tease us back too much.”

“Oh, I’m teasing you back,” Finnick admitted, winking at Red, “but only because I know I can survive it.” Mira shook her head, laughter booming around them, her hands on Red’s shoulders as she glanced at Finnick. “You kept her alive, Finnick. I can see why she loves you. But don’t get any ideas—these boys will shred you if you hurt her. Understand?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Finnick said, squeezing Red gently, a quiet smile tugging at his lips. Red leaned into him, hiding her laughter against his chest. “See? They’re loud, chaotic, terrifying… but they’re home.” Finnick kissed the top of her head, eyes softening. “Yeah… I can see that. And somehow, I’m okay with it. Even enjoying it a little.” Red laughed through tears, resting her head against him as the storm of voices, laughter, and teasing from her family washed over them. For the first time in what felt like forever, she let herself believe that maybe, just maybe, everything—even hope—was possible again.

Red’s brothers were circling Finnick like a pack, poking, questioning, teasing, and laughing all at once. Birch jabbed at his shoulder while Flint shouted some ridiculous observation about his hair. Ash was already poking at Finnick’s boots and trident, and Alder was trying to maintain some semblance of serious oversight, occasionally shooting Finnick an appraising glare. Rowan lingered just back, arms crossed, eyes alert, making sure no one tripped over Finnick—or each other. “Careful, Finnick!” Birch said, grinning. “Don’t let him fool you, Fire-face didn’t survive the Quarter Quell without turning a few heads. You better be able to handle all this energy.”

Finnick grinned, playing along, reaching down to ruffle Ash’s hair. “Oh, I can handle you, little guy. And Flint, I’m keeping score of every prank you try—don’t think I won’t sneak one back.”

Flint squealed, half in mock outrage, half in excitement. “You dare challenge me? I’m the master of chaos here!” Ash bounced on his crate. “Teach me! Teach me!” Rowan rolled his eyes but couldn’t hide a small smile, and Alder shook his head, lips tight but glinting with amusement. Finnick had the easy charm of someone who had been around before—they’d met him at District Seven, seen him cook breakfast for them, watched him laugh and joke with Red late at night. The memory of him spinning pancakes and quietly making them feel safe was already earning him a place back in their chaotic hearts.

Red leaned against Finnick, watching them interact, a small laugh escaping her. “See? They’re loud. But… they like you.”

“Mostly,” Finnick whispered back, giving her hand a squeeze. Meanwhile, Mira and Haymitch had moved a few steps away, their conversation hushed but intense, punctuated by gestures and occasional exasperated sighs from Mira. “So, you’re saying they’ll stay in an apartment underground?” Haymitch asked, voice low, dry as ever. “With the rest of the people? Not going to be any… incidents?” Mira crossed her arms, giving him a sharp, assessing look. “They’re my responsibility. I can handle them. They’ll be fine. They’ll stay close, they’ll stay quiet enough—mostly—and we’ll make it work. This is District 13, not the Capitol. Safety first.”

Haymitch arched a brow, lips twitching in a sarcastic half-smile. “Mostly, huh? That’s what scares me.”

“They’ve survived worse,” Mira said firmly, voice softening only slightly. “You should see Red at fifteen. Those Games… she was merciless. The bloodiest Games anyone’s seen from our District. And yet… she survived. She became the Wolf of Seven for a reason. They’ll learn from her. And they’ll learn from me.” Haymitch shook his head, muttering under his breath. “By Antheia… that girl’s legendary, isn’t she? Daggers, sharp, fast… and she’s just standing there in a gray uniform like she’s any other recruit. Unreal.”

Mira smiled faintly, pride flickering in her eyes. “And she’s mine. I’ve raised her strong. And now… we’re just trying to keep her safe, and by extension, the boys.” Back with Finnick, chaos continued unabated. Birch darted between Finnick’s legs, trying to trip him, and Finnick responded with a mock stumble and a chuckle, pretending to almost fall, eliciting peals of laughter from Flint and Ash. Rowan barked out instructions—careful, careful!—while Alder offered a dry commentary: “Remember, he’s not just a plaything. He’s Red’s.”

Finnick held up his hands in surrender, laughing. “Alright, alright, I get it. You’re all on high alert. I’ve been warned.”

Ash poked at his trident again. “Can I touch it?”

Finnick sighed, pretending to consider it. “If you promise not to poke anyone with it, kid.” Red pressed herself close, smiling at the scene, her daggers forgotten on another shelf in the apartment. She was just Red here, Wolfie, Fire-face, surrounded by the family she had fought so hard to protect, and Finnick, steady and teasing, holding her hand and keeping her grounded amid the chaos.

Mira’s voice rose over the chatter, warm but commanding. “Finnick, keep an eye on her, you hear? She may be Wolf of Seven, but she still comes to me when she needs grounding. And boys—behave. We’ve got a safe place now, and we’re not going to wreck it before it even starts.” Finnick laughed softly, shaking his head. “Don’t worry, Mira. I’ve got her. And… I think I can survive this… chaos.”

Red rested her head against him, closing her eyes for a brief moment, letting the noise wash over her—the teasing, the laughter, the warmth of her family, the quiet planning with Haymitch and her mother. She felt safe, even here underground, in the gray heart of District 13. For the first time in a long while, the storm in her chest quieted just enough to imagine what could come next—rescuing Johanna and Peeta, surviving the Capitol, and maybe… just maybe… seeing all the people she loved, together, again.

Chapter Text

The giant cafeteria of District 13 stretched before them like a cavern, gray and utilitarian, the harsh lights overhead reflecting off the steel tables and the uniform rows of chairs. The hum of the ventilation filled the space, low and constant, a reminder that life continued underground, hidden from the Capitol’s ever-watchful eyes.

Red and Finnick sat side by side at one of the long tables, their gray uniforms identical to everyone else’s, blending them into the mass of muted fabric and movement. Around them, the rest of the citizens ate quietly, voices low and cautious, as if loudness could somehow betray them to the world above. Mira and the boys were safely tucked away in the apartment, their presence temporarily removed from this moment—but their absence made Red feel the tug of longing even stronger, a soft ache she kept tucked under her ribs.

Across the room, Katniss sat with Gale at a nearby table, their shoulders hunched together as if the weight of what had been lost and what was yet to come pressed them closer. Red caught their eyes briefly, exchanging a nod of understanding—a silent acknowledgment that even in this controlled, colorless underground world, grief and resolve could still bind people together.

Finnick picked at the food in front of him, though the motion was mechanical, his mind elsewhere. Red watched him quietly, noting the subtle tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw flexed just enough to betray him. She reached over, placing her hand on the small of his back, grounding him without words. He stiffened slightly at first, then let out a slow exhale, leaning into her touch.

The clatter of utensils and the low murmur of conversation filled the space around them, but the room felt hollow somehow, as if everyone held their breath, waiting for something they couldn’t name. Finnick’s fingers brushed against Red’s, a quiet, unconscious plea for reassurance, for normalcy. She gave a faint squeeze in return, eyes scanning the room, drinking in the sameness of the gray uniforms, the symmetry of the tables, the disciplined calm of District 13.

And then—the sound broke it all. A sharp static hiss cut through the hum of the cafeteria. Heads turned, eyes narrowing toward the bank of screens at the far end of the room. The televisions flickered, the gray glow brightening the faces of those who had paused mid-bite, mid-conversation. A low, familiar trumpet fanfare began, echoing across the metal floors and the concrete walls. The haunting notes of the Capitol’s anthem crawled through the air, slipping past the ventilation, impossible to ignore.

Red’s hand tightened on Finnick’s back, sensing the subtle stiffening of his posture before he even spoke. His eyes flicked to the screen, wary, calculating, muscles coiled like a spring. The silence of the room thickened, the other citizens frozen, whispers dying in throats, all attention drawn to the glowing rectangles that suddenly ruled the room. Then, the image flickered into focus. Caesar Flickerman appeared, impeccably dressed, his hair impossibly smooth, but his usual exuberance was muted, replaced by an almost uncomfortable gravity. His painted smile was smaller, strained, and the sparkle in his eyes seemed dulled. Red felt a chill creep along her spine—something about this version of Caesar was wrong. He didn’t announce with the usual fanfare or teasing flourish. There was a weight to him, a stillness that seemed to press against the edges of the cafeteria.

“Good evening,” he said, voice bright but measured, each word careful, deliberate, “and a big welcome to all of Panem.”

Finnick’s hand tightened on the fork he’d been idly holding, knuckles white beneath the gray fabric. He hadn’t moved a muscle, his eyes locked on the screen as though willing it to tell him something other than the truth he already feared. Red’s heart constricted, her other hand instinctively moving to cover his. “Finnie…” she whispered, her voice low, her thumb brushing against the tense line of his spine.

He didn’t answer, didn’t even blink at first. The faint hum of the ventilation filled the space again, but it was hollow now, insignificant compared to the sudden, electric tension that gripped every person in the cafeteria. Red could feel it too—the undercurrent of fear, the rigid anticipation that tightened her chest and made her stomach hollow.

Even with the rest of District 13 underground, even with Mira and the boys safe in the apartment, with Katniss near but distant, the Capitol’s intrusion via a screen, a familiar and insidious presence, reminded them all just how fragile their sanctuary was. Finnick’s breath hitched faintly. Red let her hand linger, pressing against him with quiet insistence. Whatever came next, whatever words would come from that screen, she would face it with him. They always had each other, and even in this underground, gray, humming world, she could feel the tether of hope, however thin, stretching taut between them.

The cafeteria, once mundane and orderly, now felt like a stage. Everyone’s eyes were on the screens. Everyone held their breath. And in that tense, frozen silence, Red’s heart thumped in sync with Finnick’s, a silent promise that they would face this together, come what may. The cafeteria held its collective breath. Every tray, every clatter, every distant hum of conversation vanished as Caesar’s words faded. Finnick’s grip on Red’s hand tightened almost instinctively, a silent anchor as her chest rose and fell with shallow, trembling breaths.

At the mention of Peeta’s name, Finnick’s eyes snapped to the screens. Katniss rose from her seat, her posture rigid, her face pale but composed, and moved in front of the flickering televisions. She stood there like a sentinel, a living tether to everything Red and Finnick had lost, her dark hair a stark contrast to the cold, gray underground.

The camera shifted, and there he was. Peeta. Wearing a crisp, impossibly white suit that seemed too pristine for the war-stained world they all inhabited. He looked different—older, sharper, yet something in his eyes still pulled at Red’s chest like a remembered ache, a bittersweet echo of the boy she had once known.

"Peeta, a lot of people feel as if they’re in the dark," Caesar said, voice smooth, practiced, but carrying the weight of the world’s curiosity. Peeta’s lips curved into a small, haunted smile, a laugh that was soft, almost pained. "Yeah," he said, voice low, carrying both melancholy and a quiet strength. "I know how they feel."

Caesar’s eyes never left the screen, the ever-present showman giving way to something heavier. "Okay, set the scene for us: talk us through what really happened, on that controversial night."

Red’s hands began to shake, fingers tangling around Finnick’s. Her knuckles turned white, her body taut with longing and grief, aching for Johanna, for someone—anyone—who could make this nightmare feel less cruel. Finnick felt it too; the tremor in her hands, the tightness in her chest, and he held her a little closer, letting her lean into him as though their shared warmth could stave off the memories clawing at her.

Peeta’s voice came then, low and careful, almost confessional. "Well… you have to understand, when you’re in the Games, you only have one wish. And it’s very costly."

Caesar’s interjection came sharp and precise, cutting through the weight of the moment. "Your life?"

Peeta shook his head, a faint, almost sad smile ghosting his lips. "No—not your life. It costs more than that. It costs everything that you are to murder innocent people. So you hold onto that one wish… and my one wish that night… was to save Katniss."

The words hit like a stone through Red’s chest. The cafeteria seemed to shrink around her, the gray walls fading to the edges of memory, the flickering lights of the screens casting everything in a fragile, suspended glow. Finnick’s hand pressed over hers, grounding her, but he didn’t speak—there was nothing to say. There were only the aching echoes of hope and heartbreak, the cruel beauty of sacrifice, and the quiet, unbearable longing for the people they had lost.

Peeta’s voice carried over the silent cafeteria, calm but edged with sorrow. "I should’ve just run off that day with her… like she wanted." A soft, almost humorless laugh escaped him, the sound hollow, weighted with regret. Every eye on the screens stayed glued to him, yet Red felt her chest tighten, nails digging lightly into Finnick’s hand. She could feel him tense beside her, muscles coiled, heart hammering in quiet panic. Caesar leaned forward, tilting his head, his voice smooth but pressing. "But you didn’t, why? Were you caught up in Beetee’s plan?"

Peeta shook his head slowly, eyes glinting with pain. "No… I was caught up trying to play allies. They separated us… and that is when I lost Katniss. Then the lightning hit… and the whole force field of the arena… it blew out."

The words struck the room with quiet violence. Red’s stomach lurched, a flash of fear and helplessness crawling over her, her mind drifting to Johanna, to everyone they’d tried to protect. Finnick drew her closer, letting her rest against his chest, their small grip a fragile tether to reality. Caesar interjected sharply, his eyes never leaving the camera. "Well… Peeta, Katniss is the one who blew it out. You saw the footage."

Peeta’s sigh was deep, aching, as though it carried the weight of all he’d endured. "No… she didn’t know what she was doing. Neither of us… neither of us knew there was a bigger plan going on. We had no idea."

A hush fell over the cafeteria, the distant clatter of trays and voices swallowed by the gravity of his confession. Every uniformed figure leaned forward slightly, every fork paused mid-air, every heart silently bracing. Caesar’s tone sharpened, still carefully public, still composed, but carrying an edge of accusation. "You had no idea… well, Peeta, there are many who find this… suspicious, to say the least."

Red’s fingers tightened around Finnick’s, a small, desperate pressure. The ache in her chest deepened, the ghost of helplessness gnawing at her, and she could see the tension in Finnick—jaw tight, knuckles white against her own, eyes locked on Peeta as though willing him to stay safe even from memory.

No one spoke. No one moved. And yet the silence carried everything: fear, heartbreak, suspicion, and the fragile glimmer of hope hidden in Peeta’s regret-filled words.

Caesar’s voice cut through the dimly lit cafeteria, measured, smooth, almost casual despite the weight of his words. "It seems as though… she was part of a rebel plan."

The words made Finnick stiffen beside her, his hand tightening over hers, jaw clenching. Red could feel the tension radiating off him in waves, and her stomach turned with a low, furious ache. Peeta’s lips pressed into a thin line, a soft growl threading his words. "No. She wasn’t. Do you think it was part of her plan to almost be killed by Johanna—"

Before Finnick could react, before he could even move a hand to stop her, Red’s own instinct overrode everything. Her fingers snatched the cold, hard metal fork from the cafeteria table in front of her, and with a sharp, controlled motion, she drove it into her thigh. Pain flared instantly, hot and grounding, and a strangled gasp tore from her throat. The action, desperate and visceral, held her back from screaming at the screen—her rage, grief, and frustration barely contained.

Her knuckles went white against the metal, breath coming in tight, staccato bursts. "Do you think it was part of the plan for us all to be almost paralyzed by that lightning?" he whispered through clenched teeth, voice rough but steady, almost shaking. "No. We had no idea what was going on."

Finnick pressed his forehead gently against hers, whispering under his breath, grounding her, even as her heart thudded like a drum in her chest. He could feel the fire in her bones, the wolf-like surge of protectiveness, grief, and raw, untempered anger that had defined her through the Games—and he didn’t dare try to stop it.

Caesar’s hands rose slowly, palms outward, a careful gesture meant to pacify the room. "Alright. I believe you, Peeta Mellark. Thank you. I was going to ask you to talk about the unrest, but… you seem too upset."

Peeta’s shoulders sagged slightly, the tension in his chest palpable even through the broadcast. His hands flexed, curling around themselves, the weight of memory etched into every line of his face. "No… I can talk about it," he said quietly, voice hoarse but firm, carrying all the grief, regret, and unspoken guilt of everything he had survived.

Red’s eyes burned, staring at the screen, and she could feel Finnick’s arm tighten around her back as he tried to shield her from the storm of emotions threatening to break loose. Yet she couldn’t look away—the agony in Peeta’s voice, the haunting images in her mind, the sharp pang for Johanna, for Katniss, for every life lost or scarred by the Capitol—it all collided into a single, roaring current that left her trembling.

Katniss, still standing by the TV, silent and motionless, watched every word, every inflection. Her dark eyes, wide and unblinking, mirrored a grief and understanding that cut straight to Red’s core. Even across the room, even in the muted hum of the underground cafeteria, Red felt that connection—the quiet, unspoken bond forged in shared pain, a reminder of everything at stake.

The cafeteria seemed impossibly still, yet the air vibrated with tension. Each heartbeat, each shallow breath, each small movement of the people in gray uniforms—locked in, watching, waiting—amplified the ache that sat heavy in Red’s chest. Every second stretched, delicate and fragile, a fragile balance between despair and the faintest glimmer of hope, threaded through Peeta’s somber words and the silent solidarity of those watching him. 

Peeta’s eyes were locked on the camera, unflinching, solemn, impossibly weary yet clear. His words cut through the muted hum of the cafeteria, steady and deliberate, and yet, for Red and Finnick, every syllable hit like a hammer against bone.

"I want everyone who is watching," he began, voice quiet but iron-strong, "to stop, and think about what a civil war could mean. We almost went extinct once before, and now our numbers are even fewer… Is this what we really want to do?"

Finnick’s fingers clenched against the edge of the napkin, pressing it into Red’s thigh. Her breath hitched as she froze, eyes wide, a tremor rippling through her body. She could feel the weight of every word, the crushing inevitability in Peeta’s tone, the cold logic that seemed almost impossible to argue against. Around her, she sensed the tension rippling outward, subtle yet undeniable.

Other members of District 13 began murmuring, low growls vibrating in the air, the faint undertone of anger rising like a storm brewing under the surface. Eyes darted from the screens to one another, brows furrowing, voices tightening with disbelief and frustration. To them, it felt as if Peeta had chosen a side they could not yet see—but one they feared. Finnick noticed the growls, the sharp, wary glances at each other.

"Do we really want to kill ourselves off like this?" Peeta continued, voice firm now, carrying the weight of his soul across the airwaves. "Killing is not the answer. Everyone needs to lay down their weapons immediately."

The cafeteria erupted—not with cheers, but with shouts of outrage, quiet but fierce. Members of District 13 barked insults at the screen, accusing him of betrayal. Some slammed fists against tables, muttered curses threading their words like venom. It wasn’t just a disagreement; it was a visceral, heart-wrenching reaction to someone they had once trusted, someone who had survived alongside them, now urging them to stop fighting in a war that had demanded their all.

Caesar leaned forward, eyebrows furrowed, voice careful but probing: "Are you calling for a ceasefire?"

"Yes," Peeta replied, unwavering. "I am. I want everyone to stop this senseless violence."

Red’s chest constricted, heart hammering, as Finnick’s hand held hers tight under the table, a small anchor against the chaos of her thoughts. Her fingers trembled slightly as she gripped the edge of the metal, knuckles white. She could feel the tension of the room radiating into her bones. Some of the soldiers muttered under their breath, torn between the instinct to obey and the surge of righteous anger that surged in their blood, a reminder of the lives lost, the streets burned, the sacrifices made.

Katniss, standing in front of the televisions with Gale behind her, watched in frozen horror. Her jaw was tight, eyes wide, pupils dark, every muscle in her body taut with disbelief and grief. No… no, this isn’t right, she thought, voice caught in her own head. The boy she loved—the boy who had suffered so much, who had been torn from her, who had endured the Capitol’s cruelest schemes—was now pleading for reason, for pause, for life in a world that had been stripped of so much of it.

The cafeteria’s low hum of life—clinking cutlery, murmured conversations, footsteps on concrete—seemed to fade, leaving only Peeta’s voice echoing like a bell through every soul present. Each word a challenge, a plea, a reminder of the fragile line between hope and despair, between vengeance and survival.

Red’s eyes burned, vision narrowing as tears threatened to spill. Finnick’s hand tightened again, firm and protective, reminding her that even in the eye of this storm, she was not alone. Her lips pressed into a thin line, the urge to shout, to argue, to rip the world apart in defiance, warring with the ache of understanding—the terrible clarity in Peeta’s plea.

The room was a storm, contained within the gray walls of District 13’s cafeteria, hearts beating in unison with shock, fury, and reluctant comprehension. People shouted at the screen, voices raised in disbelief and accusation, while others whispered, thinking of families, of losses, of the futility Peeta had so painfully articulated.

Katniss’s hands clenched, white-knuckled, as she took a step closer to the screen, eyes locked on Peeta’s unflinching gaze. Her chest ached, heavy with grief, fear, and something unspoken—something that only she could understand. In that moment, every soul in the room felt the weight of choice, the cost of war, and the horrifying beauty of the words of a boy who had been through hell and still pleaded for reason.

-----

The room was dim, gray walls softened by the thin, pale light of the single overhead bulb. Night had fallen over District 13, and the usual hum of underground life had quieted to a low, steady rhythm. Finnick sat close to Red on the edge of the narrow bed, needle and thread in hand, carefully stitching the wound on her thigh. His movements were methodical, quiet, each pull of the thread precise, as if the silence around them demanded reverence.

Red’s breathing was uneven, but not from pain—she was trying to tame the whirlwind of thoughts in her mind. Her gaze drifted toward the muted light of the small apartment, toward the shadows dancing across the gray floor. After a long pause, her voice came, soft but firm:

“Can you… come with me to pray for Johanna tonight?”

Finnick froze, the needle paused mid-stitch, thread dangling like a fragile tether between them. He looked at her, eyes wide in quiet surprise. Not many people from District Seven shared their prayers; it was sacred, intimate, private—a communion with Antheia that rarely invited outsiders. Yet here she was, asking him, needing him to be there with her.

Red’s eyes were steady on his, unflinching, even as her body shifted, wincing slightly at the movement of her stitched leg. A flicker of awe and tenderness passed over Finnick’s face. He nodded slowly, brushing a loose strand of her red hair behind her ear, and they rose together.

Her steps were tentative, each footfall careful as her thigh protested under the fresh stitches. Finnick matched her pace, his hand hovering near hers, ready to steady her if she faltered. Together, they moved across the small apartment, out of the bedroom, and toward the little garden bed tucked into a corner—a patch of earth softened with care, a quiet sanctuary amidst the gray sterility of District 13.

Golden trinkets shimmered faintly in the small bucket resting on the soil, a gift from President Coin meant for Red and Finnick, tokens of hope and remembrance. Red knelt beside it, dirt spilling softly under her fingers, and Finnick followed her down, the warmth of his presence grounding her as the room around them seemed to dissolve.

They were quiet, kneeling side by side, the hum of the bunker far away, the faint scent of soil filling the air. Finnick’s hands rested lightly on his knees, close enough that Red could feel the steadying pulse of his heartbeat. In that quiet, sacred space, nothing else existed—just the earth, the golden light, and the unspoken memory of the sister they both loved, waiting in the darkness beyond the Capitol’s reach.

Red lowered her hand into the soft, dark soil, her fingers brushing against the cool earth. She picked up one of the golden trinkets from the small bucket, its faint shimmer catching the dim light like a tiny star fallen to rest. She held it between her palms for a moment, as if offering a piece of herself to the goddess, before pressing it gently into the dirt.

“Finnick,” she whispered, her voice a hush carried more by feeling than sound, “take the trinket, place it the way I do. Let your heart speak as your hands move.”

He watched her, rapt, following each delicate motion she guided him through. His fingers trembled slightly as they mirrored hers, pressing the small gold token into the soil. Red’s voice was soft, steady, yet broken in a way that made every word ache with longing.

She bowed further, fingers curling into the dirt, her forehead almost brushing the cold ground. The earth seemed to drink in her sorrow, the faint smell of damp soil mingling with the metallic tang of the trinkets.

“Antheia,” she began, her voice trembling, low and reverent, “goddess of blossoms, of the green that holds life and the roots that anchor us, I come to you tonight, carrying the weight of the world in my chest. My sister, my Johanna… keep her safe where I cannot reach. Shield her from the cruelty that does not sleep, from the hands that would tear her from the light. Let her breath remain unshaken, her heart steady, her mind clear even when the shadows gather.”

Her fingers pressed another trinket into the soil, leaving a tiny, golden mark like a promise. She drew in a sharp breath and continued, voice faltering but defiant, carrying the raw force of her grief:

“Let her steps be guided when she is lost, her path unseen by those who wish her harm. Guard her, protect her, carry her through the night as I cannot. Watch over her as a mother watches her child, as a sister would stand between her and the dark. Let no hand strike her, no whisper break her courage, and if it comes… let her strength be unbroken, even if I cannot be there to stand beside her.”

Finnick knelt beside her, absorbed, every word twisting in his chest like a knife softened only by the awe of seeing Red so open, so raw. He felt every heartbeat of her prayer, every tremble in her fingers, every quiet pause that spoke of love too large for words.

Red’s voice cracked as she added another layer, more personal, more desperate:

“And if I am too late… if I cannot reach her in time, then hold her for me. Hold her safe in your arms, even if mine are empty. Let her know the love she carries is not gone, let her know the family that waits, the hearts that ache for her return. And if she falters, remind her of the forest, of the trees, the whispers of wind and the songs of the leaves. Remind her that she is never alone, not while I breathe, not while Finnick stands as witness beside me.”

She pressed the last trinket into the soil, her hands trembling, leaving faint golden fingerprints behind. Her forehead rested finally on her folded hands, tears soaking into the earth, her breath quiet but shaky, a soft shudder reverberating through her frame.

Finnick didn’t move. He didn’t speak. He could not tear his eyes from her, from the slow, sacred rhythm of her grief made tangible, the prayer that carried all her love, all her fear, all her hope. He felt every word, every pause, every tremor in her hands as if it were a spell meant not only for Johanna but for him, for them, for the fragile hope that still lingered beneath the rubble of their lives.

The garden bed, the golden trinkets, the still air of District 13—it all seemed to pulse with her longing, with her strength, with her aching, wolf-like determination to protect the sister she loved. And Finnick, kneeling beside her, felt small and infinite at once, honored and haunted to witness the sacred, unspoken bond she forged with the goddess and with the sister who had been stolen from her.

Finnick shifted carefully beneath her, his arms sliding under Red’s trembling body as he lifted her from the garden bed. She let herself go completely, her weight heavy yet familiar in his grasp. Her leg throbbed faintly from the stitches, but the ache was muted under the warmth of his hold. Carefully, he carried her back to their small apartment, moving slowly, deliberately, as if any sudden motion could shatter the fragile peace that had settled over them.

He lowered her onto the thin mattress of their shared bed, the rough gray blanket a poor shield against the cold of the bunker, but she didn’t care. She only cared that he was there, holding her. Finnick settled beside her, letting her rest against his chest, one arm cradling her back, the other draped protectively over her side. Her long hair tumbled across his arm, warm and soft, and he tucked a loose strand behind her ear, brushing it gently with his fingers.

“You know,” he began, voice low and warm, “when I was… maybe a little older, fourteen, I think… I spent most of my afternoons down by the docks in District Four. You wouldn’t believe it now, Wolfie, but I could spend hours just staring at the water, watching the currents, listening to the waves slap against the pier.” Red’s eyelids fluttered, her body relaxing a little in the steady rhythm of his chest. She let him talk, let him guide her mind away from the grief and the fear, toward something soft, something that felt like sunlight on her skin despite the concrete walls around them.

“I had a small boat,” Finnick continued, a faint smile tugging at his lips though his eyes remained fixed on her, “wooden, worn, but steady. My father, he taught me how to row, how to hold the oars, how to feel the tide beneath me. At first, I was clumsy, nearly tipping over more times than I can count. But one day… I managed to catch a fish all by myself. Small, nothing like the ones the other boys bragged about, but it was mine. I was so proud, Wolfie. I think I shouted all the way back to shore, and my mom… she was there, laughing, telling me I’d eaten the whole sun with the way I grinned.”

He chuckled softly, a warm, almost musical sound that wrapped around Red like a blanket. “I remember the way the sun felt on my shoulders, even though it was barely late spring. And the smell… salt and fish and wet wood. It wasn’t like here, not even close. But in that moment, I felt… free. Nothing chasing me, nothing to fear, no Capitol shadows looming over my head. Just me, the water, and the endless blue above. I wanted every day to be like that, every second to stay suspended, just drifting and learning, and maybe… just maybe, understanding who I was meant to be.”

Red’s fingers twitched slightly against his shirt, and he tightened his hold without interrupting the story, letting her be a small, warm weight against his side. “I learned patience too,” he said, voice dropping to a whisper. “Fishing teaches you that. You have to wait, to watch, to feel the tug in the line, to know when to pull and when to let go. Sometimes… sometimes I think life is like that too. You wait, you watch, you hold on, and then… if you’re lucky… you get to pull in something beautiful. Something worth everything you’ve been through.”

Finnick’s hand traced the line of her spine through the fabric of her uniform, rubbing small, careful circles that soothed more than any words could. “And even when it rained—oh, it poured sometimes—I’d sit in that little boat, soaked through, shivering, but happy. Because the water didn’t care about the storms, Wolfie. It just kept flowing. And I think… I think that’s how we survive too. We flow. We keep moving, even when everything else is trying to drown us.”

He pressed a soft kiss to the top of her head, letting his breath mingle with hers. “That’s why I tell you stories like this, Red. To remind you… to remind both of us… that even in the darkest underground bunkers, even with the Capitol’s shadow hanging over everything, we can still find pieces of beauty, of life, of hope. We hold on to them. We remember them. And we… we protect each other, just like the water protects the fish, the tide carries them forward, keeps them safe until they’re ready to swim free.”

Red’s breathing had slowed, her body settling fully into his warmth, the tremors of grief softened by the gentleness of his voice and the vividness of his memories. Finnick shifted slightly, ensuring she was comfortable, one arm tight around her shoulders, the other draped across her legs.

“And maybe one day,” he whispered, almost to himself, almost to the sea that only existed in memory, “we’ll have a moment like that too, Red. Just us. No battles, no games, no Capitol shadows. Just sun, water, and the quiet knowledge that we survived. And until then…” He tightened his hold, fingers threading through hers, “we keep each other safe. We’re the ones who survive for the other. Always.”

The room was silent except for the soft, steady rhythm of Red’s breathing against him. The harsh gray walls of District 13, the distant hum of the underground, the faint metallic clangs far away—all of it faded into the background. Here, in this fragile, fleeting moment, Finnick and Red existed only in the warmth of each other’s arms, suspended in the memory of sunlight and water, of life before the games, of hope still possible even in the darkest of times.

----------

The concrete floor of the assembly hall was packed, the air thick with the murmur of hundreds of voices pressed close together. Uniformed citizens of District 13 pressed against one another, backs stooped under the weight of anticipation and the constant, low hum of anxiety. Red’s fingers were curled tightly at her sides as she stepped forward alongside Finnick, their boots scraping lightly against the rough floor.

President Coin’s voice carried over the crowd, crisp and commanding, cutting through the chatter. “I have an announcement for the citizens of District Thirteen. And our welcome guests from Twelve and Seven.” Her eyes scanned the room with calculated precision, resting briefly on Red and Finnick before sweeping onward. “Katniss Everdeen has consented to be the face of our cause, to help unite the districts against the Capitol. In exchange, I have promised several concessions. First, we will assess every opportunity to extract the victors from the Capitol: Peeta Mellark, and—”

Red’s breath caught. She shifted instinctively closer to Finnick, instinctively protective, scanning the crowd for any sign of danger or betrayal. Then, impossibly, Katniss appeared at her side, sliding through the throng of bodies like she always did—quiet, determined, impossible to stop. She leaned close, just enough for Red to hear, her voice a breath against her ear.

“I made them pardon Johanna too.”

Red froze, the words hitting her like a weight she hadn’t dared hope to lift. Without thinking, without hesitation, she threw her arms around Katniss, pressing her face into the other girl’s shoulder. Relief, disbelief, and a rush of gratitude washed over her in a single wave. She felt Finnick’s hand on her back, steadying her, but she barely registered it—her world had narrowed to the warmth and certainty of Katniss beside her, and the knowledge that Johanna would be safe.

The crowd around them continued to press and murmur, but for Red, the chaos dissolved into a single, perfect moment of triumph, fierce and aching all at once. "

President Coin’s voice rang out over the crowded hall, precise and unwavering. “—Johanna Mason will also be pardoned for any and all crimes.”

Red exhaled a long, shuddering sigh, the tension in her shoulders melting just slightly. Relief coursed through her like a warm tide, and she felt Finnick’s hand brush against hers. He leaned close, pressing a gentle kiss into the crown of her head.

“We’re getting that annoying hurricane back, Wolfie,” he whispered, a small, teasing smile tugging at his lips.

Red let herself smile faintly at the nickname, even as the hum of murmurs and grumbles rose from the other citizens of District 13. Many were unsettled by the mention of Peeta’s pardon, voices laced with suspicion and disbelief. But she barely registered them.

Coin’s words cut through the murmurs with finality. “If Katniss fails to fulfill her duties, they will not receive this gift.”

Red’s chest tightened instantly, a familiar pang of worry stabbing through her. Her gaze locked on Katniss, who stood poised and steady at Coin’s side, calm but carrying the weight of the entire rebellion on her shoulders. Red’s voice was barely a whisper, meant only for the girl she trusted above all else.

“Please… don’t fail this, girl on fire. We’ll help out anyway we can.”

Finnick’s hand found hers again, squeezing gently, anchoring her. Red’s heart still pounded, the mix of hope and fear twisting in her chest, but she let herself cling to that tiny shard of certainty—that no matter what, they would stand together, and they would protect those they loved.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

The walk to Effie’s quarters was quiet.
The corridors of District Thirteen were never truly silent—there was always the faint hum of air recyclers, the echo of boots somewhere far away—but to Red it still felt hushed, as if the underground itself were holding its breath. Finnick’s fingers brushed hers now and then as they walked, their new weapons slung carefully across their backs. She could feel the pulse of the trident’s faint charge whenever it came too close to the metal clasp on her dagger belt.

They stopped at a narrow door marked Trinket, E. The light above it glowed a soft amber, and before Finnick could knock, a voice—soft, cultured, almost fragile—called, “Come in, my darlings.”

The door slid open.

For a heartbeat, Red didn’t recognize her.

Effie Trinket stood in the center of the tiny, cement-walled room, and she looked—human. Her usual explosion of pastel wigs and glittering cosmetics was gone. In their place: pale skin, nearly translucent under the harsh white light; a cream-colored headscarf tied neatly at her neck; and the standard gray District 13 uniform cinched primly at the waist. She was thinner than Red remembered, but her smile—though smaller—was still unmistakably Effie.

“Look at you two,” she breathed, her accent clipped but warm. “The Capitol may have stripped us of color, but I see it in your eyes. Sit, sit.” She gestured to two mismatched metal chairs near a small table that somehow still had a folded napkin and a teacup perched on it like an offering to normalcy.

Finnick hesitated, half-smile tugging at his mouth. “You look…” he started, and then stopped himself, eyes softening. “Different. But good.”

Effie let out a delicate laugh, one that cracked slightly at the edges. “Different, yes. We all are.” She adjusted the scarf at her throat, motioning for them to sit again. “They don’t allow rouge or wigs or any sort of sparkle down here—can you imagine? I feel like I’ve gone gray from the inside out.” Red sat carefully, hands folded in her lap. The room smelled faintly of the synthetic tea District 13 brewed—bitter and earthy, nothing like the floral Capitol blends Effie used to serve.

“You still have your manners, dear,” Effie said softly when she caught Red’s posture. “Your mother must be proud.”

“She is,” Red said quietly, thinking of Mira’s loud laugh echoing down the concrete halls.

Effie nodded, her eyes flicking between them, studying their faces as if memorizing something. “I’m told you’ve both been training hard. Beetee was absolutely glowing when he came by earlier. Said you were poetry in motion.” Finnick chuckled, leaning back in his chair. “Poetry that shocks itself half the time.” Effie’s smile deepened. “That’s the point of poetry, isn’t it? To hurt beautifully.”

For a moment, none of them spoke. The air was thick with recycled dust and something gentler—nostalgia, maybe. Effie’s eyes darted to the corner of the room where a large black trunk sat closed, something folded neatly atop it and half hidden by shadow.

Finally she clapped her hands lightly together, the movement small but precise. “Well,” she said, voice brightening just a little. “You didn’t come here just to watch me sulk in monochrome.” Finnick raised an eyebrow. “You sulk elegantly, for the record.” Effie shot him a look that almost felt like the old days—mock exasperation, all theater and affection. “Flattery will get you nowhere, Odair. Although it’s terribly appreciated.”

Red laughed softly under her breath. It was the first time she’d laughed since the broadcast.

Effie turned back toward the trunk, her fingers resting lightly on the lid but not opening it yet. “I’ve been working on something for you both. President Coin may think gray is unity, but I think a revolution needs its symbols.” Her voice gentled again, lower. “You two have always been symbols, whether you wanted it or not.” Red and Finnick exchanged a look, quiet understanding between them—the ghosts of arenas, the weight of being watched. Effie inhaled, her next words trembling faintly. “So I thought… perhaps it’s time the world saw you the way you should be seen.”

She looked back at them, eyes glimmering like something that had refused to die.

And then, finally, she reached for the trunk.

Effie’s hand shot toward Finnick’s shoulder, delicate but firm. “Oh no, no, Odair. You’ll simply have to wait. This is a private showing for my most cherished girl.” Finnick’s brow shot up, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Private showing, huh? You mean… Red gets all the attention?”

“Yes!” Effie said, snapping her fingers as if the very word were magic. “I simply cannot have you lurking about, stealing her attention before she even sees herself properly. Off you go. Take a stroll, make yourself useful, or… I suppose… practice a few heroic poses in the corridor. Go on, out!” Finnick groaned dramatically, throwing up his hands in mock surrender. “Fine, fine. Don’t have a coronary without me.”

Red couldn’t help but snort, tugging at her tangled hair while Finnick reluctantly backed toward the door. Effie followed him to the threshold with sharp, precise steps. “I expect no peeking, Odair! No peeking, no leaning around corners, no wiggling your eyebrows suggestively, and absolutely no flirting from outside the room!” Finnick leaned in the doorway anyway, voice dripping with amusement. “Flirtation is my primary skill set, Effie. You can’t stop it.”

Effie rolled her eyes, though a faint smile betrayed her. “You’ll see me in due time. Now leave!”

With a final dramatic groan, Finnick stepped out, closing the door behind him with exaggerated care, muttering about “monochrome tyranny” and “my Wolfie being trapped.” The room felt suddenly smaller, quieter, except for the faint hum of the underground ventilation. Effie turned on her heel and gestured toward the trunk. “Now,” she said, her voice sharp, commanding, yet laced with excitement, “my Red. Come closer. You’re about to see yourself not as the Wolf of Seven, not as a survivor, but as… the embodiment of precision, strength, and subtle rebellion.”

Red’s pulse picked up as she stepped forward. Her hair, a chaotic cascade of fiery red, brushed the floor behind her, catching the light in almost imperceptible waves. She felt herself tense, unsure, heart racing at the thought of Effie—who had always been larger-than-life, always glittering and controlling—taking this moment to spotlight her alone. Effie lifted the lid of the trunk with a flourish. Inside lay the uniform, perfectly folded: a deep, matte black that seemed to absorb the dim light around it. The fabric looked impossibly sleek yet durable, structured at the shoulders, fitted along the torso, with faint, subtle panels of reinforced material along the thighs and forearms. The boots were polished, black leather with silent grips, elegant yet made to move. A high collar promised protection without restricting movement.

“Do you see it?” Effie asked, eyes sparkling. “Everything about this is meant to serve you. The folds, the tailoring, the subtle armoring—this isn’t just uniformity, Red. This is power, discreet but absolute. Every movement you make will feel like an extension of yourself. Quick, sharp, and deadly.”

Red knelt slightly to inspect the seams, running her fingers along the vine-like stitching that mimicked the natural flow of movement, almost organic in design. “It… feels light,” she murmured, “like it wants me to move in it.”

“Exactly,” Effie said, clapping her hands lightly together. “I designed this for you, Ms. Briar. Your signature agility, your leaps, your spins—you will feel as though the uniform wants you to survive, to dominate, to be yourself. Now, try it on.”

Red swallowed, tugging her tangled hair behind her as she carefully lifted the uniform from the trunk. Effie moved to help, adjusting the sleeves, straightening the seams, and running her hands along the reinforced panels. “Higher here, lower there, perfect, perfect,” Effie murmured approvingly. “Oh yes, look at that posture! That is utterly lethal and entirely appropriate. You may look angelic, you may look serene—but any who dare challenge you will know immediately what they’re up against.” Red stepped carefully into the pants, pulling them up and securing the waistband, feeling the subtle stretch of the fabric against her bent knee and back leg. Every panel seemed to move in harmony with her joints, accommodating her signature stances instinctively.

Effie helped her into the jacket next, fastening it with precise, tiny snaps. “There! Now lift your arms, pivot, stretch,” she instructed, guiding Red through small movements. “See how it flows? See how it doesn’t resist your grace, your jumps, your… devastation?”

Red lifted, spun, and bent slightly, testing the uniform. She felt the strength in her legs, the control in her core, and the whisper of speed through the material. Effie’s eyes lit up, clapping softly.

“Marvelous! Yes, yes, yes! You are going to haunt every arena, every battlefield, every corner of this underground city with this. Look at you! Even in gray light, you radiate something utterly… formidable.” Red turned slowly, testing the feel, letting the black fabric settle against her curves and muscles, almost like a second skin designed specifically for her lethal precision. Effie watched her every movement, nodding with approval, a satisfied smile blooming across her face.

“You are ready,” Effie whispered softly, almost to herself, “not just to fight, but to be seen. And, my dear Red…” She leaned closer, voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur, “you will love what Odair sees when he finally lays eyes on you in this.”

Red’s pulse surged, both from the tight elegance of the uniform and the thought of Finnick seeing her like this. She smiled faintly, adjusting the high collar, feeling the power of Effie’s craftsmanship wrap around her like a promise of survival, skill, and—most unexpectedly—flirtation.

Red took a careful step back, her eyes immediately drawn to the full-length mirror Effie had positioned in the corner of the apartment. The uniform clung to her frame like a shadow molded perfectly to her body, emphasizing her long, lean lines without ever feeling restrictive. The jacket was matte black, tailored snugly at the shoulders and tapering in at her waist, giving her the appearance of coiled strength. Subtle panels of reinforced fabric traced the contours of her torso and forearms, almost like the protective bark of a tree, while intricate vine-like stitching crawled along the seams, mimicking the fluidity of her signature leaps and spins.

The pants were equally functional and elegant: fitted but not constrictive, allowing for the full sweep of her legs as she crouched, twisted, or lunged. A slight padding at the knees hinted at readiness for impact, while hidden grips along the soles of her boots promised silent, precise footwork.

Red’s hands ran along the high collar, which framed her neck and jaw just enough to convey authority, yet left her agile enough to turn and strike in an instant. The sleeves ended in narrow cuffs with discreet clasps, adjustable for comfort, while the belt cinched her waist subtly, keeping the jacket from shifting during movement but still allowing for extreme arching or leaping—the way she moved naturally in the arena.

Her reflection took her breath away. She could see herself as Effie had described: a predator and a shadow at once, poised, lethal, yet beautiful in its purpose. The uniform somehow molded to her essence, whispering of hidden strength, relentless agility, and a deadly elegance. Effie moved closer, hands lightly brushing along the jacket. “If you must fight, at least look like the forest itself would kneel for you,” she said softly, almost reverently, her voice full of pride and awe. She adjusted the jacket along Red’s shoulders, straightened the cuffs, and smoothed the stitching along the back, her fingers precise and careful. “There. The lines here, the cut along the hips—yes. That’s perfect. See how it flows with your form? Every jump, every pivot will feel like the forest itself bends for you.”

Red tilted slightly, testing the movement of her arms. She leaned back instinctively, mimicking her fighting stance, and the uniform responded beautifully, stretching and flexing with her muscles. Effie nodded, eyes sparkling. “See? Every time you spin, every leap, you’ll look like… like you are part of the shadows, part of the trees, part of the very forest itself. You move, and the ground would bow. You strike, and the wind would hesitate.”

Red’s fingers grazed the vine-like stitching along her forearm. “It almost feels alive,” she whispered, voice hushed. “Like it wants me to move in it.” “Exactly,” Effie said, brushing a stray curl of Red’s fiery hair from her shoulder. “And when Odair sees you… well, my dear, I suspect even he will be rendered momentarily breathless. But first, we make sure you feel invincible. Now, test the flexibility here—lift, twist, pivot. Yes, exactly like that.”

Red moved slowly at first, then faster, feeling the uniform flex and support every motion. Effie’s hands hovered, adjusting subtly where necessary: the belt, the collar, the cuffs. Each movement was small but perfect, ensuring nothing impeded Red’s natural style.

“You see it, don’t you?” Effie whispered, leaning back slightly to let Red observe herself. “You are not merely wearing black. You are becoming the forest itself. Silent, deadly, untouchable, and… breathtaking.” Red’s eyes met her reflection fully now, taking in the sleek power, the lethal elegance, and the subtle nod to her agility. She could feel herself already moving differently—more precise, more deliberate, more herself. The uniform wasn’t just clothing; it was a promise, a weapon, and a shield all at once.

Red took a careful step back, her eyes immediately drawn to the full-length mirror Effie had positioned in the corner of the apartment. The uniform clung to her frame like a shadow molded perfectly to her body, emphasizing her long, lean lines without ever feeling restrictive. The jacket was matte black, tailored snugly at the shoulders and tapering in at her waist, giving her the appearance of coiled strength. Subtle panels of reinforced fabric traced the contours of her torso and forearms, almost like the protective bark of a tree, while intricate vine-like stitching crawled along the seams, mimicking the fluidity of her signature leaps and spins.

The pants were equally functional and elegant: fitted but not constrictive, allowing for the full sweep of her legs as she crouched, twisted, or lunged. A slight padding at the knees hinted at readiness for impact, while hidden grips along the soles of her boots promised silent, precise footwork.

Her reflection took her breath away. She could see herself as Effie had described: a predator and a shadow at once, poised, lethal, yet beautiful in its purpose. The uniform somehow molded to her essence, whispering of hidden strength, relentless agility, and a deadly elegance.

Effie moved closer, hands lightly brushing along the jacket. “If you must fight, at least look like the forest itself would kneel for you,” she said softly, almost reverently, her voice full of pride and awe. She adjusted the jacket along Red’s shoulders, straightened the cuffs, and smoothed the stitching along the back, her fingers precise and careful. “There. The lines here, the cut along the hips—yes. That’s perfect. See how it flows with your form? Every jump, every pivot will feel like the forest itself bends for you.”

Red tilted slightly, testing the movement of her arms. She leaned back instinctively, mimicking her fighting stance, and the uniform responded beautifully, stretching and flexing with her muscles. Effie nodded, eyes sparkling. “See? Every time you spin, every leap, you’ll look like… like you are part of the shadows, part of the trees, part of the very forest itself. You move, and the ground would bow. You strike, and the wind would hesitate.”

Red’s fingers grazed the vine-like stitching along her forearm. “It almost feels alive,” she whispered, voice hushed. “Like it wants me to move in it.”

“Exactly,” Effie said, brushing a stray curl of Red’s fiery hair from her shoulder. “And when Odair sees you… well, my dear, I suspect even he will be rendered momentarily breathless. But first, we make sure you feel invincible. Now, test the flexibility here—lift, twist, pivot. Yes, exactly like that.” As Red adjusted the jacket one last time, her gaze fell to a small, glinting detail above her heart. Her breath caught, a small gasp escaping her lips as she realized the delicate gold insignia stitched carefully into the fabric: Antheia’s blossom. Effie’s eyes twinkled as she leaned closer, whispering conspiratorially, “Don’t tell Coin, darling. Consider it a little… blessing for our Wolf of Seven.”

Red’s fingers hovered just above the blossom, a mix of awe and warmth flooding her chest. She looked up at Effie, eyes wide, and Effie simply smiled, her hands smoothing the jacket once more. “There. Now you carry her with you—not just your skill, but her watchful eyes as well. Every strike, every leap, every turn…” Effie’s voice trailed off, leaving the weight of the moment suspended in the quiet hum of the apartment.

Red’s lips curved into a small, almost shy smile, her fiery heart swelling as she gazed at the reflection of herself—strong, ready, and now quietly carrying a piece of her goddess stitched over her heart.

Effie stepped back, arms folded, eyes sparkling with delight as she studied Red’s reflection in the mirror. “Now, my Wolf of Seven, let’s see how you move in this.” Red shifted her weight instinctively to her back leg, the knee bent, grounding herself, the front leg extended lightly, ready to pivot or kick. The jacket flexed perfectly with her muscles, stretching just enough over her shoulders and torso as she leaned back, almost arching. Effie nodded approvingly. “Yes, exactly like that. Feel the weight in your heel, the tension in your thigh. That’s where your power begins—it flows through your legs before it even reaches your arms.”

Red raised her arms slightly, fingers brushing the air as if tracing invisible lines. Effie guided her hands gently. “Imagine your vine as an extension of your body. Not just a weapon, but a part of your rhythm. Let it swing naturally, follow your core, your lean, your pivot. Every jump, every strike, it’s a dance. Graceful, yes, but lethal.”

Red tested a small jump, swinging the imaginary vine in a wide arc. Effie’s eyes lit up. “Perfect! Now exaggerate the lean of your torso, let the vine carry your momentum. Feel yourself airborne but grounded at the same time. That’s the magic—your enemies won’t know where the strike begins or ends.”

Red’s legs bent, she pivoted sharply, testing a sudden downward slash, and Effie’s hands flew to adjust the alignment. “Ah! Yes, yes! Keep your back leg bent just so, your torso leaning slightly more—there. That’s it! Every strike should feel like the forest itself is bending, twisting, alive with your motion. Watch your breath, Red, let it guide the swing. Your dagger isn’t separate from you; it is you.”

Red’s chest rose and fell with deep, controlled breaths. She jumped again, letting her arms swing in a wide arch, mimicking the motion of the vine daggers. Effie adjusted her wrists delicately. “Perfect, my dear! And now—the snap. That little flick at the end of the arc? That’s where you surprise them. Not just speed, but elegance. Make them feel the strike, then—gone. Gone into shadow.” Red exhaled sharply, letting herself fully inhabit the stance, feeling the flow of her weight, the tension in her back leg, the readiness in her extended front leg, the arching curve of her torso. Effie moved closer, brushing a lock of hair from her face. “Good… very good. And don’t forget to carry yourself with confidence. This is not just a uniform, Red. This is you in its purest form. Powerful, untouchable, fierce.”

Red’s hands hovered briefly over her imaginary vine, testing subtle motions, flicks, and lunges. Each movement felt sharper, more precise, more her. Her reflection seemed almost alive, the fluidity of her stance mirrored in the shadows behind her.

Effie’s voice softened, almost reverent. “When Finnick sees you in this, when your brothers do, when anyone dares look your way… they’ll see not just Red, the Wolf of Seven, but Red, the forest incarnate, bending but never breaking. And they’ll remember why you survive.” Red’s lips curved into a small, satisfied smile. She inhaled, feeling the connection between body, weapon, and instinct. The uniform moved with her, the gold blossom over her heart glinting softly in the mirror’s light, a quiet reminder of Antheia’s presence, guiding, protecting.

Effie stepped back one final time, folding her arms and smiling. “Now, my dear, you’re ready to show Finnick exactly what the forest looks like when it hunts… or when it dances.”

Red laughed softly, the tension in her shoulders easing, heart pounding, a thrill running through her veins. She could almost hear the rustle of leaves in a windless forest, feel the sway of branches with each graceful arc of her arms. This uniform, this stance, this moment—it was more than preparation. It was transformation.

Effie’s voice echoed through the small apartment. “Finnick Odair! Come in, young man, unless you enjoy pacing the hallway like a lost puppy!”

Finnick groaned from the corridor, running a hand through his messy hair, eyes narrowing. “I should get to see my stupid girlfriend all pretty and done up even more then usual, thank you very much,” he muttered, stepping inside. His gaze immediately landed on Red.

Time slowed.

Red stood in front of the mirror, the black uniform clinging perfectly to her frame, the jacket tailored to hug her curves while still allowing freedom of movement. Her long red hair tumbled down her back in loose curls, almost like a waterfall of fire, framing her face with untamed elegance. Her legs were poised, back leg bent, front leg extended, torso slightly arched, hands hovering as if holding invisible daggers, and the tiny gold blossom over her heart caught the dim light, glinting like a secret promise.

Finnick’s mouth went slightly dry, a faint whistle escaping despite himself. “By the gods…” he breathed, his eyes tracing every line of her stance, every detail of the uniform, every inch of that small gold emblem. His usual teasing smirk was gone, replaced by awe, admiration, and something softer, more intimate.

Red’s eyes flicked toward him, catching his stunned expression, and she couldn’t help a teasing lilt in her voice. “Speechless, Odair?” He ran a hand over his face, pretending to regain composure, though it did nothing to hide the way his gaze lingered. “I… I didn’t know Effie had it in her to make something… this perfect for you,” he said, voice low, almost reverent. He shifted his weight, trying to mask the way his chest had suddenly tightened. “And don’t think I’m overjoyed about being kicked out, either,” he added, mock grumbling. “I was enjoying my stroll of solitude!”

Red’s lips quirked, a mischievous sparkle lighting her eyes. “Oh, I’m sure you were. Pacing. Grumbling. Wishing you were here to witness greatness,” she teased, twirling slightly so the jacket flexed against her movements, the blossom catching the light again. Finnick’s jaw dropped slightly. “Witness greatness? Wolfie… that’s—” He paused, swallowing, and ran a hand through his hair again. “That’s not even fair. You look…” He struggled, words failing him. “…incredible.”

Effie clapped her hands, cutting through the charged air. “Yes! Look at that! Finally, someone speaks some sense! Finnick Odair, open your eyes, young man, and appreciate the beauty before you! Now, touch the jacket, feel the freedom of movement, the elegance. Marvel at it, the little touches that make it her. You may never see something this precise again!”

Finnick’s gaze lingered, but he moved closer anyway, carefully studying the uniform as if he were memorizing every curve, every seam, every detail. His hand hovered over the jacket sleeve, just shy of touching her shoulder, and Red noticed.

She smirked faintly, letting the pause stretch for a heartbeat longer than necessary. “You like it?” she asked softly, the corner of her mouth tugging up in amusement. Finnick blinked, startled at how her teasing made his pulse race. “Like it? I—No. I love it. I… I can’t even…” He shook his head, giving a small, helpless laugh. “…I can’t believe Effie actually managed this. You look… perfect. Lethal, elegant, everything.”

Red laughed quietly, stepping closer. “Careful, Odair. You’re supposed to focus on the rebellion, not me.” Finnick smirked, leaning just slightly, letting his eyes roam with barely contained admiration. “That’s the problem, Fire-face. How can I focus when this exists right in front of me?”

Red rolled her eyes, but the small, soft laugh that escaped her was full of warmth. “I suppose I’ll forgive you… for now.”

Effie clapped again, oblivious to the electric tension between the two. “Marvelous! Absolutely marvelous! Finnick, your turn is next. Let’s see if we can make the ocean itself jealous of your new ensemble. But first, a moment of respect for this masterpiece.”

Finnick’s gaze flicked back to Red one more time, lingering just a heartbeat too long, before he finally turned toward Effie, cheeks faintly tinged with color. But even then, the way his shoulders shifted, the tiny smirk tugging at his lips, betrayed how utterly captivated he was.

Red, noticing, let herself grin, quietly savoring the moment. It wasn’t just the uniform—it was the quiet, delicious thrill of being seen, truly seen, by him.

Effie clapped her hands, practically bouncing on the balls of her feet. “Alright, darling, that’s enough admiration for the moment. Out you go!” Red groaned, glaring playfully as Effie waved her toward the door. “Wait—what?!” she protested, shoving her hands on her hips. “I won’t even get to see my boyfriend change into his uniform? That’s unfair!” Finnick, lounging in the corner with his arms crossed and a mock scowl, raised an eyebrow. “Oh, so now I’m being put on display like some kind of exhibit?” he teased, voice low and amused.

Red shot him a grin over her shoulder as she shuffled toward the hallway. “Exactly. You’ll have to wait for me to see the final masterpiece!”

Effie beamed at her, not missing a beat. “Yes, yes, exactly! A proper reveal is essential, my dear. Patience, Ms. Briar. Finnick, you’ll thank me later.”

Red huffed dramatically, leaning against the wall and shaking her head. “I so don’t get why you need to hide him. It’s not like he’s—ugh—stunning or anything.” She muttered the last part under her breath, just loud enough for Finnick to hear.

Finnick smirked, leaning back in his chair, tone teasing. “Oh really? Not stunning? I think I just caught a hint of admiration there, Red.” Red’s cheeks flushed faintly, and she waved him off with a grin. “You wish, Odair. Go on, Effie’s in charge. I’ll be sulking out here, of course.” Finnick laughed softly, shaking his head, already anticipating the show. “Yeah, sulk all you want, sweetheart. But just wait—when you see me in this uniform, you might regret being outside.”

Red groaned again, muttering, “I already regret nothing.” But she couldn’t stop the small, bright laugh that bubbled up as she leaned against the wall, watching Effie bustle around inside, Finnick smirking behind her back.

The hallway seemed to hum with tension, teasing, and quiet excitement, the anticipation for the next reveal building like an unspoken promise between them. Effie hummed lightly to herself as she rifled through her meticulously organized wardrobe. “Ah, yes, here we are,” she said, producing a carefully folded set of black fabric. “Finnick Odair, my dearest, it’s time for you to step into your rightful glory.” Finnick raised an eyebrow, leaning against the wall, half amused and half exhausted. “Glory, huh? Already awake for hours, fought with Red, and now glory? Really, Effie?”

“Really,” she said firmly, sliding the uniform toward him. “This isn’t just clothing, my darling—this is statement armor. You were the Capitol’s favorite showpiece once. Let them see what they lost.”

Finnick smirked but shook his head, taking the jacket first. He shrugged into it, the form-fitting black material settling around his shoulders like it had been made for him alone. Effie leaned in, adjusting the reinforced shoulders just slightly, her fingers brushing against the fabric. “See how the threading catches the light? That faint blue-gray shimmer? It whispers Tide and Thunder, lethal charm turned soldier. Subtle, commanding, and unmistakably you.” Finnick flexed his arms experimentally. “Subtle, huh?” he muttered, running a hand over the glimmering threads. “Feels… powerful, though. I like it.”

“Of course you do,” Effie replied, producing the trousers next. “Flexible combat-grade, scaled leather texture—subtle nod to your sea-born heritage. Practical, yes, but elegant. You are still a man of the ocean.”

He slid them on, adjusting the waistband and the seams around his knees, feeling the smooth, protective material hug his legs. The black boots followed, sleek and waterproof, perfect for any terrain they might face. Effie guided him gently, pointing out the subtle curves of the soles and the perfect arch of the heel. “And the harness,” she said, producing the magnetic back holster. “For your trident. It folds perfectly against your spine. No bulk, no impediments. Just raw, lethal efficiency.” Finnick ran a hand along the back, testing the mechanism, a quiet grin tugging at his lips. “Magnetic, huh? Fancy. I’ll have to remember not to get stuck to anything metallic.”

“And of course,” Effie added, holding up a single braided cord, gold and green intertwined, “Red insisted this stays. A symbol, a tether, a reminder.” She slipped it over his wrist, adjusting it gently. “Every detail matters. Every stitch, every shimmer. Let them remember why you were feared, admired, and—most importantly—lost.”

Finnick glanced at her, tousled hair falling slightly over his eyes as he ran a hand through it. “Heroic rebellion chic, right?”

“Exactly,” Effie said with a dramatic flourish, stepping back to admire her work. “Now, go. Stand tall. And let them see what they underestimated for far too long.” Finnick exhaled slowly, feeling the weight of the fabric, the emblematic threads, the harness—all of it—but also the lightness of purpose that came with it. He flexed his fingers, straightened his shoulders, and gave Effie a quick nod. “Alright, Effie. Let’s see what Red thinks.”

Effie clapped her hands sharply, her voice ringing through the small apartment. “Red! Come on in, darling! You’ve been waiting long enough, haven’t you?”

Red peeked around the corner, already clad in her black uniform, the folds of fabric hugging her frame perfectly. She had adjusted the straps just enough to feel comfortable, her vine-dagger holsters snug against her hips. The small gold insignia — Antheia’s blossom — caught the light and made her chest swell with pride. “I’m coming!” she called back, though her voice carried a mixture of excitement and nerves.

Effie beamed. “Good girl! Now… open your eyes, darling, and behold!”

Red stepped fully into the room, expecting to see some of Effie’s usual dramatic flourishes or props, but instead… Finnick.

Her breath hitched.

He stood there, the form-fitted black combat jacket outlining the broad, lean lines of his shoulders and chest. The subtle blue-gray threads caught the light, shimmering faintly with each movement, while the emblem of the trident near his collarbone gleamed a muted navy. The trousers clung perfectly, accentuating his strong legs, and the sleek black boots grounded him with a sense of ease and power. His tousled hair fell in that effortless, “I just woke up but still look lethal” way Effie had insisted he keep. Red’s eyes widened, and a bright, hot blush spread across her cheeks. She tried to look casual, adjusting a strap on her own uniform, but her hands were trembling slightly. Her heartbeat thudded in her ears, loud and insistent, as her gaze flicked to every detail of him — the magnetic trident holster along his spine, the braided cord on his wrist, the way his posture screamed both power and ease.

Finnick noticed immediately. He straightened a fraction more, a playful smirk tugging at his lips, noticing the fiery red bloom creeping across her cheeks. “Well, hello there,” he said softly, his voice low, teasing. “You look… incredible.”

Red’s breath caught again. “I—I mean, you…” She fumbled, twisting her hands in the front of her uniform, suddenly self-conscious even though she knew she looked fierce. “You look… so…” Words failed her entirely, and she flushed brighter, heat pooling across her chest. Effie clapped again, clearly delighted with the scene she had orchestrated. “Oh! Look at you two! Smitten little firecrackers, aren’t you? Red, focus! Observe Finnick in all his glory. And Finnick, do try not to reduce her to a puddle of blushes before breakfast.”

Finnick stepped a little closer, letting his smirk soften into something more intimate, just enough that Red could feel the warmth radiating from him without breaking the tiny professional gap Effie insisted upon. “You’re… stunning,” he murmured, eyes scanning her from the vine-dagger holsters at her hips to the gold insignia above her heart. “I mean… wow.”

Red swallowed hard, her pulse spiking, heat burning her face and ears. She opened her mouth to reply, but only a strangled laugh escaped. “You—stop—stop looking at me like that,” she stammered, spinning slightly on her heels to adjust her boots, though every motion was betraying her fluster.

Finnick chuckled low and soft, clearly amused, letting his fingers brush against the trident harness as if the weapon itself were an extension of him. “I can’t help it, Wolfie,” he said, his grin teasing but his gaze warm and intent. “You look… lethal. Like someone I’d trust to stab me in the chest and I’d thank her for it.” Red’s blush deepened, and she laughed nervously, bending slightly to adjust her dagger holsters again, but the crooked smile betraying her nerves stretched wide. “You’re ridiculous,” she muttered, though the spark in her eyes betrayed how much she adored him.

Effie clapped her hands again, practically bouncing with delight. “Oh! Enough of this teasing! Finnick, darling, you’ve had your moment. Red, now show him what the forest itself would kneel for! And don’t be shy—there’s plenty of admiration to go around!”

Red took a deep breath, trying to steady the thrum of heat in her chest. Her eyes flicked to Finnick, who leaned casually against the wall, arms crossed, smirk softening into something unreadable yet knowing. She wanted to launch herself at him, but instead, she straightened, tugged slightly on her uniform, and for the first time truly felt herself in it: powerful, deadly, unstoppable—and utterly, irreversibly flustered by the man before her.

Finnick’s gaze lingered, teasing and fond, and she caught herself breathing faster. “You’re ridiculous,” she repeated softly, though now it carried a note of wonder, admiration, and… something dangerously close to desire.

And in the quiet, fluorescent-lit apartment, beneath the underground hum of District 13, the two of them shared a long, tense, silent moment, fully aware that this battle-ready exterior could not hide the heat and playfulness simmering between them.

Chapter Text

Red and Finnick were tangled beneath the heavy gray blankets, the dim underground light of their apartment filtering softly through the small ventilation slits. Finnick’s arm was draped over her waist, fingers brushing against the curve of her hip, and Red’s hair spilled across the pillow in a tangle of fiery red curls, nearly reaching the edge of the bed. For a brief, blissful moment, the world above didn’t exist—the horrors, the Capitol, the wars—it was just the quiet rhythm of their breathing, the soft warmth of each other pressed together.

Then it hit.

A sudden, blaring blast of air horns rattled through the apartment like a storm crashing through the corridors. Red’s eyes snapped open, pupils dilating, and Finnick jerked upright beside her, hair falling into his face as he squinted against the harsh, red emergency lights that flooded the room. Another horn sounded, longer and more insistent, reverberating through the steel and concrete walls of District Thirteen’s underground city.

And then a voice, metallic and amplified, boomed from the intercom overhead: “THIS IS A CODE RED ALERT. PLEASE REMAIN CALM AND START EVACUATION PROTOCOL.”

The words struck like ice. Red’s chest heaved instinctively, heart hammering as adrenaline surged. The familiar underground hum that usually comforted her now felt oppressive, vibrating through her bones with a sinister urgency. Finnick’s hand immediately found hers, gripping tightly, grounding both of them even as the chaos outside their room seemed to pour in.

Her senses sharpened in an instant—the metallic scent of the ventilation, faint smoke from the emergency flares, the echoing clang of distant doors slamming open. She could hear the muffled voices of other citizens—children crying softly, adults shouting instructions, the low rumble of boots on concrete—all harmonizing with the piercing wails of the alarms. Finnick’s voice was low, tight, full of controlled panic as he murmured, “Red… stay with me.” His thumb rubbed over her knuckles, trying to keep both of them tethered to reason, to calm, to one another, even as the world above ground or around them threatened to fracture.

Red blinked rapidly, shoving her long hair out of her face, eyes scanning the small apartment for essentials: weapons, a pack for supplies, the communication device that could contact the others if necessary. Every fiber of her being was on edge, her instincts screaming to move, to protect, to survive. Finnick leaned down, brushing his lips to her temple in a fleeting, grounding kiss. “We’ve got this,” he whispered, though his voice carried the same tension that made her gut tighten.

The intercom repeated itself, the voice more urgent this time: “THIS IS NOT A DRILL. ALL PERSONNEL, FOLLOW EVACUATION ROUTES IMMEDIATELY. PROCEED TO DESIGNATED SAFE ZONES. THIS IS A CODE RED ALERT.”

Red’s teeth clenched. Her fingers trembled slightly as she pushed herself off the bed, muscles taut, ready to move. Finnick was already rising beside her, pulling on his combat pants with the precision of someone who had done this too many times, but who also felt the pulse of fear in his chest. The metallic snap of her own boots against the concrete floor echoed through the apartment, mingling with the shrill sirens outside. A low rumble, distant but unmistakable, vibrated through the floor—the telltale sign that the bombing was not just a threat. Red’s hand brushed over the smooth curve of her vine-daggers hidden beneath her jacket, a quick mental check: everything in place, everything ready. Finnick’s hand slid into hers again, thumb rubbing circles over her knuckles as he whispered, almost to himself, “Keep calm… we’ll make it.”

And all around them, the underground city of District Thirteen stirred to life, the panic and precision of its citizens converging into a tense, urgent rhythm: doors sliding open, voices calling orders, children being shepherded to safety, adults rushing to secure what they could. The air horns blared again, cutting through the thick tension, signaling that there was no time to linger, no room for hesitation.

Red inhaled sharply, letting the fear sharpen into focus. Finnick mirrored her movements, muscles coiled, eyes alert, breaths synchronized. The city’s lifeblood—the network of corridors, the emergency lighting, the distant hum of machinery—seemed to pulse in tandem with their racing hearts. In that moment, Red felt the familiar rush of adrenaline, the surge that had always carried her through arenas, through impossibilities, through the bloodiest games she had ever survived. She glanced at Finnick, saw the same fire reflected in his gaze, and knew—whatever came next, they would face it together.

The intercom blared once more, and Red’s jaw tightened. The evacuation had begun.

Red’s boots pounded against the concrete floor, her vine-daggers secured at her sides, coiled like living extensions of her arms. Finnick’s Trident clinked faintly against his back harness with each stride, the faint blue-gray threading in his uniform catching the emergency lights as he moved. Their breaths came in sharp bursts, synchronized without speaking, instinct and training kicking in immediately. The intercom blared again, the voice mechanical, urgent, cutting through the wailing sirens: “Please evacuate to your nearest stairwell and descend onto level forty. Repeat, proceed to level forty immediately.”

Red’s eyes scanned the rushing crowd, catching terrified faces of families, children clinging to their parents, the elderly moving slower than the rest. She gritted her teeth, voice rising above the din. “Pick up your kids! Don’t wait, don’t stop! MOVE!” Her words carried the authority of someone who had faced far worse than panic underground, and people responded, gathering their children in their arms, rushing after the fleeing crowd.

Finnick’s long strides kept pace beside her, hand brushing over the young boy who had frozen in fear, guiding him into his mother’s arms. “Come on, kid! We’ve got this!” His voice was strong, grounding, steady, but underneath it hummed the same adrenaline and tension coiling through Red’s veins. They reached the stairwell, a long, narrow shaft of concrete and steel with the low hum of the ventilation amplifying every sound. Red shoved the door open with one hand while Finnick held it wide for the group behind them. People surged forward, some tripping over feet, others crying out, but Red and Finnick’s presence created a path, their movements precise and purposeful.

Red glanced over her shoulder, hair whipping in the rush of air. Her pulse was sharp, ears ringing from the horns and sirens. “Keep moving! Don’t linger!” She crouched slightly as she helped a young girl over the threshold of the stairwell, the girl’s small hands gripping Red’s jacket. Finnick leaned over the railing, catching another child who stumbled in the chaos, setting them safely on their parent’s shoulder before sprinting back up to cover the next person.

The stairwell was crowded, bodies pressed together, tension thick enough to taste. Red felt the weight of it, the fear radiating from every adult trying to protect their child, every child clinging desperately to a parent. She moved with a fluid grace, ducking past panicked hands, pivoting sharply on her back leg to maintain balance while keeping a steady pace downward. The vine of her daggers curled almost instinctively around her arms, ready to snap at anything that might fall or collapse in the crush of movement. Finnick’s Trident tapped against the railing as he descended, his focus unyielding. Every glance swept for danger—fallen debris, sudden obstacles, terrified children. “Stay close! Don’t get separated!” he shouted, voice firm but caring, keeping the crowd in rhythm as best as possible.

Red caught sight of a mother frozen midway down the steps, a small baby in her arms. Without thinking, she crouched, sweeping her legs and vine in a protective arc to create space around the woman, guiding her down with gentle, urgent words. Finnick mirrored her movements a few steps below, his Trident braced against the railing like a lifeline, ensuring no one tumbled down the stairs.

The intercom blared again, the monotone voice mingling with the chaos: “Attention: maintain order. Descend immediately to level forty. Emergency personnel en route. Repeat: descend immediately.” Red’s jaw tightened, and her free hand brushed her hair from her face. “We’re almost there! Keep going! Don’t stop for anything!” Her voice cracked with the intensity of urgency, but it carried, slicing through the din. Finnick’s grin was brief but reassuring as he nodded at her, eyes meeting hers even in the blur of movement, their unspoken understanding anchoring them both.

The group hadn’t yet reached the lower levels when the first raindrops began to fall through the stairwell, splattering onto concrete with a hollow, echoing drum. Red froze mid-step, head tilting upward, eyes catching a slice of the night sky through the open vents above. It was the first time she had seen stars in what felt like an eternity—a dark, bleeding canvas streaked with flashes of fire and smoke, illuminated intermittently by the distant, violent bursts of bombing. The alarms above cut through the night like jagged knives, clashing with the urgent screams of the intercom. The stairwell, normally a safe conduit underground, now shivered under the tremors of explosions above. Each concussive blast vibrated through the steel railings and the concrete steps beneath their boots. People gasped and flinched, bodies pressing instinctively to the walls. Children whimpered, curling inward as parents bent over them protectively.

Red’s hand shot up instinctively to grip the edge of the stairwell railing, knuckles white against the cold metal. Her heart pounded—not just with fear, but with a strange, aching mix of awe and sorrow. Above her, the night sky stretched across the chaos, the stars smeared with smoke and distant fire, as though the heavens themselves were crying over the world. She could hear it—the faint sizzle of rain hitting stone, the mournful whistle of wind down the shaft, and beneath it all, the low, terrifying roar of bombs detonating somewhere above.

Finnick was close beside her, one arm instinctively brushing across her back, keeping her steady. His eyes flicked up the stairwell too, calculating the safest path downward even as the ground trembled. “Keep low,” he instructed, voice steady despite the shaking and the panic around them. His hand brushed against hers for a moment as he guided another child past the slick spots of rain, a grounding touch in the storm of noise and fear.

People crouched instinctively, gripping the edges of the stairwell or each other. Red sank slightly onto her back leg, vine-daggers barely strapped to her side but twitching as though aware of the danger. Her gaze didn’t leave the sky above, taking in the streaks of orange from distant fire, the black smoke that seemed endless, the rain that shimmered like falling silver. For a moment, the panic didn’t feel quite so suffocating—because she was seeing the world beyond the underground walls, the world that still existed even as bombs rained down. A sharp tremor shook the stairwell, and a collective gasp went up. Everyone instinctively pressed against the walls, holding hands, holding children, holding onto the edges of the steps for stability. Red’s fingers tightened around the railing, and she whispered under her breath, almost to herself, “We’ll make it… we’ll make it through this…”

Finnick leaned down, murmuring into her ear, “Just keep moving, Wolfie. One step at a time. I’ve got you.” His words carried the weight of calm in the chaos, a tether to reality as the stairwell shuddered again under another distant explosion. Red nodded, forcing herself to focus on the path downward, on keeping everyone safe, even as her eyes stole glimpses upward, memorizing the fleeting, terrible beauty of the night sky amidst the storm.

Every step downward was careful, measured, urgent. The rain mixed with dust and smoke, the vibrations of bombs making the concrete vibrate underfoot. The people moved as one, following Red and Finnick’s lead, their instinctive trust in the pair creating a fragile, precarious rhythm. And though the terror of the night pressed down like the weight of the world, Red allowed herself one brief, shivering thought: even in the midst of destruction, even under the roar of bombs, there was still something beautiful up there… still something worth surviving for.

The shrieks and cries were deafening, reverberating off the concrete walls of the stairwell, mixing with the blare of alarms and the relentless patter of rain. People stumbled over each other, frantic to descend, hands grasping at railings that shook under the weight of panicked bodies. Red’s heart pounded in her chest, the chaos pressing against her ribs like a living thing, but she moved through it with focus honed from a lifetime of survival. Her eyes caught movement ahead—Katniss, pushed roughly by a panicked civilian, lost her footing and went down hard on the slick concrete steps. Red didn’t hesitate. She lunged forward, grabbing Katniss’s arm, pulling her upright in a swift, controlled motion. “Got you!” Red shouted, her voice cutting through the screams as she steadied the girl before pushing forward again. Katniss gave a brief, grateful nod before Red pressed on, Finnick at her heels, his eyes scanning constantly for danger while keeping pace.

The intercom blared again, mechanical and urgent, over the wailing sirens: “Attention! All personnel: the blast doors will shut in three minutes. Evacuate immediately!” The words sliced through the noise like a knife. Panic surged even higher as the reality of the countdown hit the crowd, people shoving harder, stepping dangerously close to the edges of the stairs. Red’s stomach dropped, adrenaline spiking, and she gritted her teeth.

She scooped up a small child, feeling the little weight settle on her shoulders, arms instinctively wrapping around the kid to keep them secure. The child whimpered, a mix of fear and cold from the rain. She bent to grab another, plopping them gently onto Finnick’s back, and he adjusted them quickly, his hand firm on the child’s tiny torso. Both of them were soaked—rain plastered hair to their faces, uniforms darkened with water, weapons heavy at their sides—but there was no pause, no faltering. Around them, the stairwell was a frenzy. People cried out, slipped on the slick steps, and shouted instructions or pleas for help. Red’s fingers dug into the edge of the stairwell railing for leverage as she carried the child, jumping slightly over a slippery patch to keep her momentum. She felt Finnick press close behind her, his hand brushing against hers for balance for a split second, a tether in the storm of chaos.

The sound of the bombs above shook the entire stairwell, making the metal steps rattle, forcing everyone to crouch and cling to edges as though the walls themselves might collapse. Red’s lungs burned with exertion, every heartbeat echoing in her ears, but she kept her focus entirely on the children in their arms, the people behind her, the path downward.

A mother cried out for her child further back, and Red’s head whipped around, ready to dive back, but Finnick caught her eye, nodding once sharply. She understood without words. They couldn’t stop—not now, not when every second counted. Another jolt ran through the building, the rain mixing with the screams into a chaotic symphony. Red adjusted the child on her shoulders, murmuring quietly despite the noise, “It’s okay, it’s okay… we’re getting you out.”

Finnick’s trident brushed against the stairwell wall as he helped steady another panicked civilian, his movements fluid despite the chaos. Together, they moved like a single unit, navigating the wet, screaming mass of humanity. Every child they carried, every adult they steadied, was another victory, another fragile heartbeat preserved amidst the storm. Red’s eyes flicked upward again for a fleeting moment, catching the night sky through the stairwell vents—the dark, endless expanse marred by smoke and streaked with fire from above—and she felt a pang of fear mixed with awe. She had seen the sky like this before, but never with so many lives teetering on the edge beneath it. She swallowed hard, gripping the child tighter, and pushed forward, knowing there was only one way to survive this night: down, faster, together.

Red’s boots splashed through puddles forming on the lower steps as she and Finnick barreled forward, drenched and soaked, children clinging to them as others pushed past in a wave of chaos. People shouted directions, hands passed bundles of supplies, blankets, small food rations—anything that might be needed in the bunkers. Red caught a small satchel tossed to her, jammed it onto her back over her uniform, and pressed on. Every fiber of her being was alert, scanning the crowd for anyone who might slip or falter, ready to step in.

Finnick’s hand was constantly on her lower back, guiding, steadying, reminding her of their unspoken rhythm even in the storm. He had a small boy perched on his shoulders now, gripping him like a lifeline, and he kept checking over his shoulder to make sure no one was getting left behind. Rainwater streamed down, soaking their hair, sliding into their collars, but they didn’t pause, didn’t slow.

Finally, the stairs opened onto a wide landing, and Red’s breath caught. The doors loomed ahead, massive and metallic, the warning lights flashing an urgent red. Citizens surged forward, and a few children squealed in excitement, relief, and fear all at once. She grabbed Finnick’s arm and pulled him into a sprint, the child on her shoulders holding tight, small fingers clenching the straps of her uniform. The blast doors began their grinding descent, a mechanical roar that made the floor vibrate. Red could see the last stragglers, and she yelled over the noise, “Keep moving! Everyone inside! Don’t stop now!” Finnick mirrored her, his voice booming as he guided the panicked masses, shoving a small girl into her arms while he intercepted a boy struggling to keep pace.

They reached the door with barely seconds to spare, pressing through as it sealed shut behind them with a metallic clang that resonated through the bunker. Rainwater dripped from the ceiling, pooling in corners, and the echoes of the storm above were muffled but still frightening. Red glanced around, breathing hard, adrenaline still coursing, and saw the room in full: bunk beds stacked neatly in tiers, blankets and supplies laid out for every family in District Thirteen.

The room smelled of metal, warm blankets, and damp stone, the faint tang of disinfectant lingering. Children clung to parents, mothers hugged their little ones tightly, and fathers scanned the room, trying to absorb the magnitude of what had just happened. Red’s heart swelled in a strange mixture of exhaustion and relief. Every person in the room had made it down safely—for now. She set the child on the floor gently, letting them run to a parent, and Finnick exhaled loudly, running a hand over his drenched hair. He leaned toward Red, voice low and almost tender over the hum of anxious murmurs: “We made it… for now.”

Red nodded, pressing a hand to his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath her fingers. Her gaze swept across the room again, taking in every bed, every family, every scared, wide-eyed child. There was a strange beauty in the order, the way the community had gathered below, even as the world above burned.

She whispered, almost to herself, “We’ve got them… we’ve got them all.”

Finnick’s arm slid around her shoulders, holding her close, wet uniform clinging, but the weight of the storm outside could not touch them here. For the first time in what felt like forever, there was a fragile moment of calm amidst chaos, a heartbeat of sanctuary in the underground heart of District Thirteen.

The blast doors clanged shut with finality, the sound echoing through the cavernous bunkroom like a gavel sealing a verdict. Immediately, the hum of life above ground faded into a distant, threatening rumble. Every footstep, every shuffling movement, every squeal and whimper of children seemed magnified against the solid metal walls. Outside, the bombardment continued, and every detonation sent tremors through the floor, making the bunk beds shudder and loose items rattle. Occasional cries pierced the room—fear, pain, confusion—and each one made Red’s chest tighten painfully.

Emergency lights flickered to life, bathing the entire room in a harsh yellow glow that was both antiseptic and ominous. Shadows stretched long and wavering across the walls and stacked bunks, twisting faces into ghostly versions of themselves. Red’s eyes scanned the room, taking in the clustered families huddled together, the children clutching one another or whatever parent was nearest, the exhausted expressions of adults trying to keep a brave face.

Finnick remained close beside her, one arm looped protectively around her waist while the other rested near the hilt of his trident, ready to move if needed. His gaze swept the room constantly, noting every trembling child, every parent with a jaw clenched against fear, every elder trying to mask panic with authority. Red leaned into him slightly, the warmth of his body grounding her, a steady reminder amidst the chaos and the omnipresent sound of the bombs above. The yellow light painted everything in stark contrast: wet uniforms gleamed, faces shone with sweat and rainwater, eyes caught the sharp reflections from metal bedframes. Every blink of the emergency bulbs highlighted another anxious gesture, another whispered prayer, another sob stifled into a mother’s shoulder.

Red pressed a hand over her mouth, swallowing the urge to scream, to cry, to run back upstairs and face the storm. She could feel Finnick’s steady presence beside her, the heat of his body and the gentle squeeze of his arm anchoring her, letting her remember that even here, even now, they were not alone.

A particularly loud blast shook the building, rattling the bunks and sending a collective cry through the room. Red and Finnick immediately crouched lower, instinctively pulling the nearest children closer to their bodies, shielding them as best they could. The yellow emergency lights flickered again, emphasizing the stark fear on everyone’s faces, but also the resilience—the way families held each other, clung together, refused to break despite the deafening chaos above.

Red’s eyes scanned the room once more, locking on a small cluster of children clutching their blankets like shields. She knelt down beside them, voice soft but commanding, a tether of calm amidst the storm: “It’s okay, little ones. We’re safe down here. We’re going to get through this. Together.” Finnick mirrored her movements, crouching at her side, his presence radiating quiet strength as his fingers brushed the child nearest to him, reassuring without words.

The rumble of the bombardment continued above, the occasional metallic creak of the bunker itself adding to the tension, but within the walls illuminated by harsh yellow light, there was a fragile pocket of order and protection. Red’s gaze met Finnick’s, and in that brief exchange, a shared understanding passed between them: they would hold the line here, beneath the earth, for every terrified child, every anxious parent, every family relying on them.

And so they stayed, crouched and vigilant, bathed in the yellow glow of emergency power, listening to the cries, feeling the tremors, and holding on—together, unshaken in the eye of the storm above.

Red eased herself down onto the top bunk, the thin mattress doing little to soften the ache in her muscles after the frantic scramble to safety. Finnick followed suit, sliding onto the bed beside her with a quiet sigh, the straps of his weapon harness creaking softly as he adjusted into a more comfortable position. The yellow emergency lights cast a warm, if harsh, glow over the room, flickering slightly as the generator hummed beneath them. As Red shifted, brushing damp strands of hair from her face, she became aware of a small audience gathering around their bunk. A group of children, faces wide with curiosity and awe, had crept closer during the chaos, drawn like moths to the faint aura of confidence and strength radiating from her and Finnick. Their eyes were bright, reflecting the yellow light, but also something deeper—admiration, wonder, maybe even hope.

Red turned her head slowly, meeting the gaze of a little boy no older than eight who stared at Finnick’s trident harness with wide eyes. Another child, a girl clutching a thin blanket, pointed at the glimmering accents on Red’s uniform—the delicate embroidery, the way the fabric seemed to contour perfectly to her frame without sacrificing agility. Red felt a warmth bloom in her chest. She had always been aware of the practicality of the uniform, its purpose for battle, but seeing it through the lens of a child’s wonder reminded her that it was more than just fabric and stitching—it was a symbol of safety, strength, and inspiration.

Finnick caught her glance and smiled softly, brushing a hand over the youngest child’s shoulder in a gentle, protective gesture. Red mirrored him, lowering herself slightly so she could meet the children at eye level. “Don’t be afraid,” she said quietly, her voice low but steady, carrying the calm she tried so hard to summon for herself. “This is a safe place. We’ll all get through tonight together.”

A small murmur of relief rippled through the group, and the children edged even closer, their earlier awe mingling with the comforting presence of someone who was both like them and not. Red felt her own pulse slow slightly, the steady beat of Finnick’s next to hers grounding her, reminding her that even in the shadow of destruction, there were still moments of connection, small pockets of light that refused to be snuffed out.

She tilted her head slightly, allowing her hair to cascade over one shoulder, and the golden insignia stitched above her heart caught the light just enough for a child to gasp softly. Red’s lips curved into a small, tender smile. “That?” she said, touching the delicate embroidery. “That’s for protection. For courage.” The children leaned in closer, eyes bright and earnest, as if hoping a sliver of that courage would transfer to them simply by watching.

Finnick laughed quietly beside her, a sound that was half amusement, half relief. “Looks like we’ve got an audience,” he murmured, letting his gaze sweep across the circle of children, each one completely absorbed in the sight of them. Red chuckled softly, leaning back against Finnick’s shoulder, allowing herself to feel the small, quiet pride that came from being seen not just as fighters, but as symbols of safety and hope for those who needed it most.

For a long moment, the world beyond the blast doors—the bombs, the chaos, the shouting—felt distant, irrelevant. Here, on this bunk, surrounded by tiny faces bright with curiosity and reverence, Red and Finnick could breathe. The children’s fascination with their uniforms, their weapons, their presence, was a reminder of why they fought, why they trained, and why, despite everything, they had to keep going.

Red let out a quiet sigh, one part exhaustion, one part gratitude, and pressed a soft kiss to Finnick’s shoulder. He shifted slightly to meet her gaze, a teasing glint in his eyes despite the tension around them. “Looks like we’re famous,” he whispered, and she let out a small, tired laugh, shaking her head. The children didn’t speak, didn’t move—they simply watched, and in that quiet attention, Red felt a tiny seed of hope take root. Even here, even in the dim yellow light and under the constant threat above, there was still a reason to fight. And for a brief, beautiful moment, that reason was all around her: the awe in their eyes, the weight of her uniform against her chest, the steady presence of Finnick at her side.

She smiled softly, settling deeper into the bunk, letting herself be present in this fragile, glowing bubble of safety and admiration, feeling both the weight and the warmth of responsibility—and the subtle, unspoken joy of being someone’s hero, if only for a little while.

Red’s voice cut through the wailing alarms and the constant tremor of the blast shelter, steady and clear despite the chaos around them. The bombs above rattled the dust from the ceiling, sending tiny motes floating in the yellow emergency light, but her singing carved a bubble of calm amid the panic. She began softly, then stronger, each note deliberate, aching with longing and hope. “There’s a girl over there, walking real slow,” she sang, tilting her head toward Katniss, who was crouched near a small corner playing with her sisters’ cat. Even in the dim light, Red’s eyes followed the girl she had come to admire and trust, her finger lightly pointing as if guiding the children to see what she saw.

“Grief sings on the air, fire, ash, and smoke,” she continued, her voice rising slightly to fill the cavernous shelter, echoing faintly off the metal walls. Children pressed closer, their small faces captivated by the sound, their fear momentarily softened by the music. Finnick sat beside her, wide-eyed, his jaw slack, utterly unprepared for the raw, commanding strength of her voice. He had known Red to be fierce in battle, but he had never heard her wield her voice like a weapon of courage and comfort.

“She may be gone for now, but she’ll be back again.” Red’s hand pointed again, this time directly at Katniss, who seemed to float in her own world, a far-off look in her eyes as if she could see past the shelter, past the bombs, past the chaos. The song wove around her like a protective spell, tender yet defiant, carrying with it the promise of return, of survival, of endurance. Even as the walls shook and the children clung to each other and to Red, the melody held them together, a fragile lifeline threaded through the trembling darkness. Finnick’s fingers twitched as he wanted to reach for hers, to join in some unspoken acknowledgment of the bravery and care she was showing—not just to the children, but to everyone in that room.

Every note carried weight, and even in the shelter’s shadows, with dust falling and alarms screaming, her voice painted a scene of hope and resilience that refused to be buried by fear.

The children’s soft humming joined Red’s voice, layering over the clamor of alarms and the occasional distant thud of bombs striking the surface. The small, tentative hums wove together with her song, creating something fragile and hauntingly beautiful, a tapestry of sound that seemed to momentarily quiet the chaos around them. Each child’s voice carried their own fear, their own hope, yet merged seamlessly with Red’s, a chorus of innocence and resilience. Red carefully lifted herself from the bunk, her boots clattering lightly on the metal floor. She bent down and took the tiny hand of a little girl clutching a ragged blanket, helping her to her feet. With a graceful, almost fluid motion, Red twirled her gently in a small, careful circle, her uniform brushing softly against the girl’s. The child let out a small giggle, a sound so rare and delicate it made Finnick’s chest ache with warmth and pride.

“Starvation’s running the sky. The days are hot, wells are dry. Picking off us common folk, coming for our loved ones’ throats,” Red sang, her words deliberate, her voice rising and falling with the rhythm of the line, like a wind moving through the underground hall. The little girl’s giggle became a tentative hum, joining Red and spreading outward, the other children catching the melody and adding their own soft voices, timid but growing stronger.

“Let’s pray to last the night. But there’s not much left to die. As famine circles take a bite as hunger steals their life and then their lives,” Red continued, moving slowly through the cluster of children, letting her hands brush their shoulders, steadying them as they swayed with the rhythm. Her eyes flickered upward to the side of the room, where Mira sat with her sons on their bunk beds. Exhaustion weighed heavily on her mother’s face, but there was a glimmer of pride in her tired eyes, and she waved at Red, the motion small but full of meaning. Red’s heart twisted in that moment—seeing her family alive, seeing them safe beneath the harsh yellow light of the emergency lamps, watching the children she protected join her song—and her voice grew bolder, carrying a mix of grief and defiance. The song no longer felt like just words; it felt like armor, a shield of sound she could offer the terrified, the hungry, the exhausted. Finnick leaned close, keeping a protective hand lightly on her back, his own eyes glistening as he watched her guide the children through the haunting verses, every line weighted with history, sorrow, and hope.

“The devils sit on white chairs, as the people sing to the wind,” Red continued, her voice threading through the low hum of the children around her. Each word hung in the air like smoke, curling and drifting through the dimly lit shelter. The children, small and wide-eyed, began humming along, uncertain at first, their voices trembling like leaves in a storm—but gradually growing bolder as Red’s melody anchored them. Finnick watched her in stunned silence, utterly captivated. He could hardly breathe, mesmerized by the way her voice rose and fell, carrying both sorrow and defiance, a strange, fierce joy weaving through the haunting lines. He shifted closer, almost instinctively, wanting to be near the source of that energy, the warmth that radiated even through the echoing sirens and distant blasts above.

Red’s eyes lifted to the ceiling, her throat contracting as she poured herself into the next lines. “Oh, the day will come, when your date’s read,” she sang, a tremor of raw emotion undercutting the melody. The children giggled, delighted by the sound of her voice so alive in the cavernous room, and their humming grew louder, filling the space with something almost tangible—like a river of tiny, fragile lights.

“Hear that hungry noise, let’s see that hells fed,” she continued, her voice rising, weaving through the mixture of fear and wonder in the shelter. Her movements were graceful, gentle, but commanding, as if each gesture—an outstretched hand, a playful tilt of her head—was part of the music itself. Finnick’s hand twitched slightly, wanting to reach for her, to touch her, to somehow be part of the force that was bringing this fractured room together.

“Oh, but then you’ll run, but just so you know, anywhere you go, oh, the woods will know,” Red sang, laughing softly as the last note trailed off, her laughter mingling with the children’s giggles, bright and unexpected in the heavy air. It wasn’t just a song anymore—it was a lifeline, a spell of joy and defiance cast into the darkness of the underground. Finnick’s chest ached with a combination of awe and love, completely helpless against the pull of her presence, as every note, every word, every flicker of her bright, red hair seemed to anchor him there, spellbound.

The children’s laughter mingled with hers, their hums echoing off the concrete walls, a chorus of innocence rising against the clamor of the world above. Even with the blasts still rattling the building, with the dim yellow light bathing them all, Red’s song—her voice, her presence—made the bunker feel like the only place in the world that was safe, alive, and undeniably hers.

“Wealth sits on a throne. Here, wells overflow, they lounge under money trees, set to bring the whole world to its knees,” Red continued, her voice rising over the soft hum of the children’s murmurs and the distant tremor of bombs above. She raised her hands slowly, letting her fingers curl and twist atop her head, a delicate, almost imperceptible mimicry of a crown—a devilish crown, a subtle jab at President Snow, sharp and precise in its playful yet pointed mockery. Her eyes flicked to Finnick as she moved, and he responded almost instinctively. Red reached a hand down to him, and in a fluid motion, he lifted her, twirling her in the cramped space of the bunker. The children’s gasps filled the room, a mix of astonishment and delight, and even as the echoing blasts shook the ceiling, they laughed, free for a moment in this fragile cocoon of music and movement.

“It claims the air you breathe. Burns what we can’t see. There’s no force as feverish as avarice, as greed,” Red sang, her voice deepening, carrying a quiet fire in its undertone, a warning whispered in every syllable. Her body swayed gently with the rhythm, light and deliberate, every movement purposeful yet full of grace. The children mirrored her gestures, small hands reaching to curl like hers, giggling as they tried to mimic the elegance and defiance she radiated.

She helped Finnick back onto the bunk beside her, and he brushed rain-damp hair from his face, watching her with a mixture of admiration and awe. His hand found hers again, and together they moved as if rehearsed, twirling and stepping in tandem, a quiet dance of rebellion and hope. The room seemed to pulse with their combined energy, each note of her voice resonating off the concrete walls and bouncing back with a strange warmth.

“The devils claim they’re saviours, as the people starve, spirits sing,” Red finished, her gaze sweeping across the faces of the children around her, lingering on the wide eyes of those too young to understand the full weight of the world, yet old enough to feel the power of this moment. The vibrations of her song seemed to settle into the air, wrapping around the little ones like a protective blanket, a promise that even in the midst of bombs and chaos, someone would fight for them, someone would lead them, and the spirits of the brave would never be silenced. “Oh, the day will come, when your dates read,” Red sang, her voice threading through the rumble of distant explosions above, clear and unwavering. She reached for the small hands of a little boy near her, lifting him carefully onto her hip. His wide eyes reflected both fear and awe, and Red’s smile softened the tension of the moment, a tiny lighthouse amid the chaos.

“Hear that hungry noise, see that hells fed,” she continued, her words spinning through the air as she twirled lightly with the boy still balanced securely on her hip. His laughter mingled with hers, a delicate, ringing sound that made the shadows of the blast shelter feel lighter. From the corners of the room, Red could hear the quiet, cautious voices of adults joining her softly, singing along with careful reverence, and her heart throbbed with the power of shared courage.

“Oh, but then you’ll run, but just so you know, anywhere you go, oh the woods will know,” she sang next, pointing gently toward Katniss, who sat a few bunks over, carefully holding the small cat in her lap while Prim wove braids through her sister’s hair. The scene, fleeting and fragile, grounded Red for a moment; even amid the chaos of alarms and bombs, life persisted in its small, vital acts.

With a gentle motion, she set the boy down at her feet, crouching so that she was at eye level with the cluster of children gathered around her. Her knees bent softly, arms resting lightly on her thighs, and she leaned forward, as though she were about to reveal a secret too important for grown-ups to hear. The children leaned closer, their tiny faces upturned, eager, trusting. And then she began the next part of the song, letting her voice fall almost to a whisper, each word deliberately slow and heavy with meaning: “The dirt told the grass, and the field told the flowers, the folly of man, and those seated in power.”

Her eyes flicked to the ceiling, then around the room, tracing the cracks in the concrete and the small, worn belongings of the families who had fled here. The weight of history, the cruelty of the Capitol, the fragile hope of survival—all of it seemed to pulse in her chest as she continued, her voice carrying a quiet insistence, a promise stitched into every note. The children shifted closer, some resting their heads against her knees, some holding each other’s hands, drawn in by the intimacy of her words and the soft power of the song.

Every whisper of the lyric seemed to make the concrete walls hum, every breath of Red’s voice a quiet defiance, a luminous thread tying together the fractured hearts in the room. For a moment, the alarms, the rain, the shuddering blasts above—they existed outside this fragile circle of song. Here, in this space, Red’s voice was a shield, her song a spell that held fear at bay, and the children listened, rapt, knowing that even if the world burned above them, someone was singing for them, with them, and because of them.

Red felt the faint tremor through the concrete beneath her feet just as her mom’s voice cut softly through the hum of the shelter, layering itself over Red’s own melody. “Briars told branches, and leaves told the trees. It takes one song to break rich knees.” The words rolled through the air, deliberate, weighty, and somehow familiar—like a memory reaching out through her veins. Red’s lips curved into a small, reverent smile, her gaze flicking to Mira, who sat a few bunks down, hair damp from the rain and eyes bright despite exhaustion. Briar. Both their last names carried into the song, tying them together in a small, quiet rebellion that was theirs alone.

Red inhaled slowly, letting the connection to her mother and the children surrounding her root her to the moment. Her voice rose again, blending seamlessly with the soft hums of the children, now entranced by the music and the urgency woven into the words. “Grove told the glen, and the vale told the meadow, they sang the same song, and let the noise echo. Streams told the rivers and hills told the mountains.” Her finger lifted instinctively, pointing toward Katniss, who now slumped against a bunk edge, eyelids drooping as the exhaustion of the day and the terror outside pulled at her. The children inhaled sharply, some mouths forming tiny, impressed “oohs,” others holding their hands to their chests in awe, eyes wide as though Red had conjured the very landscape she sang about.

Red’s voice softened, laced with reverence and intensity, carrying each syllable with deliberate care. “Till one angry girl, heard the whisper of sound, and she could hear the earth, hear it screaming.” Her words trembled slightly as the shelter shuddered violently with the impact of a bomb on the surface, dust cascading from the edges of the ceiling. The children flinched, clutching one another, and Red instinctively lowered herself to their level, arms extending to gather them close, her voice steadying even as the shelter groaned around them.

She felt the vibrations through the floor under her boots, the resonance of steel and concrete trembling in response to the world above. But still she sang, letting the cadence of the words steady both her own heartbeat and those of the children. Even in the chaos, even under the fury of bombs and sirens, the song held—fragile, luminous, and impossibly defiant. Red’s eyes flicked around the room, catching glimpses of parents clasping hands, whispering prayers, and trying to comfort children who had never before felt the unrelenting roar of war so close. And yet, in the midst of panic, her voice wove a small sanctuary, a protective thread of sound binding them all together.

The children pressed closer, some resting their heads against her knees, some tucking their tiny hands into her uniform, and she felt the weight of responsibility—of hope—set firmly on her shoulders. Red’s song was not just music; it was a lifeline, a reminder that even in the darkest nights, even while bombs tore the world apart above them, there were still voices, still hearts, still courage enough to hold the frightened close and give them something to cling to.

And through it all, Red’s gaze found Katniss once more, noting how the girl’s chest rose and fell with a fragile rhythm, sleep pulling her down despite the chaos around them. Red’s lips curved again into that small, determined smile—quiet, private, unyielding—because the song was bigger than fear, bigger than pain, bigger than the bombs shaking the walls. It was a promise, a declaration, and a quiet rebellion against the world trying to crush them all.

Finnick’s arms wrapped around Red’s waist, pulling her close to his chest as her song carried through the bunker, rattling the concrete walls with its fierce beauty. Her chest pressed to his, her curls damp and clinging to her face from the rain outside, and he felt the tremor of her voice against him—the same tremor that had always carried both fire and tenderness. “Hear that hungry noise, ripe for feeding. She could hear the ground, hear its beating. Earth and dirt were done with their cheating, she packed up her arrow, joined in with the sound. Couldn't kill us then, can't kill us now.”

Each word rolled off her lips with the weight of certainty, a defiance that made Finnick’s chest tighten. He felt the little ones around them shift closer, small hands brushing against Red’s legs or holding onto the folds of his jacket. Their eyes were wide, gazing up at the two of them, captivated, as families all around hummed along, their voices rising in hesitant harmony at first, then with bolder confidence. The sound of hundreds of voices intertwined—the hum of survival, of resistance—was almost overwhelming, ringing in the bunker with a haunting beauty.

Red’s gaze lifted, and she could see families leaning into one another, some whispering encouragement to their children, others mouthing the words as best they could, caught up in the rhythm and power of her song. Finnick held her tighter, letting her sway gently against him as her arms lifted instinctively, pointing at Katniss, at her family, at every corner of the crowded shelter where eyes were bright with fear, hope, and awe.

“Oh the day will come, when our dates read. Hear that hungry noise, let's see that hells fed. Oh even the sun knows what you said, lay your head upon, dirt and deathbed. Oh but then you'll run, but just so you know. Anywhere you go, oh how the woods will know.”

Red’s chest heaved, each breath a mixture of exhilaration and exhaustion, her cheeks flushed from the intensity of singing something so raw, so aching, so defiant. Finnick’s arms tightened around her waist, holding her steady, as if anchoring her to the world while her song floated far beyond the bunker walls.

“Gods, Red…” he murmured into her hair, voice thick, reverent, almost disbelieving. “That… that was…” He let the words trail off, because nothing seemed adequate. Red lifted her head slightly, her lips trembling into a soft, breathless laugh. “They…” she said, nodding toward the children clustered at their feet, their wide eyes sparkling, “they… they felt it.”

Finnick smiled, brushing a damp curl from her face. “Felt it? They’ll carry it with them forever.”

The hum of the children mingled with the faint, echoing shudders of bombs above, creating a rhythm that felt like a heartbeat stretched across the concrete walls. Shadows flickered in the yellow emergency lights, the children’s tiny forms moving with quiet wonder, mirroring the sway of her voice. For a moment, the bunker seemed suspended between the chaos above and the fragile sanctuary below, held together entirely by the courage of her song.

Red leaned fully into Finnick, her forehead resting against his chest, and he felt the tremor of her pulse, strong and alive. Her fingers twined in the front of his jacket, clinging not just for support, but to anchor herself to the warmth that refused to falter even here.

The hums softened, but didn’t die, and the children’s eyes never left her. Every whispered note, every careful mimicry of her gestures, carried the weight of hope, and defiance, and a world that refused to be silenced.

And Red let herself stay there, pressed against Finnick, listening. She didn’t smile, not fully. Not yet. Not with the alarms, the rain, the bombs overhead. But there was a pulse, a stubborn ember in her chest. They were still breathing. They were still fighting. And in that trembling, chaotic, fragile moment—her song had reached them all.

Chapter Text

Cressida’s eyes flicked from the main camera to the two victors, and then back again, sharp yet patient. “So we’ll go straight to camera,” she said, her voice carrying over the crackle of static and the low hum of the lights, steadying herself even as the wind teased loose strands of her hair. Her hand swept to point deliberately at the towering lens, its black glass gleaming under the harsh spotlights. “Right there,” she said, “that’s where the world will be looking. Every person in Panem will see this.”

Red and Finnick froze for a moment, the enormity of the statement pressing down on their chests. Finnick’s hand twitched involuntarily over his trident strapped to his back, and Red’s boots shifted nervously on the gravel-strewn ground. Both of them had spent years training, fighting, surviving, yet this—this public confession—was a kind of battlefield they hadn’t prepared for.

Cressida’s brow furrowed, noticing their unease, and she took a step closer. “Red? Finnick?” Her voice softened slightly, a rare warmth breaking through the controlled tension she always carried. Her gaze searched theirs, looking for the spark of determination that had carried them through the arena, through the rebellion, through every impossible trial. “Are you with me?”

Red snapped to attention almost instinctively, shoulders squaring and chin lifting, her eyes catching the gleam of the spotlights. She drew a sharp breath and answered firmly, voice cracking only slightly under the weight of nerves. “Yeah.”

Finnick shifted, letting out a low, shaky exhale, his hands clenching at his sides. He looked at Red, drew courage from her stance, and nodded. His lips pressed into a thin line as he forced himself to stand taller, to appear the confident soldier everyone expected, though inside his stomach churned with dread.

Cressida’s sigh was quiet, a mixture of relief and caution. “Good,” she murmured, more to herself than anyone else, and then she straightened, shoulders back, voice regaining its usual command. “Just take your time. Speak slowly if you have to, but don’t stop talking. Let the words come out, however heavy they feel.”

The wind rattled against the broken rubble surrounding them, whistling through the gaps in the ruins like the echo of ghosts, as if the city itself was holding its breath. The lights of the cameras cut through the darkness, stark beams painting the broken landscape in pale, relentless illumination. Red’s fingers brushed the hilt of her vine dagger at her hip, a nervous tic, while Finnick adjusted the strap of his trident harness, trying to anchor himself in the tangible.

Cressida stepped back slightly, giving them a measured, careful nod. “Whenever you’re ready,” she said, voice quiet but steady. “The cameras are rolling. Take a deep breath. Don’t stop.”

The silence stretched for a heartbeat, then two, then three, broken only by the low hum of equipment and the occasional distant rumble of the city above. Red’s eyes flicked briefly to Finnick, and she saw his jaw tense, saw the way his hands trembled just slightly. She took a deep breath, bracing herself for what they were about to do, and Finnick mirrored her gesture, steadying his nerves by squeezing her hand for just a fraction of a second. Cressida glanced at the crew one last time, making sure the lights, the microphones, the lenses were all aligned perfectly. Then, almost imperceptibly, she nodded toward the camera. “And… we’re live.”

The two of them could feel the weight of every eye in Panem pressing down through the lens. Their hearts hammered against their chests, pulses drumming loud enough it seemed the world could hear. Finnick inhaled sharply, and Red’s chest rose and fell with a shaky but determined rhythm. They knew there was no turning back. Not now. Not ever.

The cameras captured their figures framed against the ruins, military uniforms stark and precise, weapons gleaming faintly in the spotlight, the rubble a silent witness to the courage—and terror—about to be unleashed in truth. Red’s gaze hardened just slightly, her voice already forming words she didn’t yet know she’d speak, while Finnick’s eyes scanned the horizon, gripping his trident tighter, ready to face the world.

The tension stretched thick between them and the camera, a palpable pause, the kind that seemed to suspend time itself.

Finnick’s voice carried first, steady but low, echoing slightly across the rubble-strewn clearing and into the lenses of the camera. “This is Finnick Odair.” His jaw was tight, the weight of the words pressing down on him, but he forced the confidence he’d learned in the arenas, in the rebellion, into each syllable. The wind whipped lightly against his jacket, tugging at the reinforced shoulders, and the sharp glint of the trident at his back caught a stray beam of the spotlight, a tiny reminder of the soldier he had become.

Red stepped forward just enough to meet the camera’s gaze, her voice trembling slightly at first, but growing steadier as she found the rhythm in her own courage. “And Red Briar.” The name felt heavy on her tongue, charged with years of survival, training, and unspoken truths. Her fingers curled loosely at her sides, brushing against the vine of her dagger’s handle, as though grounding herself in something tangible while the weight of Panem’s gaze bore down on her.

Finnick took a shallow breath, letting it out slowly, shoulders releasing some of the tension he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “We are the winners of the sixty-fifth, and sixty-sixth Hunger Games.” His voice was firmer now, resonant, the words carrying the unyielding weight of experience. He looked past the camera for just a heartbeat, scanning the rubble around them, feeling the night’s chill and the emptiness of the surface streets, imagining the millions watching, hearing every word.

Red’s chest rose and fell in measured breaths, and she stepped slightly closer, her eyes flicking to Finnick for silent reassurance before returning to the lens. “We are coming to you, from District Thirteen, alive and well.” Her voice wavered, a subtle tremor betraying the emotions beneath—fear, relief, exhaustion, and a fiery resolve. Each word cut through the night air, carrying the weight of their survival, their defiance, and the truths they had been forced to keep.

Finnick’s eyes shifted briefly to hers, catching the brief glint of vulnerability before it hardened into defiance. He lifted his chin slightly, exhaling sharply, and continued. “We survived an assault from the Capitol. But we’re not here to give you recent news.” The words lingered in the air, resonating with the unspoken meaning beneath them—the chaos, the danger, the lives lost and spared, the terror that had been endured.

The camera captured every twitch, every subtle gesture—the way Red’s knuckles whitened slightly on her dagger, the slight tremor in Finnick’s jaw, the sheen of sweat on their foreheads from nerves and exertion. The rubble at their feet, the broken surface streets, the cold night wind brushing against their faces—all of it framed them as more than victors. They were survivors, witnesses, soldiers, and now, voices meant to pierce the silence of a fearful nation.

For a heartbeat, there was only the hum of the camera, the faint scrape of boots on gravel, and the distant whisper of wind threading through the ruins. Every second stretched taut, heavy with anticipation, before Finnick’s voice, low but unwavering, carried their message further, deeper, and heavier than any broadcast before.

Red’s eyes were wide, unblinking, her fingers curling slightly at her sides as if holding onto herself against the weight of the words she was about to spill. “We are here to tell you the truth, not the myths about a life of luxury. Not the lie about the glory you’ll have for your homeland.” Her voice was low, a fragile whisper that cut through the hum of the cameras and the night wind, carrying a weight that pressed on every viewer. “You can survive the arena… you’re a slave.”

Her lips quivered slightly, betraying the stoic armor she had worn for years. The girl who had always been known as the Wolf—fierce, unyielding, untouchable—looked smaller in the glaring lights, more like prey than predator. The shadows of the rubble-strewn streets stretched behind her like ghosts of the past, reflecting every memory she had tried to bury.

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Mira blinked against the harsh light of the control room, her hands gripping the edge of the metal console in front of her. She glanced at her sons, who stood close, tense and alert, their eyes darting nervously between the rows of screens and the high-ranking officials surrounding them. “Why… why are we here, Coin?” Mira asked, her voice tight with confusion. Every instinct in her body told her that this wasn’t a social call. Coin’s gaze was firm, unwavering, and just slightly tinged with that calculating patience she always wore like armor.

“You’ll see soon enough,” Coin said, gesturing at the massive bank of monitors lining the walls. The screens flickered faintly in the dim light, showing blank feeds for the moment. “It’s important that you witness this firsthand.”

Mira’s brow furrowed. “Witness what? My daughter…? Finnick?” The words caught in her throat. She couldn’t imagine what could be so urgent that Coin would pull her and her sons out of their routines and into a room filled with strategists, spies, and the silent hum of surveillance equipment. Haymitch stepped slightly closer, his voice low but steady. “Coin doesn’t bring people here unless it’s serious. Trust me, Mira, you’ll want to see this. Don’t look away.”

Plutarch nodded, arms crossed, his eyes flicking to each of the screens as though confirming everything was in place. Beetee adjusted his glasses from behind his wheelchair, fingers drumming a quiet rhythm on his lap, already anticipating the chaos that would unfold. Katniss stood near the corner, silent, arms folded, her expression unreadable but her presence somehow comforting.

Mira swallowed hard, her sons leaning closer, both of them pale and stiff. “I… I don’t understand. Why now? Why bring us into this?”

Coin’s eyes softened just enough to hold Mira’s gaze. “Because it’s time you understood, fully, what your daughter and Finnick have endured. What you are about to see… will explain everything.” Her sons exchanged worried looks, glancing at the blank screens, not yet realizing the truth. Mira’s hand unconsciously rose to her chest, heart hammering. She felt a strange mixture of dread and anticipation, a mother’s intuition that whatever she was about to witness would change everything she thought she knew about Red.

Then, as if on cue, the screens flickered to life. Bright, sharp images illuminated the room. The figures of Red and Finnick appeared on the monitors, moving carefully over rubble, their hands shaking slightly as they approached the center of a clearing under powerful spotlights. Mira froze. Her pulse skipped. Her sons stiffened beside her. The room seemed to fall into a hush, everyone waiting. Mira’s confusion, her earlier frustration, vanished in a rush of instinctive focus. Every ounce of her attention snapped to the screen, eyes widening as her daughter, alive and standing under the harsh lights, came into view.

“Red…” Mira whispered, almost to herself. Her fingers clenched at the edge of the console. She hadn’t expected to see her daughter here, not like this, and certainly not without any warning of what was about to unfold.

For the first time in hours—or perhaps days—her thoughts sharpened. She was no longer questioning Coin’s motives; she was focused, entirely, on her daughter.

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Finnick’s voice came after, steadier but hollow in tone, each word cutting through the silence. “President Snow… used to sell us… or our bodies, at least. And we weren’t the only ones. If a victor is considered desirable, the President gives them as an award… or allows people to buy them.” His jaw tightened. The muscles in his neck flickered as he swallowed back something heavier than words—anger, shame, memory.

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Mira had been standing rigid, her hands lightly resting on the console, trying to process why Coin had pulled them all into the control room. Her sons mirrored her tension, shoulders tight, eyes scanning the array of monitors like they were expecting a simulation or a routine briefing.

Then Finnick’s voice came over the broadcast, steady but hollow, slicing through the room like ice: “President Snow… used to sell us… or our bodies, at least. And we weren’t the only ones. If a victor is considered desirable, the President gives them as an award… or allows people to buy them.” Mira’s breath caught in her chest. Her hands flew up, clamping over her mouth as a strangled sob clawed its way out. Her knees buckled slightly, and she gripped the edge of the console for support. The words—the revelation that she had never imagined—struck like a physical blow.

Katniss was instantly at her side, moving with instinctive precision. Within seconds, she had wrapped her arms around Mira, pressing a steadying hand to the woman’s back. Mira could feel the warmth, the subtle heartbeat of the girl she barely knew, and it grounded her just enough that she didn’t collapse completely. Her sons, however, were already flaring. One started to whistle sharply, a piercing note that cut the tense silence, and the other shot back with a counter whistle, low and furious. They began circling each other wordlessly, each movement sharp, body language screaming at the other in frustration, disbelief, and protective anger.

Haymitch, Coin, Plutarch, and Beetee all stood back, letting the family react, while Katniss murmured in Mira’s ear, “It’s going to be okay. We’re going to get through this. She’s alive. They’re alive.”

Mira’s hands trembled against Katniss’s shoulders. She wanted to speak, to shout, to cry—but all she could do was let the sobs shake through her and listen to the distant sound of Finnick and Red’s voices, every word carving the reality deeper into her chest. The room became a living, chaotic mixture of fear, grief, and barely contained fury. The whistling of her sons punctuated Mira’s ragged breathing, and Katniss’s presence pressed a silent reassurance into her, a reminder that even amidst this storm, someone was holding her up.

Every word Finnick said seemed to echo in the walls of the control room, bouncing off the screens, the consoles, the ceiling—impossible to ignore, impossible to soften. Mira’s heart hammered as the realization hit: everything she thought she knew about her daughter was only a fraction of the truth.

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Red’s voice cracked, a sharp, brittle sound that cut through the night air and over the hum of the camera equipment. She leaned slightly forward, shoulders trembling, a faint shiver running through her frame as if the memory itself was trying to push her down. “If you refuse…” The words were nearly swallowed by the wind, but the weight behind them was unmistakable. “…he’d kill someone you love.” The silence that followed was thick, almost unbearable, as though the rubble-strewn night itself was holding its breath. Her eyes, wide and unflinching, locked on the camera lens, the glowing circle of light reflecting her fear, her fury, her grief. Every instinct she had ever had to hide, to fight, to survive—stripped bare. She was prey, she was predator, she was the Wolf and the girl who had lost everything, all at once, in that gaze.

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Then Red’s words pierced the speakers, and everything shifted. Mira’s chest seized. Her hands shot to her mouth, muffling a ragged sob that she couldn’t stop. Her knees nearly buckled under the weight of realization. “No… no, my baby girl…” she whispered through trembling lips, the grief roaring up like a tidal wave she had never been prepared for.

Red’s brothers had already flared. One let out a sharp, piercing whistle, tense and urgent; the other fired back with a deep, angry counter-note. Their whistles collided like clashing blades, rapid-fire, filled with rage, disbelief, and a fierce, protective energy. They circled each other wordlessly, muscles coiled, eyes blazing, communicating all they couldn’t put into words.

Haymitch and Plutarch stepped back, their expressions taut but unreadable. Beetee’s fingers twitched over his console, calculating, observing. President Coin’s eyes flicked between Mira and her sons, weighing the tension but letting it play out. Mira leaned into Katniss, letting herself tremble fully, her sobs wracking her body, feeling every pang of fear, guilt, and helplessness. Katniss whispered softly, “It’s okay… we’re here… they’re alive… your daughter’s alive,” but the words barely bridged the chasm of pain.

The whistles of her sons became almost musical in their intensity—sharp, frantic, protective. Mira’s heart ached in perfect synchrony with every note, each one a reflection of their shared terror, their shared love, and their desperate anger at the world that had brought them here. For a long moment, the control room held only the sound of Mira’s sobs, Katniss’s soft reassurances, and the furious, wordless argument of the brothers—a symphony of grief and love and unfiltered fear.

Every word Red had just spoken echoed in the room, reverberating off the walls, settling in Mira’s chest like lead, and she could do nothing but weep for the daughter she had never truly known, the daughter who had been forced to survive horrors no parent should ever imagine.

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Finnick’s breath caught, small and sharp. His hand flexed at his side, but he kept himself still, fighting not to let the tremor in his voice betray him. “To make themselves feel better,” he said, his tone low, bitter with memory, “my patrons would give me money… jewelry… trinkets meant to buy comfort, meant to buy silence.” His jaw tightened as the words left him like splintered glass. “But we… we found our own currency. Something they could never touch. Something they could never take.”

Red’s lips trembled, the faintest quiver betraying the flood of emotions she had carried alone for years, a secret wound exposed under the bright scrutiny of the camera. She drew in a shaky breath, eyes glossed, voice barely above a whisper: “Mine… were rumors.” The word fell like a stone, heavy and sharp. She swallowed hard, forcing herself to meet the lens again. “…And his… were secrets.” Time seemed to stretch, the night surrounding them like a living thing. The rubble around them, the harsh glow of the spotlights, the hum of the equipment—all of it faded. There was only this moment, only this truth: their bodies had been bargained, their souls bartered, and yet they were here. Alive. Standing. Speaking.

Finnick’s chest rose and fell in uneven, shallow breaths. He looked at her, just once, a glance so full of shared pain and understanding that it could have shattered any audience. Red’s hand twitched at her side, nearly reaching for his, but she didn’t—her strength was not in comfort, not yet. It was in the words she bled into the camera, in the truth she refused to hide. The silence that followed, after her last word, was deafening. It was as if the world itself had paused, unwilling to break the fragile, exquisite moment of honesty that had escaped from them both. And in that pause, the horror of what had been done, the weight of their stolen youth, pressed against every fiber of their beings—and still, they endured.

----------

In the control room, the monitors flickered with Red and Finnick’s raw, unflinching confessions. Mira had collapsed fully to her knees, the weight of what she was seeing pressing down on her chest like iron. Her hands were buried in her lap, shaking, face hidden as she let herself finally break. The air around her seemed thick with the collective fear and sorrow of everyone in the room, but she couldn’t breathe around the knot in her throat.

Katniss crouched beside her, arms wrapped tight around Mira’s shoulders, rocking her slowly back and forth in small, reassuring motions. Her own chest ached with the twin pangs of empathy and grief, but she stayed steady, letting Mira lean into her. “It’s okay… you don’t have to hold it in,” she whispered, her voice low but firm, a lifeline in the storm of anguish.

Meanwhile, Red’s brothers had reached a boiling point. Their whistles cut sharply through the tension, staccato notes rising and falling like the clash of blades. One pierced the room with urgent, almost angry clarity, and the other countered with a deep, resonant reply. Each call grew more aggressive, more frantic, as if their bodies were speaking for the helpless fury they couldn’t put into words.

Plutarch and Beetee exchanged tense glances, both aware that the brothers’ panic could escalate at any moment, but Coin remained unmoved, her gaze locked on the monitors, calculating, weighing. Haymitch’s eyes flickered, grim and wary, while Katniss tightened her hold on Mira, sensing the storm of emotion that threatened to spill over.

Mira’s sobs became ragged and raw, her knees digging into the cold floor. Each whistle from her sons sliced through her grief like a blade, and yet it grounded her, reminded her of the fierce, protective love that had carried her children through every hardship. Her back arched slightly against Katniss, letting herself be supported as she let the full weight of her heartbreak wash over her.

The room itself seemed to vibrate with the energy of grief, rage, and desperate protection. Even as Red’s and Finnick’s voices poured out over the monitors, speaking truths that had been buried for too long, Mira stayed pressed against Katniss, letting her body absorb the sorrow and fury. Outside of this cocoon of raw human emotion, the world could wait—the moment belonged entirely to the mother, her sons, and the truth she had never known.

-------------

Both Red and Finnick’s eyes sharpened, the vulnerability that had hung over them moments ago dissolving like mist. It was gone—replaced with something colder, harder, a predator’s focus honed to a razor edge. Finnick’s grip found hers, firm but deliberate, and his voice carried the weight of experience, of horrors lived and survived.

“See,” he said, his tone low, almost conversational, “I know all the depravity, the deceit, and cruelty of the Capitol’s pampered elite.” The words sounded almost casual, but there was nothing casual in the memories behind them. He could feel every favor, every bribe, every carefully hidden betrayal, every flicker of malice behind painted smiles and perfect teeth.

Red’s lips curved into a sharp smile, predatory and knowing, and her eyes glittered like blades. “I’ve heard every whispered thing they said about each other,” she said, the words deliberate, almost venomous. “Every time they thought no one was listening… and every horrible thing they knew others did to get ahead.” Her voice dipped into a soft, almost musical cadence that made the horror linger in the space between the cameras and the audience. Finnick tightened his grip around her hand, a grounding tether in a world that had tried to strip them of every ounce of agency. “But the best secrets,” he said, a shadow of humor and despair flickering in his voice, “the best rumors… were about our good President Coriolanus Snow.”

Red’s eyes narrowed, her pupils almost a slit, her gaze slicing through the night and into the lens of every viewer. She rolled her eyes, a bitter, mocking gesture that could have been playful anywhere else—but here it cut deep, laden with grief. “I heard,” she said, her voice low and deliberate, the corners of her lips twitching in a wry shadow of a smile, “that he was such a young man when he rose to power, such a clever one to keep it. How, you may ask… did he do it?”

Her question hung in the air, heavy and echoing over the rubble-strewn surface, over the microphones, over every eye watching. It wasn’t just curiosity—it was accusation, remembrance, and mourning all in one. The kind of knowledge that could never be unseen. And for a heartbeat, even under the harsh lights and the weight of cameras, the audience could feel the unbearable gravity of the lives behind those words, the stolen youth, the lost innocence, the predatory survival that had defined both of them.

Finnick’s voice cut through the tense silence like steel. “One word,” he said, almost casually, but the weight behind it made every syllable tremble. “Poison.”

Red’s lips curved into a slow, sharp smile, eyes glinting with the mix of triumph and sorrow that only came from survival. “I had a frequent visitor,” she began, her tone measured, deliberate, almost ceremonial, “a woman who… utterly hated her husband. Didn’t you, Mrs. Pompey?” Her words landed like a hammer on stone, each syllable dripping with the poison of truth. “You were so concerned about the mysterious deaths your husband, our President, committed against allies and adversaries alike.”

The cameras were still rolling, capturing the gasp of every viewer who could feel the enormity of her admission. Red’s revelation landed like a bomb: her most frequent client… had been President Snow’s own wife. Finnick’s eyes darkened, a storm in his gaze as he leaned slightly toward the camera, the quiet authority of years of suffering behind every word. “Snow would drink from the same cup,” he said, voice low but crisp, “to avoid suspicion. But… antidotes don’t always work. Which is why he wears roses that reek of perfume—it’s to cover the scent of blood, spores in his mouth, that will never heal.”

Red’s voice followed immediately, steady and cold, eyes locked on the lens as if she could burn the truth into every mind watching. “No one,” she said, letting the weight hang in the air, “can hide the scent of who they truly are. He kills without mercy. He rules with deception… and fear.”

Then, as if the world itself recoiled at the revelation, the broadcast flickered violently, static ripping across the screen. The camera feed sputtered, lights jerking in the background, and suddenly it cut to complete, agonizing silence.

The night sky over the rubble-strewn surface seemed to shiver, the wind carrying the echo of their words, of secrets exposed, of power stripped bare. And in the dark, all that remained was the tremor of truth lingering over Panem.

==================================================================================================================

Red, Katniss, and Finnick sat in the cramped room, the kind of space that smelled faintly of antiseptic and machinery, the hum of ventilation echoing softly. Red’s fingers twirled a dagger idly, the tip catching the dull light as she hummed, a low, almost imperceptible tune threading through the tension. Her eyes were distant, focused on nothing, a storm behind them, yet contained. Katniss sat cross-legged on the edge of a cot, methodically braiding her hair, the movement rhythmic, almost meditative, her jaw tight as if holding in a storm of her own. Finnick, on the other hand, couldn’t stay still. His boots scuffed against the floor, the cadence uneven, hands running through his damp hair as he circled the room in nervous loops.

Then, like a cannon cracking through quiet, Haymitch burst in, his face a mixture of urgency and disbelief. “They’re back. Johanna and Peeta,” he shouted, voice bouncing off the walls.

Red’s dagger clattered to the floor before she even registered it, the small noise swallowed by the thudding of her heart. She was already on her feet, muscles coiling like a spring, eyes sharp and bright as fire. Finnick was at her heels in an instant, the long strides eating up the space between them. Katniss rose, almost reluctantly, hair loose now, flowing down her back as she matched their pace.

The three of them surged down the narrow corridor, boots clanging against metal plating, the air electric with anticipation. Every second stretched impossibly long, every heartbeat an echo of fear and hope tangled together. Finnick could already hear it—the unmistakable voice of Johanna, raw and unfiltered, cutting through the antiseptic chill of the medbay: “Get the fuck off me!”

Red barreled down the medbay corridor, every instinct screaming forward, faster than she ever thought her legs could carry her. Her chest burned, lungs heaving, but she didn’t care—she couldn’t. She had to see her sister. She had to know Johanna was alive.

And then she saw her.

Johanna, bruised and battered, sitting on a cot like she had been left there to fade away. Her hair was shaved down to a harsh buzz, stark against her pale, bloodied skin. Her hands were raw from the IV she yanked free, but her eyes—those defiant, fire-filled eyes—were unmistakable. They locked onto Red, and something inside Red cracked open completely.

“Red,” she said, voice rough but charged with relief. Then, without warning, she flung herself off the cot and barreled into Red, knocking them both to the floor in a tangled heap of limbs. “Don’t you ever leave me again,” Johanna hissed, still grinning through her tears. “I swear, I’ll gut you myself if you do.” Red laughed shakily, tears running freely down her cheeks as she hugged Johanna back fiercely. “I’m not going anywhere,” she whispered, pressing her face into her sister’s buzzed hair. “Not now, not ever.”

Johanna’s laugh cracked like broken glass, sharp and ragged but filled with that familiar spark. “You really are stubborn, huh? Good. Someone’s got to be.” She jabbed Red lightly in the ribs, still clinging to her like a lifeline. “I thought they were going to break me, you know. But here I am, and you—of course, you didn’t let them.” Red’s hands curled around Johanna’s shoulders, murmuring thanks to Antheia, their shared goddess, whispering prayers for her sister’s safety. Johanna leaned into her, half laughing, half crying, her voice rough with exhaustion and relief. “Prayers, gods, whatever you want—just get me the hell out of here next time before I can put my fists through someone’s skull.”

Finnick stood a few steps away, laughing through his own tears, shaking his head at the chaos the two sisters made together. “You two never change,” he said fondly, watching as Red and Johanna sat on the floor, still tangled in each other’s arms, the weight of months of worry and torment melting just a little.

Johanna nudged Red with her elbow. “I’m alive, thanks to you, Red. You didn’t let the Capitol win. And now… well, now I get to scream at them myself when the time comes.” Her smirk was crooked, feral, and Red couldn’t help but smile back through her tears.

In that medbay, on the cold, hard floor of District Thirteen, the Briar and Mason girls were finally reunited. Fierce, unbroken, and full of fire. And Finnick, watching them, knew they were stronger together than the Capitol could ever hope to be. Finnick stepped forward, flashing that disarming smile that could charm a knife out of anyone’s hand. “Alright, doctors,” he said smoothly, voice dripping with polite menace, “I’m sure you’ve got plenty of other patients. How about you go check on Peeta? We’ve got this covered.” The medics hesitated, exchanging wary glances. Finnick’s grin didn’t waver, and there was a flash in his eyes—a warning wrapped in charm. “Really,” he added, voice softening just enough to mock politeness, “I promise she’s in good hands. Now scoot.”

Red grabbed Johanna under the arms, lifting her carefully to her feet. The older girl swayed slightly, still bruised but strong, a smirk tugging at her lips despite the chaos. “God… somehow I missed sailor-boy’s annoying ass voice too,” Johanna said, her tone equal parts teasing and genuine, and Finnick laughed, mock-offended, crossing his arms.

“You’re lucky I like annoying,” Finnick said, winking at her, as Red steadied Johanna between them. Johanna glanced between them, her eyes sparkling with the familiar fire. “Yeah, yeah, keep your charm to distract the doctors. I’m just glad you’re both here.” Red squeezed her sister’s hand, leaning close. “Always. Let’s get you cleaned up and somewhere safe.” Finnick followed, still smirking at Johanna’s antics. Even bruised, battered, and battle-worn, she was fierce, and seeing her with Red like this made him feel—something he hadn’t in a long time: hope.

Chapter Text

Red moved quietly across the small apartment, careful not to jostle the pile of papers on the counter or wake Finnick, who was sprawled across their bed, curled slightly toward the wall, his trident harness dangling lightly from the edge of the mattress. He had finally fallen into the kind of sleep that comes after exhaustion eats through you like fire through dry timber, and she didn’t want to disturb it. His chest rose and fell with steady, rhythmic breaths, a quiet, comforting metronome in the otherwise relentless hum of District Thirteen, where life underground never truly paused. There was the ever-present hiss of the ventilation shafts, the low drone of distant machinery, the occasional echo of footsteps in the narrow corridors, but in their apartment, for a fleeting moment, it was just him and her—and the fragile, careful stillness they shared.

She rifled through their linen cabinet, fingers brushing over neatly folded blankets, each one worn but comforting, small relics of a private world she and Finnick had carved out beneath the sprawling, gray subterranean city. Her fingers lingered on a thick gray blanket, one of the few left from their personal stash, and she pulled it out gently, letting it unfold like a soft promise in her hands. Even in District Thirteen, the underground network of apartments carried a utilitarian sameness: concrete walls, low ceilings that pressed down almost protectively, and narrow hallways that swallowed sounds before they traveled too far. Shadows pooled in the corners, and light was a muted, warm glow from wall sconces and flickering overhead bulbs—a far cry from the harsh brightness of the Capitol’s showrooms, yet comforting in its quiet repetition.

Red’s fingers fumbled slightly as she folded the blanket neatly, a small act of control in a world that had proven time and again to be uncontrollable. She could almost feel Finnick’s presence behind her, even in his sleep, the warmth of him curled toward the wall, the faint scent of salt and sunscreen clinging to his skin from long days of training and old ocean memories. The thought of Johanna, just a few floors down in the medbay, filled her with a quiet ache. The girl was technically free, yes, but the kind of freedom that came after chains were removed never truly felt light. It was weighted with memory, with the echo of pain, with the knowledge that your body and mind could have been broken without a sound reaching the world above.

Red smoothed the blanket with care, her hands lingering over the soft gray fabric, imagining it draped over Johanna’s bruised shoulders, a tangible comfort against the invisible ones she carried inside. Johanna’s defiance had always been as bright and wild as a forest fire, but the Capitol had forced it into simmering embers, and Red knew that she had to give her friend space to breathe, to remember how to be untethered. Even so, she longed to wrap Johanna in warmth, to let her know that there were hands she could trust again, that there was a place underground where she could fall asleep without fear of being dragged back into the nightmare.

Every step Red took was careful, deliberate. She padded across the worn gray floor, moving around the bed as though navigating a minefield of sleep, and for a moment paused to watch Finnick. His hair was mussed from the weight of exhaustion, falling into his face, but even in repose, there was a fluidity to him, a kind of effortless grace that made her chest tighten with protective ache. The trident harness resting at the bed’s edge gleamed faintly in the dim light, a reminder of battles fought and survived, of a strength that didn’t need boasting.

She clutched the blanket closer to her chest, taking a slow, grounding breath. The apartment smelled faintly of wood polish, sweat, and the lingering metallic tang from Finnick’s weapons. It was domestic, homely in a way that felt almost forbidden after the days they had spent submerged in training, strategy, and survival. Her hand brushed along the counter, and for a fleeting second she imagined they had a home above ground, the sun spilling in through large windows, the smell of pine and damp earth drifting in from a balcony—an impossible luxury—but it grounded her, reminded her that she and Finnick had each other, and that they would carry this small pocket of safety forward to Johanna and the others.

Red paused near the door, blanket folded over her arm, listening to the quiet symphony of District Thirteen life—the subtle echo of boots on concrete floors below, the soft electronic whirr of the medbay’s distant machinery, the muffled voice of a nurse giving instructions over a headset. She allowed herself a brief smile, thinking of Johanna curled beneath this blanket, even if only in imagination for now, and how the girl would probably growl at her for fussing so much, for being careful in ways Johanna herself could never be. But it didn’t matter. She would fuss, she would be careful, she would fight to give her friend this small comfort because in a world that had taken so much, it was the least she could do.

Her gaze drifted back to Finnick, sleeping like he’d earned it after every sleepless night, every bruised shoulder, every day spent surviving and protecting. She felt the familiar tug of longing, the ache of love that was both domestic and feral, quiet but insistent, like a heartbeat that refused to be ignored. She let herself linger there, watching him rise and fall with each breath, committing the curve of his jaw, the sharp arch of his brow, the faint tilt of his lips even in sleep, to memory.

Then she straightened, shoulders squared, blanket clutched tight, ready to leave but reluctant to break the spell of quiet they shared. She would descend the corridors, she would navigate the elevators, she would carry warmth and comfort to Johanna, and she would do it without disturbing Finnick’s sleep, because for a fleeting, delicate moment, he needed to be left in peace, the weight of the world lifted from his shoulders even if just for a few hours.

Red exhaled softly, the sound almost lost in the hush of the apartment. She glanced once more at Finnick, tracing the rise of his chest with her eyes, memorizing the steady rhythm that she would hold in her memory like a talisman against fear and exhaustion. Then, with quiet resolve, she moved toward the door, each step deliberate, each movement careful, the gray blanket held close as a shield and an offering, a promise that even in the shadows of this underground world, some fragments of home, of love, and of sanctuary remained.

And for a moment, she allowed herself the private thought that one day, perhaps, there would be light spilling through windows, warmth that wasn’t dim and artificial, and the two of them—she and Finnick—would never have to worry about moving quietly, never have to tiptoe around their own home, never have to hold their breath in the quiet aftermath of chaos. For now, though, she would carry the blanket, she would deliver the warmth, and she would keep this small domestic ache alive in the gray, humming veins of District Thirteen, where survival demanded everything and yet left room for such tender, aching moments.

Red glanced down at Finnick again, his tousled hair catching the pale light of the overhead fixture, and felt a soft pang in her chest. He had been awake longer than she had, training and strategizing, pushing through exhaustion with the kind of stubborn determination that always seemed endless. Now, at last, he was asleep, and she knew the moment would pass quickly—Finnick never rested long when danger still lingered above the surface, in the world outside the reinforced doors of District Thirteen. She wanted to savor this quiet, fragile moment before stepping into the medbay again, before seeing the evidence of the Capitol’s cruelty etched into Johanna’s sharp eyes and tense shoulders.

Her hand froze mid-motion as a soft knock echoed through the apartment, resonating against the concrete walls. The sound was hesitant, polite, almost reluctant. Red’s heart leapt. She wasn’t expecting anyone. Not today. Not now. Her mother’s visits had been sporadic in the past, mostly careful check-ins after major drills or when Red had disappeared on training exercises with Finnick or the other recruits. But now, with the bombings and the chaos still fresh in her mind, and Johanna just returned, Red hadn’t anticipated a visit.

She stood still, blanket tucked under one arm, and listened. The knock came again, slightly louder, deliberate, but not harsh. It had the weight of someone needing confirmation, needing acknowledgment—but not confrontation. Red’s mind raced, cataloging possibilities. Mira? Surely. Her mom was the only one who would knock like that instead of barging in, as she sometimes did during the days Red had been younger, back in District Seven, when the apartment had been full of laughter, wood shavings, and the scent of pine and sap.

Red’s chest tightened. Mira’s knock was not just a sound; it was a signal of something larger, a message carried in the measured beat of knuckles against wood. It was worry. It was fear. And perhaps, Red realized with a lump in her throat, it was coming because she, too, had missed seeing Red’s world collide with the dangerous one she now inhabited underground.

Finnick shifted slightly in his sleep, murmuring softly, pulling the blanket closer around himself as if sensing the tension in the room. Red paused, momentarily torn between leaving him asleep and moving toward the door. The soft hum of the ventilation system and distant echoes of alarms from the surface, long since silenced but still audible faintly through the thick blast doors, reminded her that this underground city was alive in its own way. Every hallway, every stairwell, every metal grate carried sound differently, and every movement in her apartment felt amplified against the hollow concrete.

Taking a deep, steadying breath, Red slid the blanket tighter against her chest, her other hand brushing a curl from her face. She approached the door slowly, her bare feet quiet against the cool floor. The hallway outside was dim, painted in soft yellow light that reflected off the concrete walls like a muted echo of the sun she hadn’t seen in weeks. She pressed her palm lightly to the door, feeling the subtle vibrations as her mother shifted on the other side.

The knock came again, lighter this time, almost like a question. Red’s throat tightened.

Red had just grabbed the gray blanket, the one she had pulled from their apartment for Johanna, folding it neatly under her arm as she moved toward the door. The medbay called her like a lighthouse in the dark, and she wanted nothing more than to be there—checking on Johanna, helping her settle, making sure she was warm, safe, alive.

A sharp knock shattered the quiet underground hum of the apartment.

“Red Briar!” Mira’s voice was steel wrapped in fire.

“Mom… I—”

“No!” Mira bellowed, slamming the door open so fast the hinges groaned. Her face was flushed, eyes blazing with a storm that could’ve ripped the walls apart if not for her sheer force of will. “Where do you think you’re going?” Red exhaled slowly, trying to keep her tone calm, measured. “I’m just taking a blanket down to Johanna, Mom. She’s cold, and—”

“Do you think I care about the blanket?!” Mira’s voice rose, reverberating off the concrete walls, bouncing off the metal piping above them. “Do you think I care about the damned blanket when I just saw—” Her hands flew to her face, fingers trembling. Then she slammed them down on her hips, taking a step closer, making Red feel like she’d been physically compressed. “When I just saw what you went through! What you and Finnick endured, and you had the audacity—” She took a sharp breath, the tremor of anger and grief nearly making her stumble. “The audacity to just… act like it’s nothing?!”

Red’s throat tightened. She tried to explain, tried to step around her mother. “Mom, I—”

“No, you do NOT get to leave, not yet!” Mira snapped, her green eyes flashing. “You will stand right here, and we are going to talk about this! You are NOT going down to that medbay until I know why my daughter—my baby girl—goddess above, my little girl—why you let them, why you didn’t come to me, why I didn’t know! You will NOT walk away from this like it’s a morning chore!” Red’s stomach clenched. She wanted so badly to go help Johanna. She wanted to be there for her best friend, for the girl who had suffered so much, but Mira’s voice, rising, unyielding, made her stop in her tracks. She looked at her mother—her heart caught somewhere between fear, guilt, and love. Mira was shaking now, the heat of her anger radiating like the blast of a furnace, and Red knew better than to push past it.

“I—Mom… I didn’t want you to worry,” Red said softly, her voice trembling, barely above a whisper. The words felt fragile, almost meaningless, against the weight in Mira’s gaze. Mira’s eyes were wide, blazing, sharp enough to cut through the walls of the apartment, pinning Red in place as if she could reach through to the very heart of her.

“Worry?” Mira echoed, her voice rising, a mixture of incredulity and anguish. Her hands trembled, fists tightening at her sides. “Do you have any idea what I just saw, Red? Do you even begin to understand what I saw?” Her voice cracked slightly, betraying the flood of emotions behind her fury. “I saw… everything. The Capitol, Finnick, you… everything. The things they forced you to do, the things you endured. And you—” Her chest heaved. “And you thought you could protect me… by hiding it from me? From me, Red? From your own mother?”

Red flinched, the words striking her like a physical blow. Her throat tightened, and she swallowed hard, trying to steady herself, to find the right words, but none came. Her hands fidgeted with the hem of her gray uniform, twisting the fabric in her fingers. The weight of Mira’s grief pressed down on her, sharp and heavy, like the concrete walls surrounding them.  “Red, I am your mother!” Mira said, her voice now trembling with the edge of heartbreak beneath the anger. “It is my job to protect you, to keep you safe! Not the other way around! Not to have to watch you suffer… alone!” Mira’s knees buckled slightly, and she sank onto the edge of the bed, burying her face in her hands, letting the weight of all she had just witnessed crash down on her.

Red took a cautious step forward, her own chest tight with emotion, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. “I didn’t… I didn’t want you to see me like that, Mom. I didn’t want you to have to know what they—what he—” Her voice caught, the rawness of it making her throat burn. She faltered, every word she tried to force out tangled in grief and shame.

Mira looked up at her then, eyes red-rimmed, glimmering with tears she had no strength left to hold back. “Do you understand, Red? Do you understand that I would have done anything to take it away for you? That I would have shielded you from every single horror they inflicted? And you… you carried it yourself, like it was some kind of shield for me?” She shook her head slowly, each movement heavy with despair. “My baby… my little girl… you suffered in silence. And for what? So I wouldn’t have to worry?”

Red’s lips quivered. “I… I didn’t know how else to keep you safe,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “I couldn’t… I couldn’t bear to have you see me like that, Mom. I thought… I thought if you didn’t know, if I carried it alone… maybe some of it wouldn’t touch you.”

Mira shook her head again, a hollow, haunted laugh escaping her lips. “Don’t you see, Red? Every moment I spent not knowing, thinking you were safe, I was living in ignorance. And now… now I’ve seen it. Seen the horrors, seen the betrayals, the pain you endured. And you… you carried all of it alone?” She pressed her hands to her face again, shuddering. “How… how could I have protected you if I didn’t even know?”

Red’s shoulders slumped, the tiny, sharp pride she had clung to in order to survive breaking into a soft, trembling collapse. “I… I didn’t want to… burden you,” she whispered, each word soaked with shame. “I thought I could handle it. I thought… if I carried it, if I hid it… maybe you wouldn’t have to see, wouldn’t have to feel the fear I felt.”

Mira’s face softened, just for a fraction of a second, as she reached out with a trembling hand, brushing her fingers against Red’s cheek. The touch was gentle, hesitant, almost afraid to hurt her daughter with the weight of her own grief. “Oh, Red,” she whispered, her voice breaking now into pure, unfiltered sorrow. “I don’t care about fear. I don’t care about horror or shame. I just… I just want my baby girl back. Safe. Alive. My Red…”

Red’s tears fell freely now, mixing with the sorrow in Mira’s eyes, and for a long moment, the apartment was silent except for their quiet, ragged breathing, a fragile, aching connection forming between them amid the shadows of concrete and gray walls. The city above could crumble, the alarms could wail, and the world could be a place of darkness and cruelty—but in this small, underground apartment, a mother and her daughter held onto each other, fragile and trembling, aching, yet somehow tethered together through the storm of everything they had survived.

Red’s hands twitched at her sides, the blanket slipping slightly. She wanted to explain, to tell Mira that everything she had done was survival, that nothing would ever touch her mother, but the words felt so small, inadequate, against the weight of Mira’s fury.

“You think I can just…” Mira’s voice cracked, catching halfway through a sentence, “…I can just pretend like that didn’t happen? Like I didn’t just see my little girl… and my Finnick… being used, abused, stripped of everything they deserved?!” Her fists clenched tightly, nails biting into her palms. “And you—standing there like it’s nothing! Like it’s okay!”

Red swallowed. “Mom, it’s over. Finnick’s fine. I’m fine. We survived, we’re back. It’s—”

“OVER?!” Mira screamed, stepping so close that Red could feel the heat of her fury, the tremor of disbelief radiating through the air. “Do you know how long I’ve held my tongue? How long I’ve prayed, and worried, and—God help me—hoped you were alive?!” She took a ragged breath, voice shaking, eyes wet. “And now you just… act like it’s a Sunday walk in the forest?”

Red’s knees weakened. She wanted to run, to get to Johanna, to fix everything, to make the world right again. But Mira’s stare was a physical force, and she sank down onto the edge of the metal table, holding the blanket to her chest like a shield.

“You’re not leaving,” Mira said quietly, dangerously, a steel blade hidden beneath the exhaustion and grief. “You will sit right there, and we will talk. You will tell me everything, Red. And you will not leave me here… pretending like none of this ever happened.” Red’s fingers curled around the blanket. Her chest heaved. She wanted to argue, wanted to protest, wanted to tell Mira that Johanna needed her, that Finnick was waiting, that the medbay was calling—but all of that was swallowed by the heat of Mira’s presence, by the raw, undiluted power of a mother scorned and terrified all at once.

“I… I can’t… Mom…” Red whispered, voice breaking, “I don’t know if I can even put it into words…”

“Then try, dammit!” Mira yelled, voice bouncing off the concrete walls. “You think I don’t deserve to know? You think I don’t need to understand what my daughter, what my baby girl… went through?!”

Red looked at her mother, her green eyes, still sharp, still fiery, still impossibly strong even when full of grief. And for the first time in days, she felt the full weight of everything—the fear, the shame, the unbearable horrors she’d endured, all pressing into the narrow underground apartment. And she nodded slowly, knowing that there was no walking away, no excuse, no shortcut. Red swallowed again, nodding, feeling the ache in her chest deepen. “I hear you, Mom. I hear you.” Mira’s fists fell to her sides, her chest heaving. “Good,” she said finally, voice low but unyielding. “Because I am not letting you run from this. Not ever. Not again.”

Red exhaled slowly, her hands tightening around the blanket. She wanted so badly to hug her mother, to curl into her warmth and somehow make it all better, but she knew it would take more than a hug to bridge this chasm. Not yet.

“I’ll go,” Red said finally, voice soft but firm. “But after… we talk.”

Mira’s jaw tightened, and she took a step back, just enough to let Red move, but not enough to let her escape completely. “You’d better, Red. You’d better.”

Red nodded, swallowed the lump in her throat, and with one last look at her mother’s fiery, impossibly human face, she turned toward the medbay, blanket in hand, knowing that the confrontation was only beginning—and that Mira’s wrath, sharp and relentless, would be waiting when she returned.

Chapter Text

The medbay was quieter than usual that morning, the kind of quiet that carried weight. Even the hum of the ventilation system seemed subdued, a steady pulse that filled the sterile air. The faint clatter of metal trays came from the far end of the room, punctuated by the rhythmic beep of a monitor that didn’t belong to Johanna but to some other survivor further down the corridor. Life persisted here underground in mechanical sighs and controlled exhalations — measured, precise, utterly without warmth.

Water splashed faintly from the hydrotherapy bay, that rare corner of District Thirteen’s medbay where the air was heavier, humid, and faintly scented with antiseptic steam. Johanna sat on the edge of the narrow, rectangular tub. The water glimmered dully under the fluorescent lights — too clean, too still, too clear — like a mirror that had forgotten how to show anything but ghosts.

Her cropped hair was damp and uneven, a cruel buzz cut grown out just enough to shadow her scalp. Her eyes — sharp hazel, restless — darted to every sound, every shadow, every reflection that moved across the surface of the water. Her hands trembled where they rested on her knees, knuckles bone-white. The gray medbay gown clung to her, starched and shapeless, and she looked more like a soldier who had been broken down to her components than a victor. Even the air around her seemed tense, as though it, too, were waiting for her to shatter.

Red hovered at the edge of the therapy bay, one hand gripping the cold metal railing, the other clutching a folded gray blanket against her chest. The blanket had been an afterthought — an instinct. Something human to carry into the clinical brightness of this place. It smelled faintly of Finnick’s soap and the mineral tang of the underground air in their quarters. She’d brought it because she couldn’t bring comfort any other way.

Finnick stood a few feet behind her, one shoulder pressed against the wall, his posture deceptively loose. But Red could see the tension in the set of his jaw, the rigid control in his hands. Every muscle in him seemed to be waiting — waiting for Johanna to snap, waiting for the water to betray her, waiting for the sound that would mean it was all happening again. His trident harness, always at his side, rested against the wall, a silent reminder of the life they’d fought their way out of. One of the medbay nurses adjusted the dials on the control panel, sending a small wave across the surface of the water. “The temperature’s steady now,” she murmured. Her voice was kind but impersonal, her eyes fixed on the readings. “Johanna, you can put your feet in if you’re ready.”

Johanna didn’t move. Her gaze was locked on the faint ripples, and the muscle in her jaw ticked once. “You want me to put my feet in that,” she said, voice flat, emotionless. “You do realize I was electrocuted with water, right? Doused in it, over and over, until I thought my skin would melt off?” The nurse hesitated. Her lips parted as if to say something, but the words died. She looked toward Red instead.

Red knelt beside the tub, setting the blanket carefully on the floor. The tile was freezing through her knees. “Johanna,” she said softly, “you don’t have to. Not until you’re ready.”

Johanna turned to her, eyes narrowing. “And if I’m never ready, what then?”

“Then you’re never ready,” Red said simply. “And no one’s going to make you.”

That earned her a short, disbelieving laugh — sharp and humorless. “You sound like one of them,” Johanna muttered, jerking her chin toward the nurses. “Soft voices. Empty promises. You think you can talk me out of what’s in my head?” Red met her gaze. “No. I’m just not going to let you drown in it alone.” Finnick’s voice drifted from the corner, quiet but steady. “She’s good at that,” he said, eyes still fixed on Johanna. “Pulling people out. Even when they’re not asking to be saved.”

Johanna snorted, her tone brittle. “You say that like it’s a good thing.”

Finnick smiled faintly — not the charming, practiced kind he used to wear for the cameras, but the real one, tired and almost reverent. “It’s the only thing that’s ever worked for me.” That caught her attention. She turned to him, brow furrowing. “What, she saved you too?” He shrugged, but his voice softened. “More than once. From the Capitol. From myself.” His eyes flicked to Red, who was still kneeling by the tub, one hand resting near Johanna’s knee like she could anchor her there. “She doesn’t let you drown, even when you think you deserve to.”

Johanna’s mouth twisted, her throat working around words she didn’t want to say. “And you think I’m drowning.”

“I think,” Finnick said gently, “you’ve been treading water so long, you’ve forgotten how to breathe.”

Johanna stared at him for a long moment — defiant, wet-eyed, silent — before huffing out a laugh that broke halfway through. “You sound like one of those therapists they keep sending in here.”

“Yeah,” he said, grinning crookedly. “Except I actually give a damn.” Something in Johanna’s shoulders sagged, her jaw loosening. She looked back at the water. “You really think she can save me too?” Red, still quiet, murmured before he could answer, “No one can save you but you. I just hold your hand until you remember you can.” Finnick’s voice was a whisper now, rough and certain. “Worked for me.” Silence stretched. The air was thick, heavy with the things none of them were saying.

Red leaned closer, lowering her voice. “Jo,” she whispered, “I know what it looks like. What it feels like. I know what they did to you wasn’t just torture — it was meant to erase you. But they didn’t. You’re still here. You’re still you.”

Johanna’s head snapped toward her. “You don’t know what it was like.”

Red didn’t flinch. “Then tell me.”

For a moment, Red thought Johanna might hit her — the flash of violence in her eyes, the tension in her shoulders. But then Johanna exhaled, a sound like a laugh torn apart halfway through. She pressed her palms hard into her thighs, eyes flicking back to the water. “Every time I close my eyes,” she said quietly, “I hear it. The hum before it hits. The water dripping from the ceiling. They wanted me to be afraid of it forever. They wanted to make it mine.” Her voice broke. She bit down hard on her lip.

Red swallowed the ache rising in her chest. “Then let’s take it back,” she said softly. “Make it yours again. Not theirs.”

Johanna’s breathing quickened, her chest rising in shallow bursts. “I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” Red said, firmer now, though her voice trembled. “You don’t have to do it alone.” Finnick stepped forward then, slow and deliberate, like approaching a wounded animal. He crouched beside Red, his hands open, palms up. “You don’t have to go in all at once,” he said quietly. “Just your feet. Just a second. You call it off whenever you want.” Johanna stared at them — these two people who had crawled through hell with her and somehow still had gentleness left. Then, slowly, she swung her legs toward the tub. Her bare feet hovered above the water. She hesitated, trembling, eyes fixed on the clear surface.

The nurse at the panel gave a faint nod. “Whenever you’re ready.”

Johanna inhaled sharply and let her toes brush the surface. The contact was barely there — just the ghost of a touch — but she flinched as though she’d been struck. The water rippled, tiny circles expanding outward, and Johanna’s breathing went ragged. “No,” she said, shaking her head. “No, I can’t. I can’t—” Red moved instantly. She pressed her hand to Johanna’s arm, firm but steady. “Hey. Look at me. You’re here. You’re not there. Do you hear me? You’re in Thirteen, not the Capitol. No one’s going to hurt you.”

Johanna’s hand twitched. Her fingers dug into Red’s wrist, nails biting into skin. “It smells like the same soap,” she whispered hoarsely. “It’s the same—same smell. I can’t tell the difference.”

Red’s throat tightened. “Then we’ll change the smell,” she said, turning sharply toward the nurse. “Turn off the water. Now.” The nurse blinked but obeyed, shutting off the flow immediately. The sound of it stopped, leaving behind an eerie stillness. The only thing left was the sound of Johanna’s breath — fast, shallow, human. Finnick rose and crossed the room to a supply cabinet. He rummaged for a moment before pulling out a small bottle of antiseptic and a fresh towel. The scent of clean linen replaced the sterile tang of soap. “Here,” he said quietly, handing it to Red.

Red pressed the towel into Johanna’s hands. “Different smell. Different memory,” she said softly.

Johanna stared at her, then at the towel. Her grip on it was trembling, but she didn’t let go. She buried her face in the fabric, inhaled once, twice, and when she finally looked up, there were tears on her cheeks. Not the dramatic kind, but the quiet, stunned kind — the kind that felt like a betrayal. “Why are you doing this?” she whispered. “Why are you still trying?” Finnick’s voice was low but certain. “Because we don’t leave our people behind.” Johanna laughed through her tears, shaking her head. “You’re both idiots.”

“Probably,” Red said, smiling faintly. “But you’re stuck with us.”

For the first time since she’d arrived back from the Capitol, Johanna smiled — a real, crooked, sarcastic thing. “Lucky me.”

The tension in the room shifted slightly, like the pressure easing after a storm. The nurses relaxed fractionally, though they still lingered, hovering by the controls. Red turned to one of them. “We’ll take it from here,” she said, voice soft but commanding. The nurse hesitated. “Ma’am, we’re required to monitor—” Finnick cut her off with that practiced charm that managed to sound polite and threatening at once. “I promise you, if anything happens, we’ll call for you. But she doesn’t need eyes watching her every breath.”

The nurse opened her mouth to argue, but the look in his eyes — calm, dangerous — silenced her. “We’ll be right outside,” she said instead, and the small group filed out.

When the door hissed shut behind them, the medbay felt larger. Quieter. The hum of the ventilation returned to the forefront.

Johanna exhaled shakily. “You two really are something,” she muttered. “Breaking all the rules down here.”

“Occupational hazard,” Finnick said, leaning back against the wall again. Red smiled softly and reached out to tuck a damp strand of hair behind Johanna’s ear. “Better?” Johanna shrugged, wiping her face roughly with the towel. “Not worse.”

“That’s a start,” Red said. Johanna looked down at the still water again. It no longer looked as threatening — just water, clear and ordinary. After a long silence, she asked quietly, “You think if I try again, it won’t kill me?” Red squeezed her hand. “I think it’ll remind you you’re alive.” Johanna gave her a sideways look. “You always talk like that?”

“Only when I mean it.”

Finnick chuckled softly. “Careful, Red. She bites.”

Johanna grinned faintly. “Shut the fuck up, sailor-boy.”

“Oh my god, I'm going to punch-” Finnick said under his breath, and Red smacked his arm without looking away from Johanna. For a moment — a fragile, blinking moment — they were three victors again. Not broken, not haunted. Just together, breathing the same air, daring to exist in the quiet. The water rippled again as Johanna’s toes brushed the surface once more. She flinched, but this time she didn’t pull away. Her breath trembled, but she stayed.

Red’s voice was a whisper. “That’s it. Just breathe.”

Johanna nodded slowly, and the faintest smile ghosted her lips. “You’re a terrible nurse.”

“Good thing I’m not one,” Red murmured, and let her hand rest steady against Johanna’s back as the water finally began to accept her. Red stepped closer, kneeling beside the tub. “Johanna,” she said quietly, her voice barely above the water’s soft gurgle. “I’m right here. Look at me. You’re not alone. You’re safe with us.” Johanna’s eyes flicked to her, sharp and skeptical. “You’re going to drown me, aren’t you?” she demanded, though the words trembled with fear she did not want to admit.

“No,” Red said firmly, pressing a hand against the cool tile, so close she could feel the vibrations of the water echoing beneath her. “I’m not leaving. I’m not letting anyone hurt you. Not here, not now.”

Finnick moved to the side, his voice quiet but steady, meant for Johanna as much as it was for the medbay staff. “We’ve got her,” he said softly, resting a hand lightly on the edge of the tub. “Red and I—we’re not going anywhere. You’re not alone, Jo. Not ever again.” Johanna’s eyes flickered between Red and Finnick, uncertainty warring with trust. Her chest rose and fell rapidly, shallow breaths punctuated with small hiccups of panic. The nurses adjusted the water pressure slightly, but Red could see that Johanna’s focus had shifted entirely to her. She had to act. Red slid her hand beneath Johanna’s arm, steadying her, and then, with a deep, grounding breath, she eased herself down into the water fully clothed, letting the cool liquid lap over her uniform. The medbay staff stiffened, exchanging quick glances, but Red ignored them, focusing entirely on Johanna.

“You’re not alone,” Red whispered again, letting her knees sink into the shallow water. “I’m right here. Feel me? I’m right here.”

Johanna flinched, jerking slightly away, but the contact of Red’s hand on her arm was grounding, an anchor. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, she leaned toward Red, letting herself be held in the safety of proximity. Her breaths came ragged and fast, but the panic that had threatened to overwhelm her began to ebb slightly.

Finnick eased closer, kneeling beside the tub on the wet floor. “We’ve got you, Jo,” he murmured, voice low but carrying warmth. “I’m right here. We’re not going anywhere.” The water reflected the harsh, overhead lights of the underground medbay in shimmering ripples. Each flicker seemed to distort the sterile gray walls, but inside the tub, inside this fragile moment, there was only trust, only the quiet, fragile tether of care that Red and Finnick offered. Johanna’s small, sharp hands gripped Red’s sleeve, knuckles white against the dark fabric. “I—don’t want—” Her words trailed off, swallowed by the depth of her panic.

“It’s okay,” Red said, voice steady, soothing. “You don’t have to say anything. Just breathe with me. One… two… three… like the waves.” She lifted her free hand slightly, tracing slow arcs through the water. “In and out. See? You can do this.”

The tremor in Johanna’s shoulders was visible, but she mirrored Red’s slow movement, letting her breath catch in rhythm with the gentle arc of the water. Finnick offered his hand, brushing it against her back lightly, his presence another quiet reassurance that she was not alone. For long, tense moments, Johanna’s breathing remained shallow, but Red did not let go. She kept her hands firm, her voice steady, whispering encouragement with each beat, each movement. Finnick’s eyes softened as he watched the transformation in Johanna, from a girl tethered to her panic to one slowly reclaiming her body from the grips of memory and fear.

The medbay staff lingered at the edges, watching silently, allowing Red and Finnick to hold space. Here, under the underground lights of District Thirteen, there was no rush, no clock ticking them forward, no orders from President Coin, no drills or mandates. There was only Johanna, raw and unguarded, and the two people who had never let her face the world alone. Red leaned closer, her cheek brushing against Johanna’s damp shoulder. “You’re safe now,” she murmured, letting the words sink into the trembling girl. “Every part of you is safe here. I won’t let them touch you again.”

Johanna’s lips twitched, almost a smirk, almost a sneer, but the tension in her body slackened. Her shoulders loosened, her breathing deepened, and for the first time in hours, perhaps days, she allowed herself to float in the water without fear of it swallowing her. Finnick’s hand rested lightly on the edge of the tub, brushing against Red’s as she held Johanna, an unspoken line of support. “You’re strong, Jo,” he whispered. “Stronger than they’ll ever know. And you’re not alone—ever again.”

Red’s heart ached as she watched Johanna finally settle, small nods punctuating her ragged breaths. She adjusted the blanket she had brought slightly around Johanna’s shoulders for warmth, though they were all wet. “We’re not going anywhere,” Red said again, a quiet vow. “And I mean it. Not for a second.”

Johanna’s lips curved faintly, a whispered acknowledgement. “If you ever die before me… I’ll kill you,” she muttered, voice rough but softening at the edges.

Red smiled gently, brushing a strand of hair from Johanna’s face. “Deal,” she said softly. “Deal.”

The water lapped quietly against the tub, a rhythm punctuated by slow, steady breaths, soft whispers, and the hum of the underground ventilation. Outside the medbay, District Thirteen continued its orderly existence—gray uniforms moving through gray corridors under the gray hum of fluorescent light—but in this small room, in this sliver of stolen quiet, the world narrowed down to three people learning how to live again. Red’s hand remained on Johanna’s shoulder, thumb tracing slow circles against her skin. Her movements were absent, instinctive, the kind you only gave to someone you loved like family. Finnick had taken a seat nearby, leaning back against the wall, his trident harness clinking faintly as he settled. His eyes were half-closed, not from disinterest but from relief—relief that Johanna was here, alive, and that Red was here too, her presence steady enough to keep them both tethered.

For a long while, no one spoke. The air smelled faintly of antiseptic and clean water, but there was something softer underneath—soap, and the ghost of the sea, clinging to Finnick’s hair, a whisper of what they all missed but could never name aloud.

When Johanna finally spoke again, her voice was small. “You two are disgustingly domestic,” she said, though her tone lacked any real bite. “It’s unsettling.” Finnick chuckled, resting his head back against the wall. “Don’t get used to it. She yells at me for leaving socks on the floor.”

Red shot him a look over her shoulder. “Because you do leave socks on the floor.”

Johanna rolled her eyes, but there was a flicker of something in her expression—a warmth that wasn’t there before. She leaned back against the edge of the tub, closing her eyes, her breathing slow and even. “You two make it sound like there’s still a world outside these walls.” Red’s smile faltered just slightly. “There is,” she said, almost to herself. “It’s just… waiting.” Finnick looked at her then—really looked—and something unspoken passed between them. He reached out, brushing his knuckles against the back of her hand, the smallest touch, grounding them both.

Johanna cracked one eye open. “Ugh. I’m right here, you know.”

“Shut up,” Finnick said fondly. “You love it.”

Johanna smirked, closing her eyes again. “Maybe I do.” The hum of the medbay wrapped around them like a lullaby. Somewhere down the hall, a nurse’s footsteps echoed, fading quickly. Red stood after a while, quietly fetching a fresh towel to drape around Johanna’s shoulders. Finnick rose too, stretching out his arms, bones cracking in protest. Johanna looked up at them both, damp hair clinging to her forehead, eyes rimmed red but clear for the first time in weeks. “You two should go,” she said softly. “You look like hell.”

Red shook her head. “Not tonight.”

Finnick smiled faintly. “You’re stuck with us.”

Johanna let out a breath that was half sigh, half laugh. “Lucky me.” And for once, it didn’t sound like sarcasm.

The three of them stayed like that—Red sitting beside the tub, Johanna leaning back with her head against the wall, and Finnick watching them both with that quiet, protective tenderness that only came after you’d nearly lost everything. When Johanna finally drifted into sleep, her breathing steady, Red stood and brushed her fingers over Johanna’s arm in goodbye. “She’s safe,” she murmured, like she needed to say it out loud to make it true.

Finnick nodded, taking her hand. “For now,” he said softly. “That’s enough.”

They lingered another moment, just listening to the sound of Johanna’s breathing, the heartbeat of the underground thrumming faintly around them.

And when they finally stepped out of the medbay, the heavy door sliding shut behind them, Red turned her face into Finnick’s shoulder, her voice a whisper against the fabric of his uniform. “She’s still here.” He kissed the top of her head. “So are we.” And beneath the concrete and steel, where the world had been buried and rebuilt in shades of gray, that was enough. For one night, it was enough to still be here.

Chapter Text

The cafeteria in District Thirteen looked less like a place to eat and more like a holding cell for restless people with too much history and not enough patience. Everything was gray—the tables, the walls, the trays, even the food—as if color had been outlawed along with joy. The fluorescent lights hummed a steady, mechanical drone overhead, casting a harsh, sterile glow that made the space feel endless, oppressive, and entirely timeless. There was no morning or evening here, only the monotony of concrete and steel and the occasional clatter of a tray sliding against the table.

Katniss, Red, Finnick, and Johanna huddled in a corner, like a pack of caged wolves in a zoo that didn’t even pretend to be scenic. Their uniforms were crisp and gray, unyielding against the curves and lines of their bodies, and every weapon, every piece of lethal training equipment, had been confiscated for the day. Beetee had called it a “mandatory rest day.” To these four, it felt like a cruel joke, a punishment designed to make their muscles twitch and their minds simmer with frustration.

Red jabbed at the gray slop on her tray with her spoon, stabbing at it as if she could bore a hole straight through it to freedom. “No weapons, no training, no ‘distractions,’” she muttered under her breath, her voice laced with a blend of irritation and theatrical despair. “What exactly are we supposed to do? Contemplate the meaning of gray? Write poetry about concrete?” She let out a long, slow exhale, rolling her shoulders with exaggerated exhaustion.

Johanna groaned theatrically and flopped forward, her forehead thunking onto the table in a sound that could have registered on the bunker’s seismograph. “I swear,” she mumbled, muffled against the cold metal surface, “if I have to look at one more gray wall, I’m going to start chewing on the concrete. Just for a change in texture.” She rolled her eyes so hard it was a wonder they didn’t get stuck somewhere in her skull.

Finnick, attempting some semblance of composure, spun a coin lazily between his fingers, watching it catch the fluorescent light in tiny flashes of silver. “You already tried that,” he said mildly, leaning back in his chair with a smug half-smile. “You chipped a tooth. I think you’ve been banned from architectural dentistry.”

Johanna’s ears twitched under the gray hood of her uniform. She lifted her head, glaring at him with a mixture of fury and delight. “Oh, I remember! That was fun! You’re just jealous because you couldn’t get in on the chewing action without losing a nail or two.” She wiggled her hands like talons, gnashing her teeth for effect. “And admit it, Briar—” she jabbed a finger toward Red, who recoiled slightly, “—you miss the thrill of it too!”

Red’s fingers drummed against the table, her expression a carefully controlled mix of annoyance and indulgence. “Miss it? Absolutely not,” she said primly, though the faint twitch of a smile betrayed her. “I’m far too civilized to gnaw on anything that might be connected to my digestive system. Unlike some people I could name.”

Finnick laughed softly, tossing the coin into the air and catching it behind his back. “Some people? Who, now? That’s a pretty broad accusation, Red. Be careful—you’re practically daring her to chew on you next.” His eyes flicked toward Johanna, who let out a loud, unrestrained cackle at the idea.

Johanna’s laugh echoed in the cavernous gray room, ricocheting off the walls in little bursts of chaotic energy. “Oh! That would be the day,” she said, leaning forward, resting her chin on her fists, and grinning like a predator. “Red Briar, sinking her teeth into me? Please. I’d have to hold her down with my own arms first, and trust me—I have experience in wrestling things far heavier and uglier than you, sailor-boy!”

Finnick grinned, leaning toward her with a mock bow. “Well, if I ever need a referee in your inevitable gnawing match, I volunteer as tribute. Again.”

Katniss, who had been silently watching the chaos, pinching the bridge of her nose, shook her head slowly. She didn’t bother to speak, because these three were a force of nature and the cafeteria—gray, sterile, endlessly oppressive—was merely their stage. She could only imagine what the ventilation ducts might have thought about the noise, or if the low hum of the lights had grown resentful at being interrupted by such human chaos.

Johanna suddenly pointed dramatically at the ceiling. “And why is it,” she demanded, raising her voice just enough to draw curious stares from the other soldiers and cafeteria workers, “that we are trapped down here with no sunshine, no air, no distractions, and no weapons? Am I being punished for surviving? For existing?” She leaned forward so far that Red had to catch her shoulder to prevent her from sliding onto the floor.

Red groaned, pressing a hand to her forehead. “Because Beetee has apparently decided that our brains need a break. From training. From life. From functioning as people. And somehow, gnawing concrete is not a recognized form of therapy.”

Johanna’s eyes sparkled with unholy delight. “Oh, fantastic. So we’re all just gray lumps in the dark, forbidden from exercising our muscles or our cleverness. I can see it now—months of careful planning, honing our instincts, poof! Gone. All thanks to Beetee and his eternal wisdom.”

Finnick leaned back in his chair, drumming his fingers on the metal surface. “If it makes you feel better, Johanna, I think they took the weapons specifically to watch you spiral.” He smirked, though his eyes softened as they flicked toward Red, who looked equally disgruntled but far more composed. “It’s probably some kind of psychological experiment. The boredom is the bait; the chaos is the reward.”

Johanna’s gaze sharpened on him. “Finnick Odair, you’re practically a counselor disguised as a sailor. Have you always been this reasonable, or is it the gray walls getting to you too?” She leaned closer, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “I mean, come on. No weapons. That is cruel. Absolutely, horrifyingly cruel. I might start a petition. Or a coup. Or both. And I’ll start with… hmm…” Her eyes darted to Red and Finnick in quick succession, resting finally on Finnick with a mischievous glint. “Oh yes, definitely him first. He’s too shiny anyway.”

Finnick let out a mock groan, resting his head on one hand. “I am too shiny? I’m literally gray from head to toe like everyone else. You’re just mad because my hair is still charming.”

Red covered her mouth with a hand to suppress a laugh, shaking her head. “You’re both insufferable,” she said softly, though her eyes sparkled with amusement. “The cafeteria doesn’t even need to provide entertainment when you exist.”

Johanna grinned, leaning back in her chair with a flourish of arms, pretending to be regal and disdainful. “Entertainment? Ha! I am the entertainment, my dear Briar. And the rest of you are merely supporting acts, unfortunate extras in my grand production of misery and boredom.”

Finnick leaned closer to Red, dropping his voice to a low murmur only she could hear. “I think she’s enjoying this too much,” he said, a wry smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Red elbowed him softly, shooting him a look that said stop agreeing with her.

Red murmured under her breath, though Johanna leaned closer, ears twitching like she could sense a secret. “Stop encouraging her.”

Across from them, Johanna was slouched so low she was practically melting off the bench, chin tilted toward the ceiling in theatrical despair. Her buzzcut had grown into wild, uneven tufts that made her look perpetually feral — like she’d just escaped something (which, technically, she had). She poked at her gray paste with the blunt end of her spoon, jabbing little dents into it with all the violence of a toddler denied dessert. Katniss sat beside her, elbows on the table, face resting in one hand as she stared listlessly at her tray. Her braid drooped forward like even it was tired of the day. Red sat across from them, chin in her palm, idly tapping her spoon against her plate. Finnick, beside her, was leaning back in his chair so far it creaked dangerously, arms folded over his chest and expression pure martyrdom.

It was the kind of silence that wasn’t peaceful — just heavy, dull, the sound of four people trying very hard not to go insane.

Finally, Johanna let out a loud groan that turned several heads. “Remind me,” she said, dragging her words like it physically pained her to speak, “why we’re not allowed to train today?”

“Because Beetee said so,” Finnick answered automatically, not looking up from his tray.

Johanna scoffed so dramatically it echoed. “Oh, right. Beetee said so. Guess that settles it.” She dropped her spoon, which clattered loudly on the table, and crossed her arms like a sulking child. “We’re prisoners. Fancy, gray-clad, underfed prisoners.” Red kicked her lightly under the table, though she didn’t look much more composed herself. “He’s right, Jo. You’d pass out if you took another hit to the ribs.” Johanna sat up straighter — immediately regretting it when her side protested. “I’m fine,” she insisted, voice a little too high-pitched to be convincing.

Finnick’s lips quirked into a grin. “Yeah, you look fine. Very ‘post-torture bunker chic.’ It’s all the rage.”

Johanna gave him a death glare that could’ve melted steel. “Says the man who spends half his day trying to flirt with his reflection in the metal trays.” Red snorted, trying and failing to hide her grin. Finnick looked wounded. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”

“I’m on the side of whoever’s funniest,” Red deadpanned. Katniss finally blinked out of her fog, her voice flat. “You’re all children.”

“Children with deadly weapons,” Johanna said — then paused, frowned, and added bitterly, “Well. Formerly.” That earned a chorus of groans. “I miss my trident,” Finnick said, pouting just slightly, running a hand through his hair. “Do you have any idea how pathetic I feel without it? It’s like losing a limb.”

“You have limbs,” Johanna muttered. “You’ll live.”

Red sighed, resting her chin on her hand. “I miss my knives.” “Ha!” Johanna slapped the table. “See? I’m not the only one suffering.” Katniss gave a small shrug. “I miss my bow.” Finnick raised an eyebrow. “You?” Katniss nodded. “It’s quiet without it.” Johanna made a noise halfway between a groan and a laugh. “We sound like addicts.” Red raised her hand slightly. “We kind of are. They took away our coping mechanisms.” Johanna drummed her fingers on the table, restless energy radiating off her in waves. “They could at least give me an axe to look at. I wouldn’t even swing it.”

“Lies,” Finnick said. “You’d behead the first person who told you to calm down.”

“I am calm!”

“Sure you are,” Red said dryly, hiding a smirk behind her hand.

Johanna threw herself back dramatically, chair screeching against the floor. “This is cruel and unusual punishment. I’d rather go back to training. Or fighting. Or anything. At least blood has color.”

“Gray’s a color,” Finnick said unhelpfully, and Red smacked his arm. “It’s not even a good gray,” Johanna complained, glaring at the ceiling. “It’s the kind of gray that smells like hospital walls and despair.” Katniss blinked, slow and unimpressed. “You’re very poetic when you’re miserable.”

“Yeah, well,” Johanna said, slumping forward again, “misery’s all they feed us.” Finnick grinned faintly. “I think that’s literally true. Whatever this is”—he poked his spoon at his tray—“it’s just sadness in solid form.” Red leaned over and whispered, “I heard it’s made from the same stuff as the walls.” Katniss froze mid-bite. “You’re lying.”

Red grinned. “Maybe.”

Finnick leaned toward Johanna. “Bet you five ration credits you can’t make it stick to the ceiling.” Johanna perked up, grin wicked. “Oh, it’s on.” Before Katniss could stop her, Johanna scooped a glob of gray mush onto her spoon, took careful aim, and flicked. It splattered against the ceiling with a damp, revolting smack. Finnick burst out laughing, trying to muffle it behind his hand. Red lost it completely, face buried in her sleeve, shoulders shaking. Katniss just sighed — deeply, long-sufferingly — but the corners of her mouth twitched.

Johanna stared up proudly at her masterpiece. “Art,” she said. “Real art.”

A passing orderly stopped and glared up at the ceiling. “Who did that?”

Johanna didn’t even blink. “The ceiling did it to itself.” Red coughed to cover her laughter, and Finnick pretended to examine his nails. Katniss just put her head down on the table like she couldn’t believe she was associated with them. Johanna grinned at her. “Admit it. You’re having fun.” Katniss peeked up, one eye narrowed. “Define fun.” “Exactly this,” Johanna said, slapping the table once. “Chaos in the cafeteria.” Finnick tilted his chair back again, balancing it dangerously. “Beetee’s going to kill us when he hears.”

“Beetee’s not scary,” Johanna said.

Red smirked. “You say that now, but he’s the one with access to your medical files.” Johanna blinked. “He wouldn’t.”

“Would,” Finnick and Red said in unison. For a moment, all four of them just stared at each other — Finnick grinning, Red biting back a laugh, Katniss fighting not to smile, Johanna glaring suspiciously at everyone. Then Johanna slumped again, groaning into her folded arms. “This sucks.”

“Yup,” Finnick said cheerfully. “And we still have six more hours of it before lights out.”

Johanna lifted her head, eyes narrowing. “Nope. Absolutely not. We’re doing something. Anything.”

Katniss, sitting across from them, gave a quiet snort of laughter and poked at her food. “It’s not that bad.” Three pairs of eyes swung toward her like she’d just said she enjoyed being reaped. “Not that bad?” Johanna repeated. “Dude, this place is a mausoleum with better lighting.” Red flicked her spoon, launching a tiny blob of gray mush onto the table. “And no one’s allowed to carry weapons. Do you know how humiliating it is for a trained killer to be reduced to eating paste with a spoon? I feel like I’m in preschool.”

“Preschool for emotionally unstable murderers,” Finnick added. “We’d be the best class, though.”

Red elbowed him lightly. “You only think that because you’d charm all the teachers.”

“Obviously.”

Johanna made a retching noise. “Ugh, stop flirting. I’m bored enough to die already, don’t make it worse.”

“You could take a nap,” Katniss offered. “I could also swallow this spoon and end it faster,” Johanna shot back. Red hid her laugh behind her hand.

Every table around them was filled with gray uniforms and monotone conversations, people chewing in silence under the watchful eyes of District Thirteen's orderlies. No one smiled here. No one raised their voice. And for four people who’d once lived by adrenaline and rebellion, the enforced quiet was worse than combat. Finnick leaned his chin in his hand, voice droll. “You know what would fix this? A window.” Red arched a brow. “Finnick, we’re underground.”

“Fine,” he said. “A fake one, then. We’ll paint it.”

“Paint it with what?” Johanna asked. “Our crushed dreams? Because that’s the only color they allow down here.”

Katniss actually laughed — a quick, startled sound that made Johanna grin triumphantly. “See? Even Little Miss Symbol of the Revolution’s cracking. I give it two more days before she starts climbing the walls.” “I’m not climbing anything,” Katniss said, but her tone had betrayed that she was thinking of it. “You’re already halfway there,” Red said. “You keep staring at the ceiling vents like they’re sky.” Finnick chuckled, tossing his coin and catching it. “She’s not wrong. At least the vents don’t yell at you for existing.”

Red groaned and slumped against the table dramatically. “I miss my knives.”

“You miss your knives,” Johanna said, “I miss my axe. They’ve got it locked in some supply room like I’m going to murder someone.”

Finnick raised an eyebrow. “To be fair—”

“Don’t,” Johanna warned, stabbing her spoon in his direction.

He smirked. “—they’re not wrong.”

Red kicked him lightly under the table, though her mouth twitched with a smile. “You’re going to get yourself stabbed with cafeteria cutlery.” Johanna gave the spoon a threatening little flourish. “Don’t test me, Sailor Boy. I can make this thing lethal.” Finnick leaned closer, eyes glinting. “I’ve seen you trip over a chair.” Johanna threw the spoon at him. It bounced off his tray with a dull clank and landed in Katniss’s gray mush. Katniss sighed.

“I can’t take any of you anywhere,” she muttered.

“As if you’d want to go anywhere with us,” Red said, laughing quietly. “They’d probably confiscate your bow again.”

Katniss’s expression darkened slightly. “They already did.”

That earned a collective groan from all three of them. “This place is evil,” Johanna declared. “Pure evil, God is it bad I miss the arena-”

“Strictly speaking,” Finnick said, feigning thoughtfulness, “it’s more bureaucratic than evil. Very organized suffering.”

Red snorted. “What does that even mean?”

“It means,” Finnick replied, leaning back with exaggerated poise, “I’m dying of boredom, but in a disciplined and efficient manner.” Johanna dropped her head back and laughed so loudly that a passing orderly gave her a disapproving look. She flipped him off without missing a beat. Red covered her mouth, trying not to laugh, and Katniss muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “unbelievable.”

The silence that followed wasn’t heavy this time — it was almost warm, like the echo of shared rebellion.

Red was sprawled across the bench, elbows on the table, chin in her hands. Her daggers had been confiscated for “lunch hour safety reasons,” which only made her glare more venomous at anyone who passed by. Finnick sat beside her, his long fingers absently rolling a coin between them — one of the few bits of contraband he’d kept hidden in the seams of his uniform. Across from them, Johanna was slouched so low she was almost sliding under the table. Her buzzcut had grown out into uneven tufts, and she was stabbing a spoon into the gray mush like she was daring it to fight back. Katniss sat next to her, picking at her food in silence, braid hanging over one shoulder like a flag at half-mast.

It was the kind of silence that pressed heavy on your chest — not quite hostile, not quite peaceful, just… stagnant.

“Remind me why we’re not allowed to train?” Johanna finally muttered, her voice low and raspy.

“Because Beetee said so,” Finnick replied without looking up.

Johanna rolled her eyes. “Oh, Beetee said so. Guess that’s that, huh?” The four of them dissolved into small, tired laughter — the kind that came from deep exhaustion, but still felt like defiance. Moments like these were rare. Moments where the war, the Capitol, the rebellion — all of it — receded just far enough to let them remember what it was like to be human. Finnick leaned closer to Red, lowering his voice. “You know, I think Beetee’s trying to kill us by boredom instead of combat.”

“I might prefer mutts,” Johanna muttered. “At least they move.” Katniss hummed under her breath, resting her chin on her hand. “You’d think we’d be good at waiting, after all the arenas.”

“Yeah,” Johanna said. “But at least in the arenas, you could do something. Here? We’re just… furniture with trauma.” That earned a laugh from Finnick so sudden he had to press his knuckles against his mouth. Even Katniss cracked a small grin, shaking her head. “You’re impossible,” Red said, nudging Johanna with her knee. “That’s my charm,” Johanna said, flashing a wicked grin. Red rolled her eyes but smiled anyway. She’d been trying to coax moments like this out of Johanna ever since the rescue. The laughter didn’t erase the tremors that sometimes took Johanna’s hands or the way she startled at loud noises, but it was something. It meant she was still there.

Finnick leaned back on the bench, stretching his legs out under the table. “You know,” he said lazily, “if Beetee really wanted us to rest, he could at least provide better scenery. A window, maybe. Something not gray.” Red tilted her head toward him. “You want a window underground?”

“Sure,” he said, smiling faintly. “We’ll paint one like I said, sweetheart.” Johanna perked up at that. “I’ll draw a beach,” she said. “Just so I can watch you two cry about how much you miss the ocean.” Red threw a crumb at her. Johanna caught it, popped it into her mouth, and grinned like she’d won a battle. “Gods, you two,” Katniss said, rubbing her temple. “You sound like an old married couple.” There was a brief pause — one of those odd, heavy silences that fell when someone said something too close to the truth.

Finnick glanced sideways at Red. She was staring down at the table now, fingers tracing invisible lines in the steel. The tips of her ears flushed pink.

Johanna noticed instantly. Her grin sharpened like a blade.

“Ohhh,” she said, leaning forward. “Don’t tell me I struck a nerve.”

“Shut up,” Red muttered.

Finnick smirked. “Please don’t encourage her.”

Johanna’s grin widened. “Encourage? Briar, I thrive on this.”

“Thriving,” Red echoed dryly. “That’s what you call this?”

“Yep,” Johanna said, throwing her arms wide. “See me thriving in all this romantic tension?” Katniss groaned, resting her forehead on the table. “Someone save me.” Johanna ignored her, turning back to Red and Finnick with the kind of mischievous light in her eyes that usually meant someone was about to regret something. She drummed her fingers against the table thoughtfully, the corners of her mouth curling up. “You know,” she said slowly, “if Beetee wants us to take a break from everything…” Red gave her a wary look. “Johanna—”

“…maybe we should do something fun.”

“Define ‘fun,’” Finnick said.

Johanna leaned back in her chair, smirking. “Something this place has never seen. Something to remind these gray-faced people we’re still alive.” Katniss lifted her head. “You mean something that’ll get us in trouble.” “Exactly,” Johanna said cheerfully. Red sighed. “You’re terrifying when you sound inspired.”

“Good,” Johanna said, her grin turning feral. “Because I just had the best idea.” Finnick looked amused. “Should we be worried?”

“Probably,” Katniss muttered.

The spoon hit the tray again. Clink. Clink. Clink.
Johanna looked positively delighted with herself — the kind of grin that usually meant someone was about to get arrested, or kissed, or both. Finnick groaned. “Oh no,” he said immediately, dragging a hand over his face. “No, no, no. I know that look. That’s the ‘I’m about to make something explode for entertainment’ look.” Johanna ignored him completely, leaning across the table toward Red, who blinked at her like she was trying to translate another language. “You’ve got the hair,” Johanna said, motioning to the streak of red threading through her braid. “You’ve got the tragic romance thing going on. You even have the Capitol’s favorite merman hanging off your arm. It’s perfect.”

“Excuse me?” Red said, fighting the twitch of a smile. “What exactly are you implying?”

“I’m implying,” Johanna said, gesturing broadly with her spoon, “that since we’re stuck underground, dressed like sad concrete blocks, deprived of weapons and adrenaline, we might as well have some fun before we lose our minds.” Katniss stared at her. “Your definition of fun involves… fake marriage?”

“Ms. Revolution,” Johanna said, deadpan, “my definition of fun used to involve axes and tree sap explosions. They took those away.” She jabbed a thumb toward the nearest guard post, where an orderly Thirteen worker was watching them like one might watch a pack of wolves behind thin glass. “Now I’ve got this.” She wiggled the spoon between her fingers. “So yeah. A mock wedding.”

Finnick leaned back, smirking. “And who, exactly, is getting married?”

Johanna rolled her eyes like it was the dumbest question she’d ever heard. “Obviously you two,” she said, pointing her spoon between Finnick and Red. “District Four’s heartthrob and District Seven’s resident lunatic. It’s the only way I’ll survive this godforsaken bunker.” Finnick looked up, deadpan. “We’re already dating, Johanna. You can’t mock marry people who are actually together.” Johanna smirked. “Sure I can. I’m upgrading you. From nauseating couple to legally binding headache.”

Red snorted into her cup. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Thank you,” Johanna said sweetly. “Now shut up and let me plan your fake vows.”

Katniss leaned her chin into her hand, amusement flickering behind her eyes. “She’s serious. You should probably just give in now.” Johanna swung her legs over the bench like a restless child. “Exactly. You two are already unbearable—training together, sharing food, making the rest of us single losers look like tragic war orphans—and now that I’m bored, you’re my entertainment.”

Finnick smirked. “You could just say you’re lonely, Johanna.”

“Oh, bite me,” Johanna shot back. “I’d rather choke on Thirteen’s mystery meat.”

Red laughed, eyes bright despite the gray lighting. “You’re really doing this?”

“Obviously,” Johanna said, standing dramatically on the bench and gesturing with her spoon like a conductor. “You’re already halfway there. You bicker like you’ve been married for twenty years and you do that gross couple thing.” Finnick raised an eyebrow. “The gross couple thing?”

“Yeah,” Johanna said, “that thing where you look at her like she’s the last piece of real chocolate in Panem, and she looks back like she’s deciding whether to kiss you or kill you.”

Finnick chuckled low in his throat. “That’s… accurate.”

Red elbowed him. “Don’t agree with her.”

“I only agree when she’s right,” Finnick said innocently, and Johanna made a fake gagging sound. Katniss snorted into her mug. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but please, Johanna, continue. This is the most fun I’ve had all week.”

“Thank you, Everdeen,” Johanna said with mock formality. “Finally, someone appreciates art when they see it.” Katniss made a strangled sound between a laugh and a groan. “God, I missed you.”

“See?” Johanna said, spreading her hands. “Proof I’m good for morale.”

Red, cheeks flushed, crossed her arms. “You’re insane.”

“And you’re boring,” Johanna shot back. “Pick your poison.”

The air in the cafeteria seemed lighter suddenly — the low hum of machines and the distant echo of marching feet blending with their laughter. For the first time in days, maybe weeks, it didn’t feel like they were underground. It didn’t feel like war. It felt like… before. Johanna hopped up onto the table, ignoring the horrified gasp from a nearby orderly. “All right,” she said, hands on her hips. “Let’s get this over with before one of the supervisors reports us for having emotions.”

Red tried to hide her grin. “You’re serious.”

“I’m always serious,” Johanna said with a wink. “Especially when I’m not.” Finnick tilted his head, studying her. “You planning to officiate?”

“Damn right,” Johanna said. “Who else here knows how to give a speech without sounding like a propaganda video?”

Katniss raised an eyebrow. “You.”

Johanna smirked. “Exactly.”

Finnick leaned closer to Red, murmuring just loud enough for her to hear, “We could make a run for it.” Red’s lips twitched. “Where? To the next hallway? We’re thirty feet underground, golden-boy.”

“Still better odds than saying ‘I do’ in front of her.”

Johanna pointed her spoon like a dagger. “I heard that! And yes, there will be vows.”

“Vows?” Red said. “You’re making up vows?”

“Obviously.” Johanna jumped down from the table and began pacing in front of them like a commander before battle. “Finnick Odair, you’ll promise to stop leaving wet towels on the bathroom floor.”

“I—what?!” Finnick sputtered. “That was one time!”

“Lies,” Red muttered under her breath, smirking. Johanna spun on her heel, grinning. “And Red Briar, you’ll promise to stop pretending you don’t secretly love it when people make you the center of attention.” Red’s jaw dropped. “I— excuse me?”

“You heard me,” Johanna said, hands on her hips. “You love it. You’re a menace. Own it.”

Katniss nearly snorted coffee through her nose. “This is the best thing I’ve ever seen.”

Johanna turned to her. “You’re next, Everdeen.”

Katniss froze. “Next for what?” Johanna’s grin was pure evil. “Maid of honor.” Finnick’s laugh echoed across the cafeteria, warm and unrestrained. It was the kind of laugh that made Red’s heart skip — the one that sounded like sunlight over waves, impossible and real at the same time. “Fine,” Red said, giving in, throwing up her hands in mock surrender. “Fine! Let’s do your stupid wedding.”

Johanna cheered, loud enough that half the cafeteria looked over. “You heard the bride!”

“I am not the—!” Red started, but Johanna was already dragging a chair to the middle of the room like it was an altar.

“Odair, front and center,” she ordered.

Finnick sighed dramatically, standing up and adjusting the gray uniform that hung on him like a sad shadow of his Capitol suits. “Do I at least get a bouquet?” Johanna snapped her fingers, and Katniss — smirking now — plucked a few wilted cafeteria herbs from a condiment jar and tossed them his way. “Knock yourself out.” Finnick caught them with exaggerated grace, holding the limp sprigs like they were roses. “I’ve had worse weddings,” he quipped, stepping beside Red.

Red stared at him, trying not to laugh. “You’ve had weddings?”

“Capitol parties count,” he said. “They just forgot to tell the bride.”

Johanna rolled her eyes. “Tragic. Okay, lovebirds, face each other. Look longingly. Pretend you’re not both planning to murder me when this is over.” Johanna rolled her eyes like the very act of witnessing their affection physically pained her. “Tragic,” she declared, plunking her tray down and kicking one boot up onto the bench. Finnick, lounging back against the bench, didn’t even hesitate. “Pretend?” he asked, voice dry and teasing. “I’m very serious about the murder part.”

“Good,” Red said sweetly, tilting her head toward him, eyes glinting. “I’ll help you hide the body.”

Johanna slapped the table. “Beautiful. Romance isn’t dead—it’s just buried under a mile of concrete.”

Katniss, sitting across from them with her gray jumpsuit sleeves rolled up, didn’t even look up from her mug. “You’re all going to get us put in solitary,” she muttered, though her voice held the ghost of a laugh.

“Worth it,” Johanna said immediately. “I refuse to let this bunker be the death of my spirit.” She pushed back from the table, standing on the bench with theatrical authority, a plastic cup in one hand like a microphone. “All right, it’s decided. We’re doing this properly.”

“Oh god,” Finnick said, rubbing a hand over his face. “This is happening.”

“Yes,” Johanna said, flipping her shaved head proudly, “and you better act grateful. We are gathered here today—” she gestured grandly toward the cracked ceiling tiles, “—in the glorious cafeteria of District Thirteen. May its rations be bland, its schedules suffocating, and its supervisors perpetually constipated.”

A choked laugh escaped Red before she could stop it. “Johanna—”

“Quiet, bride,” Johanna said, holding up her hand like an officiant commanding silence. “You’ll have your vows soon enough.” Finnick pressed a hand to his chest, feigning solemnity. “I think I might cry.”

“You will cry,” Johanna shot back, “because I’ll make it that moving.”

Katniss rolled her eyes, trying to suppress a grin. She looked absurdly young like this—hair still in its braid, no bow or weapon in sight, just another bored soldier forced to share space with people too dramatic for their own good.

Johanna cleared her throat theatrically. “We come together, surrounded by our beloved friends—” she gestured vaguely at Katniss, who raised her eyebrows like don’t include me in this insanity— “to witness the sacred union of Finnick Odair, former Capitol darling, fish-bait extraordinaire, and Red Briar, District Seven’s feral menace and one of the only reasons I haven’t strangled myself in this hellhole.” Finnick was grinning openly now, his elbow resting on the table, chin in hand as he watched her. “Go on,” he said encouragingly. “You’re doing great.”

“Shut up,” Johanna hissed, waving her cup at him like a weapon. “You’ll ruin my rhythm.”

Red had her hand over her mouth, shoulders shaking with laughter. Her cheeks hurt from smiling. It was stupid—so stupid—but it was the first time the cafeteria felt alive. The first time in months that the air didn’t taste like recycled dust and fear.

“Do you, Finnick Odair,” Johanna intoned, pacing like a priestess, “promise to put up with this lunatic forever? To endure her knife collection, her constant humming, and the way she steals your socks?” Red gasped, feigning offense. “I do not—”

“You absolutely do,” Finnick said immediately, grinning, eyes flicking toward her with that familiar warmth that made the room feel less like a bunker. “And yes. I do.”

Johanna snapped her fingers. “Good boy.” She turned to Red, narrowing her eyes. “And do you, Red Briar, promise to tolerate his dramatic hair flips, his tragic love poetry, and his unhealthy attachment to rope?”

Finnick choked. “Excuse me?”

“Rope,” Johanna said firmly. “You’ve got a sailor kink and everyone knows it.”

“Johanna!” Red hissed, face flushed crimson as Katniss nearly spit out her drink.

“Oh, don’t even start,” Johanna said, waving her off. “You two make everyone here feel like extras in a Capitol romance broadcast.”

The whole table burst out laughing. Katniss actually doubled over, hiding her smile behind her hands. Even a couple of med techs at the far table were chuckling, though they quickly tried to look busy when Johanna glanced their way. Red, still breathless from laughter, leaned toward Finnick. “We are never telling anyone about this.”

“Agreed,” he said solemnly. “It stays between us… and the thirty witnesses.”

Johanna flopped back into her seat, looking pleased with herself. “You’re welcome, by the way. I just improved morale by at least fifty percent.”

Katniss groaned, though she was still smiling. “If Beetee asks what we did with our break, I’m blaming you.”

“Good,” Johanna said, stealing Katniss’s cup. “Tell him it was therapy.” The laughter faded gradually into that rare, fragile silence that meant safety — a small, fleeting moment where none of them were soldiers or victors or broken pieces of propaganda. They were just four people sitting in a concrete cafeteria, pretending that love and laughter could still exist down here, in the dark.

Finnick brushed his fingers over Red’s hand under the table, hidden from the rest. She didn’t look at him, didn’t need to. The warmth was enough.

Johanna, slumped back in her chair, watched them with an expression that was almost fond — though she’d never admit it. “You two are disgusting,” she muttered.

Red smiled faintly. “Love you too, Johanna.”

“Gross,” Johanna said automatically, tossing a spoon at her.

Finnick caught it midair, grinning. “She means it.”

Johanna rolled her eyes, but the corner of her mouth betrayed her. “Yeah, yeah,” she said softly, voice roughened by the ghosts of everything they’d survived. “Don’t make me say it back.”

Chapter Text

The faint hum of the ventilation system was the only sound in the small apartment, a constant, steady reminder that the world above them was quiet tonight, or at least as quiet as it could be in District Thirteen. Down here, the tunnels were always humming—electricity, machinery, the distant thrum of pumps and life support—but it was steady, predictable. And for Finnick, it had always been enough to lull him to sleep. Enough until it wasn’t.

Red had been still for hours, curled into the small curve of the mattress like she could fold herself out of the memories that haunted her. Finnick had watched her breathe, the rise and fall of her chest almost painfully gentle, and had let himself drift, the exhaustion from the day’s training weighing his body down like lead. He had been so close to the edge of sleep when the first scream cut through the night. It wasn’t just a noise; it was a jagged, raw thing that tore through the walls of the apartment and slammed straight into him. His eyes snapped open, heart hammering, as instinct and love and fear all collided.

“Red!” he called softly at first, voice thick with sleep and panic. His hand reached for her, brushing the hair away from her face, and that’s when he saw her—rocking back and forth violently, eyes wide and glistening with tears, lips trembling, her voice breaking into sounds he’d never heard from her before.

Screams mixed with sobs tore from her throat, each one a shard of the arena, of Hunger Games nights she had survived, of the memories she had tried so desperately to lock away. The scent of her fear, metallic and raw, filled the small room. Finnick’s chest tightened, his own throat constricting at the sight. He moved toward her carefully, kneeling at the edge of the bed, voice soft but insistent. “Hey… hey, it’s okay, I’m here, Red. I’ve got you.” His hands hovered for a moment, unsure if reaching out would make her flinch further. She was shaking, like the very fiber of her body was trying to shake out the nightmares.

Red didn’t even acknowledge him. Her eyes weren’t seeing him, weren’t seeing the room—they were seeing the arena again. The shouts of the Capitol, the sharp crack of weapons, the fear that had been drilled into her since the moment she had stepped onto the floor of that godforsaken arena. She screamed again, her voice a raw, ragged sound that would have broken anyone else.

Finnick moved closer, and this time he wrapped his arms around her trembling form. He held her tightly, rocking her back and forth, murmuring every soothing word he could summon. “It’s okay… you’re safe. I’m right here… I’ve got you, Red… it’s over, it’s done…” But she jolted out of his grasp before he could hold her fully, shoving him back with a force that made him stumble slightly. Her feet moved swiftly across the floor, almost frantic, as she threw open the closet door and disappeared into the cramped, shadowed space within.

Finnick’s heart stuttered in his chest. He knelt beside the closet, voice urgent, his tone soft but commanding at the same time. “Red… Red, come out of there, baby, please… it’s just me.” Her voice came from the darkness, small and trembling, but cutting through the room like a blade. “I don’t… I don’t want to… I don’t want to kill anymore people, Finnick! I can’t do it! I can’t—I can’t!”

Her words were jagged and desperate, echoing in the tiny apartment. Finnick’s throat ached, his heart breaking into pieces that no ocean could wash clean. He pressed a hand to the closet door, the thin wall between them not enough to shield him from her fear. “Shh, baby, listen to me,” he said softly, trying to keep his voice calm, though his chest felt like it would explode. “You don’t have to, okay? You don’t have to do anything like that. You’re here. You’re safe. You survived all of it, and you’re here with me. That’s what matters, alright?”

Red’s rocking slowed for a fraction of a second, just enough for Finnick to feel a small thread of hope, before it accelerated again, shaking the small room with the force of her torment. “But Finnick… I… I can’t—”

He swallowed hard, closing his eyes for just a second, trying to steady the lump in his throat. “I know… I know, Red. I get it. I get it more than anyone. But I’m right here. You saved me once. You saved me, Red. And now… now it’s my turn to help save you.” A small sob slipped through her lips at his words, almost silent, almost ashamed. Finnick pressed his forehead against the closet door, so close he could feel her trembling through the thin barrier. “You don’t have to face this alone. You don’t have to face it at all without me. We’ll get through it together.”

Her voice was broken, almost a whisper now, thick with despair. “I can’t… I don’t… I can’t… I…”

Finnick’s chest ached as he fell to his knees, pressing his palms to the floor for balance as he tried to ground himself to her reality. “Yes, you can. You’ve already done it, Red. You made it through the arena. You made it through everything the Capitol threw at you. You’re stronger than you think. Stronger than even I knew.” Another sharp sob escaped the closet, and this time Finnick didn’t speak for a few moments. He just listened, felt the raw pain and fear in the timbre of her voice. It was a sound that would haunt him forever, and yet he couldn’t tear his gaze away from that small shadowed space she had claimed as her refuge.

“I don’t want to kill anyone anymore, Finnick!” she cried, voice trembling, utterly broken. “I can’t… I can’t… I don’t want to be like them… I don’t want to be a monster… I…”

Finnick’s hands tightened against the cold concrete floor, his chest rising and falling in shallow, desperate breaths. Red’s sobs had turned frantic now, incoherent cries that twisted through the small apartment like jagged shards of glass. She was shaking violently, words tumbling out in broken fragments, half-formed sentences about the arena, about killing, about things Finnick couldn’t even begin to untangle.

He tried again, voice soft, coaxing, but it was no use. “Red… baby, it’s okay. I’m right here. You’re safe. You’re safe, I swear—”

She shrieked, jerking away from the closet wall, banging against it as if trying to make the panic leave her. Finnick realized with a pit in his stomach that staying here, holding the apartment with his own arms and voice, wasn’t enough. Her terror was growing too fast, spiraling beyond his reach.

And then, in that horrifying instant, he knew what he had to do.

He scrambled to his feet, heart hammering, and didn’t even pause to think—he ran next door. The hallways of District Thirteen were dim, narrow, and endlessly gray, but Finnick didn’t notice. All that existed was the thundering beat of his own heart and the sound of Red’s voice echoing in his mind. He pounded on Mira’s apartment door, frantic. “Mira! Mira, it’s Red—she’s having a nightmare—she’s not stopping—please!”

The door swung open almost instantly. Mira, alert and wide-eyed despite the hour, was on her feet in a flash. “Red? What—what’s wrong?!” Her voice was sharp, instinctively protective, a mother’s fury and fear coiled into one.

Finnick’s chest heaved as he grabbed her hands, eyes desperate. “It’s bad. She—she can’t calm down. I tried, I really tried, but she’s… she’s panicking, Ma'am. I don’t know what else to do. You need to come—please!” Mira’s expression hardened instantly, and without another word she surged past him, her nightclothes rustling as she sprinted down the hall toward Red’s apartment, the raw force of her worry propelling her faster than Finnick had ever seen.

He followed as quickly as he could, praying she would arrive before Red completely lost herself to the memory, the panic, the nightmare. Every step was weighted with dread, every second stretching impossibly long. He had never felt more powerless—and yet he was running full tilt, hoping that Mira’s presence, her unyielding love, could reach Red in a way he hadn’t been able to. By the time Mira reached the door, Finnick was already breathing raggedly, sweat damp at his temples, hands pressed against the cold metal frame as he tried to stay grounded. Mira didn’t hesitate—she flung the door open and barreled inside, eyes blazing, and all at once Finnick felt a flicker of hope. Maybe together they could pull Red back. Maybe, just maybe, they could save her from the storm raging inside.

Mira sank to the floor just outside the closet door, knees pulled to her chest, and pressed her hands against her face as she tried to steady her own breathing. The sounds coming from inside—Red’s sobs, the frantic rocking, the broken, half-formed cries—cut through her like shards of glass. She had known Red as strong, unyielding, fearless—her daughter had always been the one who faced danger head-on, the one who laughed in the face of fear. In District Seven, she had never seen this side of her. Never. Not once. And now… here she was. Her Red. Shaking, incoherent, curled up against the wall of the closet as if she could somehow hold the world at bay with nothing but her own trembling body. Mira’s chest ached so fiercely she thought it might split in two. She had never imagined her daughter in this state, had never imagined that the arenas, the Capitol, the horrors Red had survived, could carve out this kind of fear and panic and bury it so deep inside her.

She reached out instinctively, though she knew Red wouldn’t see her, wouldn’t feel her hand through the solid door. “Red,” Mira whispered, voice cracking on the syllable, “baby… I’m here. I’m right here. You’re not alone. You don’t have to fight it by yourself, not anymore.” The words felt almost inadequate, feeble against the storm raging behind the thin wooden door. Mira had always prided herself on being able to fix things, to hold the family together through storms, through sickness, through despair—but this… this was beyond anything she had imagined. She pressed her forehead against the door, her own tears slipping down her cheeks despite the dim light of the hallway.

Her mind flashed back to her daughter as a little girl, fearless and untamed, climbing trees and leaping across logs in the forest, laughing like the world belonged to her. She had thought she knew Red—thought she understood the boundaries of her strength and vulnerability. And now, faced with this raw, shaking, panicked shell of the girl who had survived the arena, Mira realized she had only ever seen the surface. The armor, the fire, the pride—it had been just the surface.

Her hands gripped the edges of the door frame, knuckles white. “Oh, Red… oh my baby,” she whispered again, voice breaking completely. “Why didn’t you ever tell me? Why didn’t you… I should have known, I should have—” The sobs from inside cut her off. Mira’s own tears spilled freely, her heart breaking in rhythm with her daughter’s cries. She rocked slightly back and forth on the floor, as if her movement could somehow match, absorb, or even share Red’s suffering. The helplessness of it—the realization that her daughter had carried these scars, these invisible chains, all this time without ever letting her see—was almost too much to bear.

Every ragged breath, every incoherent sentence spilling from Red’s lips, made Mira ache deeper. The motherly instinct to shield her child from pain, to fight in their place, to make the world safe—it had failed her before, in ways she hadn’t wanted to admit, and it was failing her now again. She couldn’t fix this, couldn’t soothe the past away, couldn’t erase the nightmares that haunted her daughter’s sleep. All she could do was be here, outside the closet door, hoping that her presence alone might anchor Red to the real world long enough to remind her that she was loved, that she was safe. She whispered over and over, soft, frantic prayers that her voice could reach Red through the door: “You’re safe now, Red. You’re safe now. I’ve got you. I’ve always got you. You don’t have to do this alone. I promise you, I’ll never let you face it alone again. You’re safe. You’re safe. You’re safe…”

The sound of Mira’s voice, steady and trembling at the same time, seemed to meet Red somewhere in the darkness of the closet. There was a slight hitch in Red’s rocking, a pause in her panic, though it was faint, almost imperceptible. Mira held her breath, heart hammering against her ribs, every instinct screaming at her to just open the door and sweep her daughter into her arms—but she didn’t. She knew that Red had to come out of the nightmare on her own terms, had to feel some semblance of control returning to her body before she could be held safely.

And so Mira remained, kneeling there on the cold concrete floor of the underground apartment, arms wrapped loosely around her own knees, rocking slightly with each echo of Red’s sobs, praying, hoping, aching, and silently cursing the world that had carved these horrors into her child’s mind. For the first time in her life, Mira truly understood the weight of the arenas, the cruelty of the Capitol, and the depth of the scars left behind—not just on the body, but on the soul. The underground hum of District Thirteen—the faint whir of ventilation, the distant echo of footsteps, the mechanical heartbeat of life continuing despite the chaos—felt impossibly loud in the silence between Red’s gasps and Mira’s whispered reassurances. Each one of Mira’s breaths was a tether, a lifeline she hoped her daughter could grasp, a promise that, no matter how deep the fear ran, someone was there.

And somewhere in the back of her mind, Mira knew this wouldn’t be the last time. There would be more nightmares. There would be more panic. There would be moments where Red’s fear and trauma would erupt and refuse to be silenced. But for now… for this one broken, trembling, precious moment, Mira could sit outside the closet, offering every ounce of love, every ounce of patience, every ounce of herself, and hope it was enough to remind Red that she wasn’t alone.

She pressed her ear to the door and let the sobs wash over her, a symphony of pain and survival, and whispered one more time: “I’m here. Always, Red. Always.” Red’s sobs began to quiet, almost imperceptibly at first, as if the sound itself had begun to tire her out. She felt Finnick’s presence behind her, steady and warm, a tether to the present—but it wasn’t enough. It never had been enough alone. What finally made her realize she could breathe again, just slightly, was the sound of Mira’s voice, soft but insistent, the way it had stayed with her through the fog of panic.

Her trembling fingers brushed against the edge of the closet door. She hesitated, the weight of shame and fear pressing down on her chest. What if her mother judged her? What if the strength Mira had always expected from her was gone, replaced entirely by this shivering, broken shell of a girl? The thought twisted inside her like a thorn.

But then Mira’s voice came again, gentle, unwavering, like a rope thrown into the stormy sea of her mind: “I’m here. Always, Red. Always.”

Something in her chest loosened. Something soft and human and real. Red’s knees gave way slightly, and she leaned forward, pressing her palms to the cold concrete floor as if anchoring herself to the real world. She breathed in shakily, and then—finally—she pushed the closet door open. The fluorescent light of their underground unit flooded her vision. And there, sitting on the floor just outside the closet, knees drawn up and arms wrapped around herself, was Mira. The worry etched into her mother’s face, the quiet, controlled trembling, the eyes red from tears—they were all real, undeniable. The sight of her mother made something inside Red break, a dam of relief and need and unspoken fear.

“Mom,” Red whispered, her voice cracking and catching in her throat.

It was the only word she could manage at first, but it carried the weight of everything: the terror, the nights spent screaming silently in her own mind, the months of holding herself together, the suffocating grief and rage and pain of the arenas. It carried every ounce of love and need she had for the woman who had always been her anchor, even when she hadn’t realized it. And Mira didn’t hesitate. Her arms opened wide, trembling slightly, and Red fell forward into them. The embrace was instantaneous and absolute, a collision of desperation and relief. Red’s head buried into Mira’s shoulder, shaking uncontrollably, as Mira held her daughter tightly, whispering the same word over and over again, a mantra that promised safety, promised presence, promised love: “Shh… it’s okay. I’m here. I’ve got you. You’re safe, Red. You’re safe.”

Finnick lingered just behind them, giving them space, his own eyes glistening as he watched the most important women in his life wrap around her mother in a cocoon of warmth and comfort. He allowed himself a small, shaky exhale, knowing that for once, the world outside could wait. For now, the only reality that mattered was the closeness, the connection, the grounding power of family.

Red’s hands dug into Mira’s shoulders, her entire body shaking, and Mira leaned forward, pressing her cheek to Red’s hair, inhaling the familiar scent she had long feared was lost to trauma and fear. Words were unnecessary now; the embrace itself said everything. Mira whispered, “I’ve got you, my baby girl. Always.” Red clung tighter, sobs slowly fading into soft hiccups, and for the first time in what felt like years, she allowed herself to feel the profound safety of simply being held, being known, being loved.

The underground hum of District Thirteen seemed distant here, irrelevant. The gray walls, the concrete floor, the ever-present sense of urgency—all of it fell away in this quiet, sacred moment of reunion, of recognition, of raw, unfiltered emotion.

And there, pressed into her mother’s arms, Red finally let herself rest. The panic and fear did not disappear entirely, but for the first time, it felt manageable. The storm inside her had a tether, an anchor, a reminder that she was not alone.

She lifted her head slightly, sniffled, and whispered again, almost a plea this time, “Mom.”

Mira’s hands tightened around her, gentle but firm. “Yes, baby. I’m here. You’re safe. You’re safe.”

Red’s forehead rested against Mira’s chest, her tears soaking the fabric of her mother’s uniform, and she whispered, barely audible, “I… I hate this.”

“I know,” Mira said, voice breaking. “I know, Red. I know.”

The world outside—the horrors, the games, the Capitol, the endless demands of rebellion—were momentarily forgotten. In this quiet, unassuming underground apartment, there was only the warmth of arms around each other, only the grounding presence of family, only the undeniable truth that Red Briar was home, finally, fully, if only for this moment.

Chapter Text

The noon sun didn’t exist in District Thirteen. Well, not the way it did aboveground—but the diffused glow from the artificial lights in the apartment complex made it feel like some distorted kind of day. The air tasted faintly metallic, like recycled breath and scrubbed dust.

Finnick sat cross-legged on the floor of their small gray unit, leaning against the wall with the soft, ceaseless hum of the ventilation system vibrating faintly in his ears. Around him, the apartment was in a mild state of chaos—training gear scattered where it had been dropped, two empty trays from breakfast still stacked haphazardly on the counter, and Red’s hairbrush lying abandoned on the floor with a coil of bright red curls still caught in its bristles. It felt like her—alive, chaotic, too bright for these colorless walls. He turned the small, roughly shaped object over in his hands—a simple loop of salvaged copper wire, thin but strong. He’d found it that morning in one of the maintenance corridors, tucked behind a broken vent grille, and pocketed it before anyone could notice. It had taken hours of quiet patience to clean it up, bending it carefully, twisting the ends so they met in a near-perfect circle. He smoothed the edges with a bit of sandpaper he’d “borrowed” from Beetee’s lab, trying to polish away the sharpness until it felt right. Until it felt like her.

It wasn’t shiny or perfect; the metal still bore tiny scratches and faint discoloration where the light caught it wrong. But when he held it in his palm, it warmed quickly—like something living. He ran his thumb over the curve again and again, checking the fit, testing the smoothness, imagining the feel of it against Red’s skin. It would never pass as anything fine or extravagant. But that wasn’t what Red needed.

He could almost see it: her hands—steady when she needed to be, trembling only when she let herself—and the small, stunned way she smiled when something truly reached her. That was what he wanted. Not flash. Not grandeur. Just something real.

He whispered under his breath, almost to the air, “You’d laugh at me if you saw this, huh?” A half-smile pulled at his mouth. “It’s not Capitol silver or anything shiny enough to blind people with, but it’s… ours.” The hum of the ventilation system filled the silence. He took a deep breath, rolling the wire ring between his fingers again, and caught himself thinking of her laugh—the kind that cracked out of her like lightning, quick and loud and uncontrollable. He wanted that sound again. He wanted a lifetime of it, if he could steal one from the ashes of what was left of the world.

He had been careful, meticulous, obsessively so. Every twist of the wire, every small imperfection had been pressed into place with the same care he used to knot nets by hand on the beaches of District Four. After everything they’d survived together—every near-impossible fight, every sleepless night, every stolen breath in the arena—he wanted this one thing to be an anchor. Something that said: we made it, and we’re still here.

Finnick turned it in the light again, and his chest tightened with quiet disbelief. He had faced mutts, whips, and the Capitol itself, and somehow this—a tiny circle of copper in his hands—made him more nervous than any of it. The door burst open with the force of a cyclone. “RED! WHERE—” Finnick’s head snapped up, the ring almost slipping from his fingers. The voice was unmistakable, loud enough to shake the walls.

“Johanna,” he hissed, startled, spinning toward the door just as she barreled inside.

She wasn’t looking at him, of course—Johanna rarely looked at anyone unless she intended to fight them. She stormed in with her usual swagger, leather straps of her gray uniform cinched too tight across her shoulders, boots squeaking faintly against the cement floor. Her buzzed hair was still damp from the showers, dark at the roots, and she looked about two seconds away from tearing the place apart.

Her sharp eyes scanned the small room like a hawk, landing on the bed, the counter, the open doorway to the bathroom. No Red.

“Where the hell is she?” Johanna barked.

Finnick blinked, still half in the fog of what he’d been doing. “Training room,” he said, instinctively curling his hand around the ring in his lap. Johanna groaned loudly and threw her hands up. “Of course she is. I’ve been looking everywhere, and she’s downstairs beating the hell out of some poor punching dummy.” She turned toward the door again, muttering under her breath about people who didn’t understand the concept of waiting for people.

Johanna stopped short in the doorway, mid-stride, her brow furrowing as she took in the sight before her. Finnick Odair, golden boy of District Four, master of charm and perfectly tousled hair, was crouched on the floor of his and Red’s tiny apartment looking like he’d been caught stealing from the armory. His hands jerked at the sound of the door, something small and metallic flashing in his fingers before he tried—too late—to hide it behind his back.

Her instincts kicked in immediately. Chaos, suspicion, and pure nosy curiosity collided all at once.

“Finnick…” she said slowly, narrowing her eyes. “What are you doing?”

He froze. Actually froze. Like a deer in headlights.

“Uh—nothing!” His voice cracked embarrassingly halfway through, and he winced as if it physically hurt to hear. “Just… fixing something.”

Johanna’s brows shot up. “Fixing something,” she repeated, flat as concrete. She leaned on the doorframe, crossing her arms, watching him with the same look she usually reserved for Peacekeepers she was about to insult. “On the floor? With your entire body blocking whatever it is like you just found a Capitol microchip?”

Finnick coughed, glancing anywhere but her face. “Maintenance work,” he said weakly.

Johanna blinked, once. Then twice. And her grin began to spread, slow and dangerous. “Maintenance work,” she echoed, like she was testing how stupid it sounded out loud. “Uh-huh. Right. Totally believable. Finnick Odair, former Victor, model of vanity and melodrama, has decided to become a handyman in District Thirteen. Wow, the rebellion really does change people.” Finnick shot her a glare, but his pink cheeks and twitching smile gave him away completely.

Johanna tilted her head, leaning in a little closer, that sly spark lighting behind her eyes. Her mind was already running through possibilities—every ridiculous, dramatic, and scandalous one she could think of. Her expression sharpened. “Wait a second,” she said slowly, voice dropping into mock seriousness. “You’re acting weird.”

“I’m not acting weird,” Finnick said immediately, which of course only made him sound guiltier.

“You’re acting super weird,” she pressed, stepping forward now, like a predator scenting blood. “Oh my god—are you hiding something from Red?”

He blinked at her, horrified. “What? No! Of course not—”

Her hand flew to her mouth in mock gasp. “Oh my god, you are!”

“Johanna—”

“Don’t you Johanna me!” she hissed, though her voice was gleeful, not angry. “You’re fidgeting, you’re red in the face—holy shit, if you broke her trust, I swear—”

“Johanna!” Finnick practically yelped, throwing his hands up, the small object flashing again between his fingers. “I’m not cheating on her!”

That, at least, stopped her.

She blinked, eyes darting to his hand, catching the faint glint of metal. “Then what the hell is that?” Finnick immediately tried to hide it again, tucking his hand behind his back like a child caught with stolen candy. “Don’t worry about it,” he muttered. Johanna took one step closer. Then another. Her smirk was back now, full force, wicked and amused. “Oh, I’m definitely worrying about it. Because either that’s a bomb, or it’s jewelry—and honestly, with you, it could be both.”

“Johanna,” he warned, but his voice had softened into that half-pleading, half-defeated tone that told her she was about to win.

Her eyes narrowed. She could see the tremor in his fingers, not the nervous twitch of guilt, but something gentler—careful. Reverent. Her grin faltered into something almost human. “Finnick,” she said again, quieter this time. “What are you—”

“Don’t,” he said quickly, panic flickering in his eyes. Her gaze flicked down one last time, catching sight of the delicate metal loop resting in his palm. It wasn’t polished, just raw and a little crooked, but there was something about the way he looked at it that made everything click at once. Her jaw dropped. She froze. Then her entire face lit up like a live wire. “Oh my god,” she whispered, hands flying to her mouth. “No. No. NO.”

Finnick lunged forward, waving his arms as if he could physically stop her from combusting. “Johanna, shut up! Don’t say it out loud!”

But it was too late. Her muffled shriek broke free, pure giddy disbelief spilling out of her like she couldn’t hold it in another second. “Oh my god—no way—no fucking way!”

Her laughter burst through the room, loud and bright and unrestrained, echoing off the sterile gray walls of their underground world.

“You’re going to propose?!” she half-squealed, half-laughed, doubling over with her hands in her hair. “You—Finnick Odair—are actually going to propose to Red? I thought you two were already joined at the hip, but holy hell, this is next level!” Finnick just buried his face in his hands, groaning. “I swear, you are going to ruin the surprise before I even finish the damn ring.”

Johanna laughed harder, tears of laughter threatening to spill as she pointed at him. “You were so guilty-looking! I thought you were hiding evidence of cheating or a secret stash of contraband chocolate or something! But no—you’re over here crafting a proposal like some lovesick craftsman in a bunker!”

Despite himself, Finnick’s mouth twitched into a smile.

“You’re impossible,” he muttered.

“And you,” Johanna said, grinning ear to ear, “are whipped beyond repair.”

Finnick closed his eyes in agony. She was pacing now, bouncing on her heels, eyes darting between him and the ring like she couldn’t decide whether to laugh, cry, or hug him. “This is unreal,” she babbled, her words coming out too fast to control. “You—Finnick Odair—are about to propose. Like, marriage. Actual marriage. Holy shit.”

“Would you please keep your voice down before the ventilation system carries that to Coin’s office?” he hissed. “Oh, right, because President Coin is totally gonna shut down your illegal romance operation,” Johanna shot back, rolling her eyes, but she still lowered her volume to something closer to a loud whisper. “Wait—wait! Does Red—does she know? Did she say yes already? Oh, god, please tell me you didn’t already—”

“Johanna,” Finnick interrupted, voice firm but strained, “I haven’t asked her yet.”

Johanna froze mid-bounce. Her expression flickered from chaos to something dangerously close to sentimentality. She stared at him for a long beat, lips parting slightly. Then she exploded again. “You haven’t asked yet?!” Finnick looked skyward, muttering under his breath like he was asking for divine patience. “I’m seriously going to have to sedate you.” She laughed so hard she had to grab the edge of the table for balance. “Oh my god, this is too good. I can’t—you’re nervous! You’re actually nervous! Finnick Odair, Capitol heartthrob, golden boy, survivor of two arenas, is blushing like a twelve-year-old!”

Finnick groaned, burying his face in his hands. “Johanna, I swear to everything sacred—”

But she wasn’t listening. She was walking in quick circles now, muttering and grinning like someone caught in a storm of disbelief. “I can’t even believe this is real,” she said, voice softening a little, almost reverent despite herself. “My two best friends… getting married… in District Thirteen… like the world hasn’t completely gone to hell.” Finnick peeked at her through his fingers, exasperation fading into quiet amusement.

She stopped mid-step and looked at him, biting her lip to hide a grin, eyes bright. “I—I’m going to be the ultimate third wheeler for life, aren’t I?”

He blinked. “What?”

She gestured dramatically between them. “You two—soulmates or whatever—getting married and being disgustingly in love while I just stand there like some tragic, emotionally stunted tree stump. It’s gonna be great. I’ll be in every photo ruining the moment.” Finnick sighed, shaking his head, but he couldn’t stop the small smile creeping over his face. “Johanna, please… just… not so loud, okay?”

Her grin widened. “Oh, so it’s true. You’re actually doing it. You’re really going to ask her.”

He hesitated, then nodded once, eyes soft but steady.

Johanna exhaled a shaky laugh, pressing a hand to her chest like she was genuinely overwhelmed. “I can’t believe it,” she said again, quieter now. “You and Red. After everything…” Her voice cracked just slightly, and she cleared her throat, immediately covering it with a scoff. “Ugh, gross. Don’t make me cry. I’m not built for this kind of sentimental crap.”

Finnick chuckled, pocketing the small ring with care. “I wasn’t trying to.”

“Yeah, well, you failed,” she said, wiping at her eyes with the back of her hand, then glaring at him to cover it up. “You tell her soon, okay? Before I start blabbing. I can only keep a secret for so long.”

“Noted,” Finnick said dryly.

Finnick groaned, muttering something under his breath about “never letting her in the apartment unsupervised again,” while Johanna practically vibrated with joy, waving her arms in gleeful chaos and completely oblivious to everything except the monumental revelation that her best friends were about to tie their lives together.

“You’re the one who’s going to propose to Red,” Johanna said, stepping closer, her grin so bright it bordered on unhinged. “I don’t even care that you’ve been all sly and secretive about it. I’m here to witness history. Finnick Odair, you are a legend, and Red is about to get the best proposal in the entire history of District Thirteen, and I—”

“You’re going to get me killed,” Finnick cut in sharply, though the humor in his tone betrayed him. “Or at least mortally embarrassed. Red’s downstairs—she can’t see any of this madness yet.”

“Oh, don’t worry about her,” Johanna said breezily, tapping a finger against her temple like she’d already seen the future. “She’s going to lose her mind. Her hair will practically stand on end, she’ll probably punch me in the face, and then she’ll shout something like, ‘Finnick Odair, you bastard!’ while I’m in the corner laughing my ass off.”

Finnick leaned back against the wall, closing his eyes with a quiet sigh. “You are the loudest, most impossible person alive. For the sake of my sanity, please calm down for one second.”

Johanna ignored him completely. She crouched closer, squinting at the loop of wire in his hands. Her gasp was exaggerated but full of genuine awe. “Wait… is that it? Is that the ring?”

“Yes,” Finnick said, terse but not unkind, his jaw tightening with a mix of nerves and pride. “It’s not finished yet. It’s simple. It’s… us. That’s all that matters. I’m going to finish it and give it to her in the most private, perfect moment possible.”

Johanna’s grin widened, her eyes glittering like sparks about to catch. “Finnick Odair, you are the sweetest, most terrifying, incredible idiot alive. This is insane. I can’t believe you’re actually doing this.”

“I am,” Finnick murmured, the words slipping out almost to himself. At this point, he was half laughing, half frustrated—and more than half in love. He couldn’t stop thinking about Red: her face, her laugh, the way she looked at him when she thought no one else noticed. He wanted this to be perfect, something that was theirs and only theirs—a moment untouched by bombs or drills or the endless gray of life underground.

Johanna, meanwhile, had dropped to her knees in front of the couch, where Finnick was holding the ring, and was bouncing slightly with excitement. “Oh my god. Red is going to love this. SHE IS GOING TO LOSE HER FUCKING MIND. I can’t wait. I—” Finnick groaned again. “Johanna. Stop. Stop moving. Stop yelling. Stop whatever the hell you’re doing. For the love of everything, stop. I’m serious.”

“I CAN’T HELP IT!” Johanna yelled, throwing her hands into the air in mock surrender. “This is the greatest news in the history of the bunker! And it’s YOUR FAULT! I can’t even believe you didn’t tell me, you sneaky bastard!” Finnick pinched the bridge of his nose again, muttering softly. “I didn’t tell anyone because I didn’t want anyone ruining the moment, Johanna. That’s literally the only reason. I swear.”

“WELL, YOU DID A TERRIBLE JOB,” she said with mock seriousness, narrowing her eyes in a way that made him almost laugh, even though he was trying not to. “But it’s okay, because I will be the most ecstatic witness this entire planet has ever seen. So… congratulations, Finnick. And Red. Not that she knows yet, but soon. Soon she will know, and it will be glorious.”

Finnick gave her a weary look, shaking his head. “You are impossible. Truly, impossible. Just… just go find Red or something. She’s downstairs, training. I’ll… I’ll finish this.”

“Nope. Can’t do that. I’m stuck here now, living vicariously through your nervous little hands,” Johanna said, hopping onto the couch beside him and leaning forward dramatically. “You better not mess this up, Odair. This is historic. This is legendary. If you do, I swear, I’ll scream in the medbay, and the whole District Thirteen will hear.”

Finnick just groaned again, tipping his head back against the wall with the small, unfinished ring balanced in his palm. The metal caught the pale artificial light, a faint gleam in the otherwise colorless room. “Why did I think I could do this quietly?” he muttered, half to himself, half to the universe that clearly had a sense of humor. Johanna threw her head back and laughed—a bright, wild sound that didn’t belong in a place like District Thirteen. It bounced off the concrete walls, sharp and alive, filling every sterile corner with something resembling life. “Quietly is boring, Finnick Odair!” she declared, gesturing grandly as if addressing an invisible audience. “This is a proposal! It deserves noise, chaos, screaming! And possibly confetti if we can find some in the storage rooms!”

Finnick stared at her for a long moment, then gave a low chuckle—the kind that slipped out despite himself. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, rubbing a hand down his face before letting the faintest smile tug at the corner of his mouth. “Fine. Fine. You win, Johanna. Just… maybe not the screaming part when she gets here.” Johanna smirked, folding her arms as if she’d just won something monumental. “Oh, don’t worry,” she said, her voice dropping softer now, that rare note of warmth threading through the sarcasm. “She’ll scream too. And then the world will feel right again, for just a second.”

Finnick looked at her then, really looked—the chaos and armor and scars, all the sharp edges that still somehow found room for joy. He turned the small ring over between his fingers, the faintest smile ghosting across his lips.

“Yeah,” he said quietly, almost like he was speaking only to himself. “For just a second, that might be enough.” Johanna grinned at him—wide, feral, and a little too emotional to admit it—and flopped onto the couch with a dramatic sigh. “You’re disgustingly sentimental,” she said, but her voice was fond.

“And you’re impossible,” Finnick replied, but the softness in his tone betrayed him completely.

“Exactly why we get along,” Johanna said, stretching her arms over her head, her grin crooked and tired. “Now hurry up and finish that thing before I steal it and propose for you. I’d make it way more exciting.” Finnick snorted, shaking his head as he looked back down at the ring—simple, imperfect, but steady. “Yeah,” he murmured, his smile small but certain. “You probably would.” The room went quiet for a moment. The hum of the ventilation system filled the silence, soft and steady, and Finnick’s thumb brushed once more over the ring.

He could already picture it—her eyes, her laugh, the small sound she’d make when she realized what he was doing.

For the first time in a long time, he let himself hope.

Chapter Text

District Thirteen didn’t have nights, not really. It had cycles of dimmed light that passed for darkness, the hum of vents that never stopped, and a stillness so complete it could almost fool you into thinking the world above had gone silent too. Deep underground, where the air smelled faintly metallic and the walls absorbed sound like stone sponges, people slept in rows of rooms carved into concrete. Lives folded into schedules. Dreams rationed like oxygen.

But in one small unit near the residential wing, the illusion of peace felt almost real.

Finnick Odair lay on his back in the narrow bed, eyes tracing the faint cracks in the ceiling. The light was set to its lowest level—a gentle, artificial dusk that cast the room in soft gray. His chest rose and fell in rhythm with the quiet breaths pressed against his side. Red was curled up against him, her head resting just under his collarbone, one arm draped across his waist, her fingers lightly fisted in the fabric of his shirt like she was afraid he’d drift away if she let go.

Her hair, a deep copper-red even in the low light, spilled across the pillow and his arm, catching faint reflections from the soft wall lamp. It was everywhere—wild and untamable, like her. It brushed against his jaw, his chin, tangled in the thin sheet. He breathed her in quietly, that mix of soap and steel and something entirely her own—something warm and alive in this cold, gray place.

His right hand was resting on her back, feeling the steady rhythm of her heartbeat through the fabric of her sleep shirt. With his left, he turned the small ring over and over between his fingers. The metal was dull and imperfect, salvaged from a discarded piece of electrical wiring he’d scavenged earlier that week. He’d spent hours smoothing it out, wrapping and twisting it, using the tip of his knife to curve the wire until it formed something whole. It wasn’t polished. It wasn’t gold. It wasn’t anything the Capitol would’ve called beautiful. But in his hand, in this light, it meant more than any diamond ever could.

He turned it again, the edge catching against the pad of his thumb. The circle was uneven, but steady. Like them.

Red murmured in her sleep, her fingers tightening on his shirt, her body instinctively curling closer. He froze for a heartbeat, then smiled softly when she relaxed again, breath deepening into something peaceful. She always sought him out, even in sleep. As if some part of her—maybe the part that had learned to fight, to survive, to hold on—knew she was safe when he was near.

He studied her face in the half-light. Her freckles were faint shadows now, scattered across her nose and cheeks like soft constellations. Her lips parted slightly with every exhale. Even here, underground, she glowed. Finnick couldn’t decide if it was defiance or grace—maybe both. He thought about the arena more often than he ever admitted, about the way she’d looked when she fought, when she saved him. There were moments back then when he’d thought they were both already dead—when she was bleeding, when she’d stood between him and death with that same sharp, furious light in her eyes that scared and saved him in equal measure. But then there were moments like this one. Quiet. Still. Real.

He tilted his head, pressing a featherlight kiss to the crown of her hair.
“Don’t wake up,” he murmured under his breath. “Just… stay like this a little longer.”

His voice barely reached the air. He didn’t need it to.

Finnick had never been the praying kind, but lying here, with the weight of her against him and the ring in his hand, he almost understood the impulse. To whisper into something larger than yourself and hope it was listening. To ask—not for safety, not even for peace—but for time. More time. Just a little more. He’d seen too many tomorrows fall apart to believe in forever. But he could believe in this. In her.

The ring turned again in his hand, soft metal whispering against skin. He’d imagined it on her finger—more times than he wanted to admit. Not the ceremony, not the noise or the words, but the quiet after. The way she might look down at it, touch it when she thought no one was watching. The way she’d probably tease him for it being “crooked” or “too plain,” and then wear it anyway. Always.

He swallowed, eyes flicking back to her. A lock of hair had fallen across her face, and he brushed it away gently, fingertips tracing the line of her jaw. She stirred again, just barely, mumbling something incomprehensible before settling. Her skin was warm beneath his touch. He thought about the day he’d met her in training, before the Games had turned them into ghosts with bodies. She’d been all sharp wit and quick reflexes, her laugh echoing in the sterile white of the Capitol’s gym. She’d made him nervous, back then—not because she was beautiful, though she was, but because she looked at him like she could see through everything, even the act he’d built to survive. And somehow, she hadn’t turned away.

She’d stayed.

A hum from the ventilation system filled the room, low and constant, grounding him back in the now. He set the ring gently on the nightstand for a moment, flexing his fingers to ease the ache. The metal left a faint imprint in his palm—a circle. Unbroken. It made him smile faintly. His gaze drifted again to her hair splayed across the bedspread, catching the dull gray light and turning it into fire. Even asleep, she radiated resistance—against everything: the Capitol, Coin’s rules, the gray monotony of Thirteen, even the nightmares that chased her. He knew them all too well. The nights where her breath hitched and she’d wake up shaking, trying to hide it behind her teeth. The times she’d bolt upright from some memory that had followed her home from the arena. He’d held her through those, whispering nonsense until the tremors stopped, until she came back to him.

And somehow, she always did.

Finnick’s thumb brushed the edge of the ring again, and his chest tightened with something that was equal parts ache and awe. How did someone like him—broken, trained to seduce, scarred by too many hands—get this lucky? How did he deserve someone who looked at him like he was whole? He didn’t. But she loved him anyway. And that was enough. He let out a slow breath, careful not to move too much, and tilted his head toward the faint hum of the air ducts. He could hear distant noises—footsteps on the metal walkways, someone shutting a door two units away, the endless pulse of machinery keeping their buried city alive. The whole place was a living heart of resistance, and he and Red were just two beats within it.

But here, under these dim lights, she was his entire world.

He looked down again, catching the faintest twitch of her lips in sleep—maybe a dream, maybe just her body remembering how to smile. “You’d probably call me sappy for this,” he whispered quietly, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek. “But I don’t care. I just want you to have something that’s ours. Not theirs. Not the Capitol’s. Not even Thirteen’s. Ours.” His hand hovered for a moment, the ring glinting faintly between his fingers, before he tucked it away into the small pocket of his pants folded neatly by the bedside. It wasn’t finished yet—not until he had her mother’s blessing. Not until it felt right.

He looked back at Red again, her hand still resting over his ribs. She always slept with her palm against his heartbeat. He wondered if she knew she did it—if somewhere inside her, her body remembered how he used to count her pulse in the arena to remind himself they were still alive.

He brushed her wrist lightly, tracing the curve of her fingers. Her skin was soft, faintly scarred—little reminders of battles both physical and unseen. She was a survivor carved into human form, all sharp edges and impossible tenderness.

Finnick smiled faintly to himself, exhaustion finally tugging at the edges of his awareness. He wanted to sleep too, but his mind wouldn’t stop replaying the same thought: Soon. He was going to ask her soon. He was going to marry her. The words felt too big for this small gray room. But they pulsed quietly beneath his ribs, in time with her heartbeat against him. He leaned down one last time, pressing a kiss to the side of her head, right where her temple met her hairline. “I love you,” he whispered into her hair, barely a sound, just a breath that brushed her skin.

Red stirred again, her fingers twitching, the corner of her mouth curving into a half-smile as if her body heard him even in sleep. Finnick froze, smiling against her hair.

And in the quiet, with the hum of machines and the weight of earth above them, Finnick Odair—former victor, broken man, soldier of rebellion—closed his eyes and let himself believe, just for a while, that peace was possible.

That this moment—this love—could survive everything that came next.

Her grip on him was soft but firm, a tether of safety and love he had earned through months of chaos, fighting, and shared scars. But now he had to move, and each inch he tried to pull away was a careful negotiation, a silent plea to the gravity of her trust. He shifted very slowly, like a thief trying not to set off the most sensitive alarm. His right arm slid beneath her head to support it while his left eased down from her waist. A low, almost imperceptible groan escaped him when she twitched, her fingers flexing slightly as if she had felt the movement. He froze.

Her face, half-buried in the pillow, was peaceful again, eyes still closed. Her chest rose and fell with that rhythmic calm that made it impossible not to marvel at her resilience.

Finnick took a measured breath, trying to summon the patience that the last few weeks of training, skirmishes, and near-constant stress had eroded. He couldn’t wake her fully—he couldn’t risk it. Red, more than anyone he knew, needed every quiet, uninterrupted moment of sleep she could get. The world above might be a war-torn wasteland, but even here underground, in the sterile gray of District Thirteen, she deserved this peace.

So he shifted another centimeter, then another, until his knees were dangling over the edge of the bed. He tried not to make any sound as he carefully moved his feet to the floor. The ring still rested in his palm, rough edges warm against his skin, a promise that existed quietly, intimately, in this dim little apartment.

Once he was upright, Finnick allowed himself a moment to adjust, straightening the crease in his gray uniform and tugging the trident harness so it didn’t snag on the bedding. His eyes flicked to Red once more—she hadn’t stirred. A small, private smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. Even here, even now, she looked like the safest place in the world, a home he would do anything to protect.

Now came the harder part: leaving her grasp. He slid backward slowly, letting his back press lightly against the headboard before shifting to stand completely. Every movement had to be careful; even a small sound could rouse her from sleep.

Finnick crouched momentarily to brush a strand of Red’s hair off her face, tucking it gently behind her ear with the softest touch he could manage. “You stay,” he whispered. “Just stay.”

Then, inch by inch, he eased toward the apartment door, his hand brushing the wall for guidance as he stepped softly across the gray linoleum floor. The ring stayed clenched in his hand, almost hot with his own nerves. He had rehearsed this in his head endlessly, imagining exactly how he would ask Mira, how he would ask for her blessing. And yet, when it came down to it, the reality of the moment—the quiet of the night, the sleep of his girlfriend, the knowledge of what this small piece of wire represented—made it infinitely more nerve-wracking.

He reached the door to their unit and pressed his ear to it. Not a sound. The corridor outside was empty, silent except for the faint, distant hum of lights and ventilation. Finnick exhaled slowly, letting some of the tension seep out of his shoulders, then gently twisted the knob.

Outside, the hallway was long and gray, lined with doors to neighboring units. The sterile walls and uniform floors stretched into the distance, interrupted only by the occasional small porthole or vent. He padded down the corridor, trying to make as little sound as possible. Each step echoed faintly, but Mira’s unit was close enough that he could see the warm glow of a single light under her door.

He paused at the threshold and knocked softly, three quick raps. No answer. He tried again, slower this time, knocking and then pressing his palm lightly against the door, listening for the faint shuffle of movement inside.

A soft creak from inside announced her presence, and Mira’s voice called out, gentle but still carrying the firmness of someone who never tolerated nonsense: “Finnick? What is it? It’s past midnight.”

Finnick swallowed, trying to keep his voice calm, steady. “Ma’am… Ms. Briar… can I talk to you for a minute? Alone?”

The door swung open a crack, and Mira appeared, gray uniform crisply pressed even at this hour, hair tied back in its usual practical braid. Her eyes, sharp and bright even in the dim corridor, narrowed slightly with suspicion. “Alone? What do you need at this hour, Finnick? If this is another drill—”

“It’s not,” he interrupted softly, and he held up his hand in a gesture of peace. “I promise. It’s just… something important. For Red.”

Her eyes softened at the mention of her daughter. She leaned against the doorframe, tilting her head slightly, curious but cautious. “Very well. Come in. But make it quick. Midnight is no time for games.”

Finnick stepped inside, the door clicking softly behind him. Mira’s unit was modest, like most of the apartments here, but the warmth of her presence filled the space, a sense of grounding and life amidst the gray utilitarian walls. The small table in the corner was covered in cards—solitaire played in painstaking order, the deck slightly frayed from use, and a small candle flickering faintly despite the hum of electric lighting.

“I didn’t think anyone was awake,” Finnick murmured, setting his knees on the floor so he wasn’t towering over her. He kept his eyes on Mira, carefully measuring every movement. The ring was still in his hand, but hidden from view, nestled against the palm like a secret flame.

“I could say the same for you,” Mira replied, a ghost of a smirk crossing her face. “It is past midnight, after all. And you—what brings Finnick Odair to my door at this hour?”

He took a deep breath, the air feeling heavier than usual in the cramped apartment. “I… I wanted to ask your blessing.”

Mira froze, a single brow lifting. Her eyes darted toward him, sharp as any blade she had taught her children to respect. “My blessing?”

“Yes,” Finnick said, voice low but firm. “I… I’ve been dating your daughter for a very long time, and I’ve seen her in every possible moment you can imagine, and I love her. I really do, from the second I laid eyes on her. And I want… I want to spend my life with her. But before I do that…” He held up the ring slowly, revealing the small, roughly twisted loop of metal. It glinted faintly in the dim light, simple but beautiful in its imperfection. The rawness of the design was intentional—a reflection of their life together, built from what they had, what they’d survived, and what they still hoped for.

Mira’s hand flew to her mouth, her breath catching in a soft, almost imperceptible gasp. The candlelight flickered across her face, and in that moment, all the strength, all the fierceness, all the deep care she held for her daughter was evident. Finnick could feel it radiating toward him, a mixture of protectiveness, love, and quiet approval.

“Finnick…” she whispered, her voice catching. “You… you’re serious.”

“I’ve never been more serious about anything in my life,” he said, keeping his tone steady, hoping she could feel the weight of it. “I love Red. And I want you to know that I’m asking for her, not just as a partner, but as someone who will protect her, respect her, and—God willing—make her happy every day.”

Mira sat down slowly, card deck forgotten for the moment, hands trembling slightly in her lap. “I… I can see that,” she murmured. “I’ve watched her… I’ve watched both of you. And Finnick… you truly see her. Not the Red that survives, not the Red that fights, not the Red that commands—but all of her. Even the parts she doesn’t show the world. You see her, and you love her anyway.”

Finnick’s throat tightened, the knot of nerves in his stomach tugging at his chest. “Yes,” he whispered. “I do. And I need you to know that before I… before I do this properly. I can’t give her my hand without giving you the respect of asking first.”

Mira let out a shuddering breath, laughter mixing with tears, her shoulders shaking. “Of course, Finnick. My daughter loves you in ways I never thought possible. And if you can… if you can make her happy, then you have my blessing.”

Finnick felt a weight lift off his shoulders, a tight, hot rush of relief and gratitude flooding through him. “Thank you,” he said, voice thick. “You don’t know how much this means.”

Mira reached out impulsively, pulling him into a tight hug. Finnick wrapped his arms around her, careful not to hurt or crush, and felt the warmth of her body, the grounded presence of a mother who had survived her own battles and was now entrusting her daughter’s heart to him. He could feel the tears in her arms, the way her hands gripped his shoulders, the slight tremor in her back, and it was achingly beautiful.

“Go,” she whispered. “Go. And do right by her, Finnick Odair. Make her smile, make her laugh, make her feel like she belongs to someone who will never let her fall.”

He nodded, clutching the small, rough ring in his hand, letting himself savor the approval, the blessing, and the rare quiet intimacy of the moment. For the first time in weeks—maybe months—he felt like he could breathe. And even though Red slept just doors away, unaware of the promise he had just secured, he knew that soon, very soon, he would give her this one small piece of his heart, solidified in metal and intention, as perfect as he could make it.

Chapter Text

Finnick knocked lightly on the steel-reinforced door, though he knew it was largely ceremonial. President Coin’s office had no sense of casualness—no open doors, no easy chitchat. Everything about it screamed authority: the gray walls, the minimal furniture, the sharp, angled lines of the desk that looked less like it was for work and more like a podium of judgment. He could hear the faint hum of the ventilation, the muffled chatter of the underground base outside, but it all felt distant compared to the weight pressing on his chest.

“Come in,” a voice said, clipped and exact.

Finnick pushed the door open, stepping in carefully. Coin sat behind her desk, back straight, hands folded over each other. Her gray bob was perfectly in place, framing a face that might have been kind in another life—but right now, it radiated caution and control. She didn’t glance at him immediately; she waited until he had crossed the threshold, and then her sharp eyes studied him, assessing him as if he were a fish flopping on the dock.

“Finnick Odair,” she said, her voice even and slightly cold, “to what do I owe the pleasure of this unexpected visit?”

He forced a small, casual smile, though his heart was hammering in his chest. He took a deep breath, leaning forward slightly. “Ms. Coin,” he began, using the formal tone out of respect, “ma’am. I… I have a request. Well, more of a favor. And I promise you, it’s for the good of morale.”

Her brow raised just slightly, and she gestured for him to continue. “I’m listening.”

Finnick squared his shoulders, hands clasped neatly in front of him, every muscle taut with rehearsed precision. “Ma’am, this is Sergeant Finnick Odair reporting,” he said, voice clipped and deliberate, each syllable measured like a drill. “I request authorization to deploy tributes Red Briar, Johanna Mason, and Katniss Everdeen on a controlled surface reconnaissance operation. Mission parameters are strictly limited. Risks have been assessed and mitigated. All contingencies accounted for, ma’am.”

Coin’s sharp gray eyes flicked up immediately, a single brow arched in barely concealed amusement. “A controlled surface mission?” she echoed, her tone perfectly smooth, though the hint of incredulity was unmistakable. “Sergeant Odair, you realize the surface is still volatile. Equipment is limited, forces are stretched thin, and you are proposing to send three of our most capable operatives—your girlfriend included—into unstable terrain. For what exact objective?”

Finnick kept his posture rigid, chin up, voice steady. “Yes, ma’am. Tactical reconnaissance… with an additional objective of morale reinforcement for the units. Red Briar, Johanna Mason, and Katniss Everdeen are fully trained, capable, and equipped. I have verified all operational logistics and real-time monitoring is ensured. Risk minimized to acceptable levels, ma’am.”

Coin leaned back slightly, her eyes narrowing, the faintest smirk tugging at her lips. “Sergeant Odair,” she said slowly, “while your report is impressively… thorough, I am not blind. You may maintain the facade of a soldier, but this is not a mission for the rebellion. I can see perfectly well that this is personal.”

Finnick froze for a fraction of a second, then let out a low chuckle, his rigid posture relaxing. “Ma’am,” he said, still keeping his eyes on her but with a soft grin, “you caught me. Full disclosure—this isn’t a mission at all. It’s… something far more important.”

Finnick smiled, letting his charm slip into full effect—not the showman he was in the arena, but the Finnick who had learned to read and bend people with ease. “It’s for morale,” he said, a low chuckle in his voice. “And yes, for a personal reason. But listen: I promise you, every precaution is in place. They’ll have their weapons, proper protective gear, and a team monitoring them from a safe distance. Absolutely nothing will go wrong, ma’am.”

Coin leaned back, studying him as if she were peeling back layers, looking for the hidden knife she suspected behind his words. “Morale, you say. And this personal reason… you don’t expect me to authorize something like that without full disclosure, do you?”

“No,” Finnick said quickly, holding up his hands. “Not without trust. But it’s… I’m proposing to Red. That’s all. I want to make it perfect. And I can’t do that if I don’t have a controlled, supervised environment where she can be herself. You know how she is—she’d hate a public spectacle. This,” he waved his hands as if it were nothing, though his stomach was knotting with nerves, “this will be just us. Just her, me, and the girls knowing enough to keep it fun.”

Coin’s eyes softened ever so slightly, but her hands remained folded, her posture rigid. “Finnick… you know I’m not easily swayed by sentiment. You also know I don’t allow unnecessary risks.”

Coin’s eyes flickered to a memory only she could see, the hard-lined streets of District Thirteen, the countless drills, the drills within drills, the victims of the Capitol. She considered him—considered all the times she had watched Finnick and Red survive arenas designed to crush them. He had proven himself. He had proven that he could navigate danger without losing control.

“You are… very persuasive, Odair,” she said finally, her tone even but carrying weight. “And yet, you ask me to suspend judgment and authorize a surface operation for… romance?”

Finnick’s grin softened into something warmer, more earnest. “Yes, ma’am. And I promise you, it’s calculated. I’ve run contingencies for everything—the terrain, potential surface hazards, even unexpected patrols. They will be armed, they will be ready, and I will personally see that the mission stays within the bounds you approve.”

Coin tapped her fingers against the desk, a slow, deliberate rhythm. “You know I could say no,” she said. “And that no would be absolute.”

“I know,” Finnick said, nodding. “And I respect that completely. I’m not asking because I think you’ll say yes. I’m asking because I know you want Red to have moments of happiness that aren’t dictated by the war, by survival, by strategy. This… is a rare chance to let her breathe. Let all of us breathe.”

For a long moment, the office was silent except for the hum of the ventilation system. Finnick held his hands loosely around the small, roughly shaped ring in his pocket, his heart hammering against his ribs as if the stakes of his request were not just tactical, but existential.

Coin’s gaze softened slightly, the first trace of a private, human smile flickering at the corner of her mouth. “Odair… you are either dangerously bold or recklessly naive. Perhaps both.”

Finnick chuckled, the sound low, his confidence masking the nerves threading through him. “Call it boldness,” he said. “Or call it love. Either way… you’ll see. Nothing will go wrong, I promise.”

Coin leaned back, studying him for a moment longer. Her sharp, strategic mind working, evaluating contingencies, risks, outcomes. Then she exhaled slowly, almost thoughtfully. “Fine,” she said, the single word carrying the weight of authority. “You will have your surface reconnaissance. You may take Red, Katniss, and Johanna. They will be armed, they will be briefed, and you are to remain within the agreed boundaries. Any deviation, Odair… and you will answer to me personally.”

Finnick nodded quickly, relief flashing across his features. “Yes, ma’am. Absolutely. Thank you. You won’t regret it. This will be perfect. I promise.”

Coin remained seated, hands folded, but her mind clearly elsewhere. She tapped her fingers on the desk and murmured, almost to herself, “You know… this might not be a bad idea. Even during the war, even under this endless gray… people need moments to remind them that there is still something worth celebrating. Perhaps it’s foolish, perhaps it’s frivolous, but… the wedding—it could be broadcast. Not for propaganda, but as proof. Proof that we are still alive, still capable of joy. Let them see, the Capitol and the districts alike, that there are still things worth fighting for.”

Finnick’s ears perked slightly at the murmur, but he didn’t interrupt, allowing her to muse aloud. Coin’s fingers drummed lightly, her tone softening yet retaining that steel edge beneath the surface.

“And if it were broadcast,” she continued, “it would be a small rebellion of its own. A statement that not even war can take away the moments of beauty and loyalty between people who have survived the Capitol’s cruelty. Yes… perhaps there is merit in that.”

Finnick’s grin widened, subtle but full of warmth. “Yes, ma’am. That’s exactly what I was hoping for.”

Coin finally looked directly at him again, eyes sharp yet not unkind. “I will allow it,” she said, her tone firm but almost conspiratorial, “on the condition that the mission is executed flawlessly. That no unnecessary risks are taken, and that you remember why you are doing this—not just for Red, but for the morale of everyone watching.”

Finnick bowed his head slightly, clasping his hands together. “Understood. Everything will be accounted for, every precaution taken. Red will be safe, and this will be the happiest moment of her life.”

Coin allowed a ghost of a smile, almost imperceptible, to cross her face again. “Then go. Let them have their moment. And perhaps… even in these gray halls, a little color will shine through.”

Finnick stepped back toward the door, feeling the weight of both responsibility and excitement settle in his chest. The plan was set. The moment was close. And somewhere in the dim, concrete underworld of District Thirteen, a tiny glimmer of celebration was already beginning to burn. Coin leaned back, studying him for a moment longer. Her sharp, strategic mind working, evaluating contingencies, risks, outcomes. Then she exhaled slowly. “Fine,” she said, the single word carrying the weight of authority. “You will have your surface reconnaissance. You may take Red, Katniss, and Johanna. They will be armed, they will be briefed, and you are to remain within the agreed boundaries. Any deviation, Odair… and you will answer to me personally.”

Finnick’s grin widened, a mixture of relief and triumph, though it remained carefully measured. “Yes, ma’am. Absolutely. Thank you. You won’t regret it. This will be perfect. I promise.”

Coin nodded once, crisp and decisive, then gestured toward the door. “Go. Make it quick, make it safe, and make it count. But remember—what happens aboveground is still within my control. Do not forget that.”

As the door closed behind him, Finnick let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. He pressed the small, roughly shaped ring to his lips for a moment, feeling the weight of every promise it carried. Red, Johanna, Katniss—his whole world, momentarily suspended above the gray concrete of District Thirteen, about to step into a moment that would belong only to them.

----------

The medbay of District Thirteen had never felt like a sanctuary. Even when Peeta had first arrived, exhausted and broken from the Capitol’s final cruelties, the room had felt less like a place of healing and more like a suspended cell, a space between what had been and what could be. Finnick had walked these halls countless times—every sterile corridor, every humming light fixture, every sharp-angled corner etched itself into his memory—but tonight, it felt different. Tonight, it felt impossibly quiet, almost fragile, as though even the walls themselves were holding their breath.

He paused outside Peeta’s room, hand hovering over the door handle. The soft buzz of the overhead fluorescents hummed through the narrow hallway, punctuated by the distant mechanical whir of ventilation shafts. The sound was almost hypnotic, a steady heartbeat of the underground city, a constant reminder that they were alive, that they had survived the horrors above. And yet, the hallway carried the faint metallic tang of antiseptic, sharp and biting to the nose, a reminder that life had been stripped down to its essentials here. Food, sleep, air, medical care. Everything else—freedom, color, sunlight—had been relegated to memory or dream.

Finnick’s fingers tightened around the small, roughly shaped loop of metal in his pocket. It wasn’t much, really. A simple ring, hand-forged from a scrap of wire he had scavenged from the maintenance rooms. It wasn’t polished or glittering. It didn’t have the shine of gold or the sparkle of gemstones. But to him, it carried the weight of everything he wanted to give Red, everything he had held back while the world around them burned. He could feel the slight imperfections under his fingertips, the curves and bends that marked it as his own creation, and the thought made his chest tighten with a strange, anxious warmth.

He exhaled slowly, as if the act of breathing could steady the storm in his chest. His eyes traced the gray, industrial walls that lined the hallway, flicking up to the harsh lights above. Shadows pooled in the corners, soft and dark against the blinding sterility, giving the illusion of space where none existed. It made the world feel suspended, almost unreal, a liminal space where time didn’t move in the usual way. Here, in this hallway, he could feel every heartbeat, every breath, every flicker of thought amplified. It made him careful. It made him deliberate.

Finnick’s gaze shifted to the small window in the door of Peeta’s room. Even through the reinforced glass, he could see the white, almost featureless interior. It was a small, bare space—cot, tray table, medical monitor—but every inch of it carried the weight of its inhabitant. The bruises across Peeta’s arms, the thinness of his frame, the faintly haunted look in his eyes every time they met another human face—each detail settled in Finnick’s mind, threading itself into a mix of protectiveness and helplessness that made him pause.

He wanted to speak, to say something that would break the tension, to reach across the divide of trauma and isolation—but he also knew the power of silence. Sometimes, he had learned, silence spoke louder than words. It was a careful balance: the right tone, the right moment, the right expression. Finnick’s lips pressed together as he assessed it all. There was Peeta, sitting upright on the cot, his thin shoulders slumping slightly, hands resting lightly on the edge of the white mattress. Even in the dimmed glow of the overhead light, the faint purple shadows of old bruises traced across his skin. He had been through hell, and yet he was here, breathing, present.

Finnick’s knees bent slowly, and he lowered himself onto the chair at the side of the cot. The small loop of wire, the ring he had been bending and straightening for hours, rested on his palm. His thumb rubbed the metal absently, smoothing the rough edges as if the act could somehow translate his thoughts into the object itself. It was silly, really—he had no formal skill for crafting such things—but in the quiet of this midnight hour, in the hum of the underground ventilation, in the sterile glow of the medbay, it felt monumental.

“Hey, Peeta,” he said softly, letting his voice fill the space between them without forcing it. It was careful, cautious, deliberately calm, like tossing a pebble across a turbulent lake and hoping it wouldn’t sink into the shadows. Finnick’s gaze flicked up at the boy, trying to read every twitch, every micro-expression. He had seen Peeta through so much. The fear, the confusion, the relentless manipulation, the injections that had left marks deeper than bruises—he had been there, even if he couldn’t fix everything.

Peeta’s eyes lifted slowly from the floor, narrowing slightly, a mixture of suspicion and wariness in the shadowed corners of his gaze. Finnick smiled faintly, letting it reach his eyes, though it wavered with the weight of unspoken truths. “I know it’s… a lot,” he murmured, keeping his voice low, careful. “I know it feels like it’s all too much sometimes. But you’re here. You’re breathing. And that counts for something.”

He could see Peeta’s jaw tighten almost imperceptibly, the slight twitch in his wrist as he adjusted the restraints. Even the soft restraints were a reminder of the Capitol’s cruelty—a physical tether to the memory of fear, to the constant reminder of what had been done. Finnick’s heart ached. He wanted to do more than just sit here. He wanted to fix everything, to erase the months of torment, the injections that poisoned Peeta’s mind, the nights when the Capitol’s twisted games had left him unsure of who or what to trust.

The medbay smelled faintly of antiseptic and linen, a sterile smell that somehow made the space feel both safe and suffocating at once. Finnick’s gaze softened, and he let a small, almost shy chuckle escape, though it was quiet, almost swallowed by the humming lights. “I’m going to propose to… Red,” he said, and even in the bare, harsh white of the room, the words carried weight, like a secret shared in the shadows.

Peeta’s expression softened slightly, a flicker of something unguarded—a shadow of hope, of belief in normalcy—passing across his face. Finnick’s chest eased at the sight. He wanted to reach out, to offer some comfort, to show that even in the depths of trauma, moments of joy and connection could still exist. His hand hovered over the ring, turning it over, feeling its rough imperfections, and he imagined it on Red’s finger, imagined her laugh, her eyes sparkling in surprise, the way her fingers might press against his palm.

Everything in the room—the cold white walls, the humming lights, the faint smell of antiseptic—seemed to shrink around them. For a moment, it was just him, Peeta, and the small piece of wire that carried the weight of hope, love, and survival. Finnick let his thumb trace the edge of the ring again, and he allowed himself a small sigh, a mixture of relief and anticipation.

He had to be careful. One wrong word, one wrong expression, and the fragile trust he and Peeta were rebuilding could shatter. But tonight, in the quiet of the medbay, it felt like maybe, just maybe, things could be allowed to be simple for a second. Safe. Human.

Finnick leaned back slightly in his chair, letting his eyes soften, letting the tension ebb a little, just enough to allow a faint warmth to fill the sterile space. He wasn’t just a soldier, a fighter, a survivor of arenas and bombardments. He was also someone who cared deeply, who carried love in the midst of chaos, who could still believe in moments of tenderness even when the world had tried to strip them away.

And Peeta… Peeta deserved that. He deserved the chance to smile, to feel hope, even in the smallest of doses.

Finnick glanced down at the rough, hand-shaped ring in his hands again, the piece of wire that had become something more than metal, something heavier than itself. It was a promise. It was a declaration. It was a tether between him and the one person who had become the center of his world. And maybe, just maybe, it could be the first step toward a moment that would remind them all—Red, himself, Peeta—that even in the underground shadows of District Thirteen, moments of love and joy could still exist, quietly, fiercely, and without apology.

Finnick shifted slightly in the chair, keeping the small, rough ring close to his chest, as if its weight could somehow anchor the fragments of all the fear, loss, and hope that crowded the medbay. Peeta’s gaze lingered on him, cautious but steady, the faint bruising around his eyes casting shadows that made Finnick’s chest tighten. He let a moment of silence stretch between them, letting the hum of the ventilation fill the empty spaces, until Finnick finally spoke again.

“You remember the first few days we were all thrown into the arena together?” Finnick asked quietly, voice low enough that even the walls of the medbay felt like they were leaning in to listen. Peeta’s brow furrowed, then relaxed as recognition softened his expression.

“I… think so,” Peeta said slowly, the hesitancy in his voice carrying a subtle trace of pain. “It was chaos. Everyone scrambling, god so many people dead… I don’t remember if what I know is very clear though...”

Finnick nodded, letting a small, reminiscent smile tug at his lips. “Yeah… I remember it like it was yesterday. The sun burning down through the dome, everything white and hot, and the wind stirring dust in circles. I remember… Red and Johanna.” He paused, watching Peeta’s eyes widen faintly. “God, I don't know if you even remember. Just the way they started arguing the second we were out there. Like… Red had gotten mad at Johanna for some tiny thing—probably something Johanna had done on purpose to annoy her—and Johanna… well, Johanna just shouted back.”

Peeta’s lips twitched, and a faint, ghost of a smile threatened to break through. Finnick caught it and let the memory carry him. “Red’s face was red as fire—honestly, I didn’t even know hair could match emotion that perfectly—and Johanna had that stupid, sly smirk like she knew she’d won even before Red finished yelling. And you… you were just standing there, watching it all, probably trying to stop yourself from laughing but failing miserably.”

Peeta’s laugh was soft at first, just a faint exhalation of air through his teeth, fragile and fleeting. “I… yeah, I remember that,” he said, voice quiet, almost haunted. “I think… I think that’s the first time I realized… no matter what the Capitol did, no matter what… they were untouchable in a way. Red and Johanna. They weren’t afraid. They—” He stopped, swallowing hard, and Finnick’s heart clenched at the catch in his voice. “They made me laugh. Even in all that hell.” Finnick’s hand twitched toward Peeta’s, almost reflexively, though he didn’t take it. “Yeah. That’s Red for you. She… she doesn’t let the world win. And Johanna… well, she’s a whirlwind, and she doesn’t care if she knocks you off your feet in the process.” He chuckled quietly, a sound that was equal parts sorrow and amusement. “I remember watching you that day, Peeta… you laughed too. Small, almost imperceptible, but you laughed. Right before the first wave of chaos hit and we all had to start surviving. I remember thinking… even in the worst of it, laughter could exist. That’s what I needed to hold on to.”

Peeta’s eyes glistened faintly in the harsh white light of the medbay, a mix of memory and present pain. “I remember that. I… I haven’t laughed like that in a long time. Not freely.” His voice cracked just slightly, the remnants of the Capitol’s torment and the tracker jacker venom lingering, shaping his hesitation. He blinked quickly, trying to blink away the sting, and Finnick’s chest ached.

“I know,” Finnick said gently, voice softening. “I know. But it’s okay. You’re here now. You survived it, Peeta. And you still… you still have that part of you. The part that laughs at the chaos, even when the world tries to take it away.”

Peeta shifted slightly, a small smile beginning to form, fragile and uncertain but real. “I… I guess I do,” he admitted, voice quieter now, almost reverent. “And… seeing you… you’ve… kept some of that with you. You’re… you’re a good friend, Finnick.”

Finnick allowed himself a small grin, the warmth of it stretching across his face. “Yeah… well, I had to, didn’t I? We’ve all been through enough to know the world doesn’t hand out second chances for free. But you… you deserve them anyway. And Red… Red deserves every single one too.” He trailed off for a moment, his gaze falling to the small ring again. “Which is why… well, I’m going to do this for her. I want to give her something that’s just ours, Peeta. Something small, private, but… I want it to mean everything. And I needed you to see it first. I wanted you to know…” He stopped, taking a slow, careful breath. “…that I’m serious. That this is real.”

Peeta nodded faintly, his fingers tightening slightly on the edge of the cot. “I… I understand,” he said softly. “And… it’s very nice. What you’re doing. For her. And… for the life you’re trying to make.” His voice was quiet but carried weight, each word seeming to anchor the fragile hope Finnick was holding.

Finnick leaned back slightly, letting a soft sigh escape. “Thanks, Peeta. That means… more than you can imagine.” He traced the edges of the ring again, letting the small imperfections press against his skin, grounding him in the reality of it all. “I’ve seen the worst of the Capitol. I’ve seen people broken and twisted, and… I’ve seen what it does to everyone it touches. But Red… she’s been my anchor through all of it. And now… I want to be hers.”

Peeta tilted his head slightly, the faint trace of that small, genuine smile returning. “She’ll… she’ll love it. She’ll… love you.” His voice faltered at the end, soft and almost vulnerable, but it carried the truth Finnick had always known. The Capitol could take so much from them, but it could never touch the love they had carved out for themselves.

Finnick allowed himself a long moment to soak it in, the weight of the medbay, the quiet of the underground, and the small, unspoken bond between them. “I know she will,” he said finally, voice steady, carrying both certainty and reverence. “And she’s the reason I keep going. She’s the reason I fight. And… she’s the reason this… all of this… is worth it.”

Peeta’s eyes softened, and the faintest, almost imperceptible laugh escaped him. “I… I can see that,” he said quietly, almost a whisper, as if the medbay itself might carry the words somewhere beyond their walls. “And… I think… she’ll be lucky. Very lucky. To have you.”

Finnick allowed himself a genuine, unguarded smile, the ache and weight of all the years, all the battles, all the small victories mingling together into a single, bittersweet moment. “I am lucky,” he said softly, looking down at the ring once more. “And she’s… she’s the best part of all of it. She always has been.”

The medbay was silent again, save for the faint hum of the ventilation and the subtle creak of Peeta shifting on the cot. Finnick leaned back, letting the quiet wash over him, letting the gravity of everything sink into the small, intimate space. They had survived so much, lost so much, and yet here they were: two broken pieces of the world, leaning on each other, carrying memories both sweet and cruel, and somehow, still able to imagine a life that was theirs alone.

Peeta let his gaze linger on Finnick, eyes full of understanding and unspoken reassurance, and for the first time in months, Finnick felt the weight of fear ease, just a little. The ring in his hand was still imperfect, unfinished, but it carried a promise, and in that medbay, in the quiet of District Thirteen’s underground walls, that promise felt like the most beautiful, precious thing in the world.

Chapter Text

The low hum of District Thirteen’s ventilation system had become so constant that Red could hear it even in her sleep. By the time morning—or whatever passed for morning underground—arrived, the noise was fused into her pulse. The walls here never let her forget where she was: gray, concrete, cold, humming with the steady breath of machines keeping them all alive. She sat on the edge of the narrow bed she shared with Finnick, tying the straps of her boots with unnecessary force. “Surface watch,” she muttered, jerking one lace tight. “Who the hell did I offend to get surface watch?”

Finnick’s laugh drifted from behind her, low and teasing, softened by the fact that he hadn’t had real sleep either. “Maybe they just missed your charming personality. You light up a room, after all.”

Red threw him a glare over her shoulder. “Funny. You know what I meant.”

He was sitting cross-legged near the foot of the bed, still shirtless, hair half-damp from his shower, the faint glow from the overhead light carving a silver edge along his shoulders. He had that half-smile—the one that said he knew she was going to complain until she ran out of air, and he was going to enjoy every second of it. “I don’t even like the surface anymore,” she went on, grabbing her uniform jacket from the back of a chair. “It’s too quiet. Too empty. At least down here there’s noise. Down here, I know where everyone is. I can train. I can—”

“—stab people with your pretty little daggers,” Finnick finished for her.

She stopped mid-motion, turning toward him with a huff. “Don’t call them pretty.”

He shrugged. “What? They’re deadly and decorative. Beetee wrapped the handles with vines like they’re something you’d hang on a wall.”

“They’re mine,” she snapped, voice sharp but the faintest smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. “And I’d rather use them in training than carry them around the woods waiting for nothing to happen.”

Finnick leaned back on his hands, watching her fasten the silver-green straps that held the daggers to her thighs. The vines etched into the blades caught the light just enough to make them shimmer faintly in the sterile room. He’d seen her use them before—how her movements turned into something between a dance and a fight, every motion deliberate, precise, fierce. There was poetry in her violence, the kind that came from surviving too much. “I still don’t see the problem,” he said after a moment, his tone deliberately casual. “You, Katniss, and Johanna—what could possibly go wrong?”

Red let out a sharp laugh. “Everything. You’ve seen what happens when Johanna gets bored. Last time, she held a fake wedding for us because of pure and utter boredom.”

“That’s just her love language,” Finnick said, smirking.

“Her love language is chaos.”

“And yours is threats,” he replied. “We all have our strengths.”

She gave him a look that could’ve cut steel. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

“Of course I am.” He stood, pulling his shirt on but leaving the collar loose, his movements easy, practiced. “You make a terrible soldier when you’re sulking. It’s adorable.”

“Keep calling me adorable and see how fast these daggers find your ribs.”

He grinned, stepping close enough that she could feel the warmth of his breath against her temple. “See? That’s the spirit. Use that energy topside.” She sighed, pressing the heel of her palm to her forehead. “You don’t get it, Finnick. I don’t want to go up there. Not today. Not with everything that’s happened lately. I’d rather be doing something.”

“You are doing something,” he said quietly, and for a second the teasing fell away. His fingers brushed hers, grounding her. “You’re keeping watch. You’re helping. Even if it doesn’t feel like it.”

Red hesitated, the protest dying in her throat. His calm had a way of softening her edges, reminding her that the world didn’t always have to be sharp. “Besides,” he added lightly, straightening and patting his pocket where the small ring rested, unseen. “Some days are meant for more than just fighting.” She didn’t notice the gesture. Her focus had shifted back to the mirror by the door, where she tightened her braid, the long copper strands coiling neatly down her back. “Tell that to Coin,” she muttered. “She probably thinks this is a punishment. ‘Let’s stick the angry lumber girls on the surface with the symbol of the rebellion so we can see who gets lit on fire first.’”

Finnick chuckled, leaning against the wall. “You might be right.”

“I am right.” She zipped her jacket and adjusted the patch on her shoulder, the one marking her as part of the Thirteen recon unit. “And she’s lucky I’m loyal enough not to stab her either.”

He smiled faintly at that—one of those soft, fleeting smiles that said more than he’d ever admit out loud. When she finally turned back to him, her irritation had settled into that restless, half-resigned energy she always carried before a mission. Her hands found his, fingers brushing the rough calluses on his palms. “You’ll still be here when I get back?”

“Of course.” He squeezed her hand once, steady and sure. “You can’t get rid of me that easily.”

“Don’t tempt me.” But she was smiling now, even if it was faint.

Her eyes caught on the motion of his thumb grazing her knuckles, on the small pause that followed. He looked like he was holding something behind his smile, a secret lodged between his ribs. “Finnick?” she asked softly. “What are you thinking about?” He hesitated, then shook his head, his grin resurfacing just enough to distract her. “Just… how unfair it is that I’m stuck underground with a bunch of soldiers while you get to go on a walk in the woods.”

She snorted. “A walk in the woods. Yeah, sure. With two armed rebels and a whole lot of nothing to look at.”

“That’s the dream,” he said.

She leaned in and kissed him then, quick but warm, her hand slipping up to his jaw for half a heartbeat before she pulled away. “Try not to get into trouble while I’m gone.”

“No promises.”

Her laugh echoed faintly as she grabbed her pack and slung it over her shoulder. She turned to the door, glancing back once more at him—barefoot, still tousled, still smiling in that infuriatingly calm way that made her heart twist. “You’re weird,” she said, softer now. “You know that?”

“Occupational hazard,” he said.

“Of what?”

“Loving you.”

Her breath hitched—barely, just enough that he saw it before she masked it with a roll of her eyes. “You’re impossible.” He grinned. “And you’re late.” She left before she could think of something clever to say. The door hissed closed, and the hum of the ventilation swallowed her footsteps. Finnick stood still for a long time after that, staring at the spot where she’d been. He exhaled slowly, reaching into his pocket. The ring’s cool edge pressed against his palm, its small weight grounding him. The band was simple—no jewels, no polish, just a loop of pale metal worked until it was smooth enough not to catch on skin. He’d etched a pattern into the inside: a twisting vine curling around the word always. It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t even particularly beautiful. But it was theirs.

He turned it over in his hand, light flickering across the surface, and imagined it on her finger—imagined the sunlight catching in her hair, the green of the forest instead of these gray walls. For a second, he could almost feel it: air that didn’t taste like steel, ground that wasn’t man-made, a world where she could breathe again. A knock jolted him back. He slipped the ring into his pocket, heart jumping, but it was only the muffled call from the hallway—one of the guards reminding Red’s team to report to the lift.

He smiled to himself, shaking his head.

“Go make some noise up there, Red,” he murmured. “You have no idea what’s waiting for you.”

--------

The metal corridor leading to the elevator always smelled faintly like oil and old stone—an odd blend of machinery and earth that no one ever really got used to. Red walked briskly, her boots striking the floor with the kind of force that said she was already done with the day before it had even begun. Katniss and Johanna were waiting at the checkpoint when she rounded the corner. Katniss had her bow slung over one shoulder, her quiver clipped neatly to her back, and her expression that usual quiet one—guarded, watchful, impossible to read. Johanna, on the other hand, leaned lazily against the wall, spinning her axe in one hand like it was a toy instead of a weapon capable of cleaving bone.

“You’re late,” Johanna said as Red approached, not bothering to hide her grin.

“Didn’t realize there was a curfew on suffering,” Red replied, flashing her ID to the guard and ducking under the scanner.

“Aw, come on, cheer up.” Johanna’s tone was light, teasing. “You get to see the sun. Kind of.”

“It’s not the sun,” Red shot back. “It’s radioactive sky and dead trees. And surface watch means sitting around doing nothing while my team gets real combat drills.” Katniss made a small noise—something between a laugh and a sigh—as she adjusted the strap on her bow. “You say that like you wouldn’t complain about training too.” Red turned on her with mock offense. “Excuse me?”

“You’d say it’s repetitive. Or boring. Or that Finnick’s not there to make it tolerable.” Red frowned, crossing her arms. “Okay, maybe I’d say that. But that doesn’t mean I want to go on a glorified picnic with you two.”

“Picnics don’t usually involve loaded weapons,” Johanna said, examining the edge of her axe like she was imagining all the ways she could use it before breakfast.

“They do if you’re at mine,” Red muttered.

The elevator doors opened with a hydraulic hiss, and the three women stepped inside. The walls gleamed dull silver under the fluorescent light, the faint hum of the motor echoing as the doors sealed them in. Red leaned against the railing, already pulling her gloves tighter, the tension in her shoulders unmistakable. Johanna shot Katniss a sidelong glance, a flicker of amusement crossing her face. Katniss caught it but didn’t say anything, her mouth twitching just barely at the corner.

“So,” Johanna said, voice overly casual as the elevator began to rise. “What’s got you in such a great mood this morning? Someone steal your coffee rations again?”

Red exhaled through her nose. “No. Just the universe.”

“Specific,” Johanna said, smirking. “You should write poetry.”

“I’ll write one about you,” Red said. “It’ll be short.”

“I’d read it,” Katniss murmured.

Johanna grinned. “She’s just mad she’s not paired with Finnick.”

Red’s head snapped up, glaring daggers. “That has nothing to do with it.”

“Uh-huh,” Johanna drawled.

“Seriously,” Red said, though the flush creeping up her neck betrayed her. “He’s busy doing… whatever Finnick does.”

“Looking pretty and distracting people?” Johanna offered.

Katniss hid a small laugh behind her hand, and Johanna caught it, her grin widening. “Exactly. He’s good at that. Maybe that’s why Coin keeps him around.” Red rolled her eyes. “He’s useful.”

“Oh, very useful,” Johanna said.

“Stop.”

Johanna laughed, a bright, reckless sound that echoed in the metal cage. Katniss’s gaze flicked to Red, studying the faint curve of her frown, then to Johanna again—a silent exchange that said everything.

They were in on it together. Katniss’s eyes softened just slightly. She’d never been much good at lying—too honest, too raw—but this was different. This wasn’t deceit. It was protection. And maybe a little fun. Johanna, on the other hand, was practically vibrating with the effort not to ruin the surprise. Every time Red turned to check the floor indicator above the door, Johanna shot Katniss a grin.

Red caught one once and frowned suspiciously. “What’s funny?”

“Nothing,” Johanna said quickly. “Just remembered something Peeta said when I visited him yesterday.”

“Yeah?” Red raised an eyebrow. “What, exactly?”

Johanna blinked. “Uh. Something about wedding cakes.”

Katniss coughed into her sleeve, trying not to laugh.

Red squinted at them both. “You two are acting weird.”

“We’re always weird,” Johanna countered. “You’re just crankier than usual.”

“I’m not cranky.”

Katniss hummed under her breath. “You’re definitely cranky.”

Red scowled but didn’t reply. She crossed her arms again and stared at the doors as the elevator kept climbing, the silence stretching long enough for the soft groan of the machinery to fill it. After a minute, Johanna said, “So… Finnick tell you anything about today?” Red glanced at her, suspicious. “Like what?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Plans, maybe. He’s usually got some.”

Red frowned. “No. Why would he?”

“Just wondering,” Johanna said, her tone deliberately light, but her eyes glimmered with mischief. Katniss pressed her lips together, pretending to inspect her bowstring. Red sighed, leaning her head back against the wall. “You both are definitely up to something.”

“Us?” Johanna said innocently. “We’d never.”

“Sure,” Red said flatly. Katniss met Johanna’s eyes again, and they both smiled, small and secret. The elevator slowed with a shudder, lights flickering once before stabilizing. A mechanical voice crackled through the speaker: Surface level secured. Masks optional. Proceed with caution. Red straightened, pulling on her gloves fully and checking the straps on her daggers. “Let’s just get this over with,” she muttered.

Johanna hefted her axe over her shoulder, her grin back in full force. “That’s the spirit.”

Katniss simply nodded, pressing the door control.

The doors slid open with a hiss of escaping air. A rush of colder air swept in, faintly metallic and sharp with the scent of the upper world. Red stepped out first, boots crunching over the worn metal ramp that led to the surface.

It always hit her the same way—how empty it was. The ground above didn’t hum with life the way it used to in her memories. The trees were thin and gray, reaching upward like bones. The air felt thinner somehow, haunted by the silence of everything that had been burned away. “See?” she said over her shoulder. “A real paradise.” Johanna followed, her expression unreadable, though her voice stayed playful. “Oh, come on, don’t be dramatic. Look at that sky. It’s practically blue today.”

“It’s very gray, Johanna,” Red said.

“Gray with hints of blue.”

“That’s just the radiation haze.”

“Optimism, Red. Learn it.”

Katniss stepped past them both, crouching briefly to check the line of tracks leading away from the bunker. “Looks clear,” she said softly. “No movement.”

“Because nothing lives here,” Red said.

Johanna slung her axe behind her back. “Except us. Lucky world.”

Red shot her a side glance. “Remind me to tell the wildlife how blessed they are.” They walked for a while after that, their boots crunching over the brittle underbrush that had long since stopped growing. Every once in a while, Red’s gaze flicked toward the forest edge, scanning out of habit, her body tense the way all soldiers’ bodies learned to be. Johanna hummed a low, tuneless melody as she walked, clearly to fill the silence. Katniss didn’t mind. She just walked in rhythm, her bow loose in her grip but her eyes sharp, scanning the horizon.

“Do you remember,” Johanna said after a while, “that first time we went into the arena? The smell right before a storm hit?”

Red grimaced. “Why would you bring that up?”

“Because this air smells the same,” Johanna said. “Like something waiting to break.”

“Comforting,” Red muttered.

Katniss looked up at the sky, her voice barely above a whisper. “Maybe it’ll rain.” Red snorted. “If it does, it’ll probably melt our skin off.” Johanna elbowed her. “You’re a real joy to be around, you know that, I wonder why I kept you around.”

“I try.”

But even as she said it, there was a faint curve to her mouth. Johanna caught it and smirked, her earlier laughter mellowing into something almost fond. They crested the ridge that overlooked what had once been forest—now a stretch of skeletal trees, the ground cracked and scattered with the remnants of what might have been buildings once. In the distance, the sun was trying to cut through the haze.

Katniss stopped first, scanning the tree line. “No sign of movement,” she said again.

Red crouched, pulling one of her daggers and turning it in her hand. The vines engraved in the metal caught the light, faint and greenish. She rested her elbow on her knee, watching the landscape without really seeing it. “You ever think about what we’d be doing if the Games never happened?” she asked suddenly. Johanna blinked. “Wow. Deep thoughts this early?”

“I’m serious.” Red didn’t look at her. “Like… if we were still back home. If none of this ever happened.”

Katniss shifted slightly. “I try not to.”

Johanna’s voice softened, unexpectedly. “Same.” Red nodded once, her jaw tightening. “Yeah. Me neither.” The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable exactly—just heavy, full of ghosts. Katniss’s gaze lingered on the forest for a moment longer before she said, “We should keep moving.” Johanna slung her axe forward, nodding. “Right. Let’s do what Coin wants us to and then head back before Red implodes.”

Red rolled her eyes. “You act like I’m that dramatic.”

Johanna’s grin was immediate. “You are that dramatic.”

Katniss laughed quietly, and when Red turned to look at her, she caught the faintest flicker of something conspiratorial in her expression—something that almost made her narrow her eyes again.

“What?” Red demanded. “Nothing,” Katniss said quickly, adjusting her quiver. “Uh-huh.” Johanna smirked. “You really don’t trust us, do you?” Red gave her a flat look. “In my defense, I was forced to be a child soldier at the ripe old age of fifteen.” that made Johanna laugh.  Red’s hand twitched toward her dagger, half in jest. “You’re lucky I like you.”

“I’m adorable,” Johanna said, tossing her hair. “Everyone likes me.”

Katniss’s voice was dry. “That’s definitely the word.”

The three of them started moving again, weaving through the ruined landscape with practiced rhythm. The air grew a little clearer as they went, a breeze stirring what was left of the leaves. And if Johanna’s grin lingered a little longer than usual, if Katniss’s eyes held that small, secret spark, Red didn’t notice—too busy watching for threats, too busy muttering about the absurdity of being sent on a mission where nothing would happen. They let her complain, let her vent all the way to the edge of the woods. Every word made Johanna’s smirk grow, every step brought them closer to the hidden clearing Finnick had prepared—the one Red didn’t know was waiting for her.

They’d been walking for what felt like hours, though Red knew it couldn’t have been more than forty minutes. Still, District Thirteen’s schedule was strict, and she could practically hear the clock ticking in her head—every second spent up here felt like one stolen from routine, from safety. The air was colder now, thin and sharp, threading through the blackened trunks of trees that still stood like mourners in a graveyard. A soft wind moved through them, carrying the faint smell of ash and damp earth. “Remind me again,” Red muttered, adjusting the strap of her weapons harness, “why we couldn’t just stay underground and pretend to do this on paper?”

Johanna groaned theatrically. “Because Coin hates fun, and we’re her favorite little soldiers. Now stop whining; you’ll give me wrinkles.”

Katniss gave her a sidelong glance. “Pretty sure that’s not how wrinkles work.”

“Sure it is,” Johanna said breezily. “Stress makes lines. And Red’s the human embodiment of stress.” Red shot her a look. “I’m the reason you’re not bored out of your mind right now.” Johanna grinned. “You’re the reason I need therapy.”

“No I think that was President Snow,” Katniss said quietly, her tone just dry enough to make Johanna snort. Red rolled her eyes, though the corners of her mouth threatened a smile. It was easy to forget, sometimes, that this trio wasn’t supposed to work. Three women carved by violence, sharpened by survival, thrown together in a rebellion that needed them more than it liked them. But somehow—it did work. Katniss’s quiet steadiness, Johanna’s irreverent spark, and Red’s restless defiance filled the empty places where laughter used to live.

Still, Red couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off.

She slowed a little, scanning the woods ahead. “You two sure we’re going the right way? I don’t see any coordinates on the tracker.” Johanna didn’t even look down at hers. “Because we’re supposed to trust our instincts, remember? Nature and all that crap.”

“Nature’s dead, God I miss District Seven.” Red said flatly.

“Then we’re doing great.”

Katniss smiled faintly but didn’t say anything. She walked a few paces ahead, eyes scanning the forest line like she was searching for something she already knew was there. Red frowned, suspicious now. “Why do you look like you know where we’re going?” Katniss turned, expression calm. “Because I read the map.” Johanna snorted, clearly enjoying this. Red narrowed her eyes. “Oh my goddess? There was a map?”

“You didn’t ask,” Katniss said, deadpan. Johanna burst out laughing, nearly stumbling over a root. “Oh my god, Red, Ms. Mockingjay is getting good at sarcasm. I’m so proud.”

“I will stab you,” Red said.

“With what?” Johanna teased. “Your little vine daggers? You’ll make it aesthetic.”

That earned a genuine laugh from Red, despite herself. “You’re impossible.”

“Thank you,” Johanna said, grinning.

The laughter hung between them for a while, soft and strange against the ruinous quiet of the forest. It felt almost… human. Like a reminder that even in the bowels of rebellion, there were still moments that could be warm. They kept walking. The ground sloped upward, the air shifting—less choked with dust now, more open, cleaner somehow. Katniss slowed her pace, glancing toward Johanna in silent question. Johanna gave the smallest nod.

They were close. Red didn’t notice at first. She was still grumbling under her breath about recon assignments, her boots crunching against brittle twigs, when Katniss suddenly fell back behind her. Red glanced over her shoulder. “What are you—” She didn’t finish. Katniss’s hands came up gently, settling over her eyes.

“Katniss!” Red laughed, startled. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Trust me,” Katniss said softly.

That tone—steady, calm, warm—was not one Red was used to hearing from her. It was enough to make her pause, blinking in the darkness behind Katniss’s palms. “Trust you?” she said skeptically, but there was already a hint of laughter in her voice. “That’s not exactly comforting.” Johanna’s voice floated from somewhere ahead, suspiciously cheerful. “Just go with it, Red.”

“Go with what?”

“You’ll see.”

Red groaned, but it was half-hearted. “If this is a prank—”

Johanna gasped dramatically. “Would I ever?”

“Yes,” Red said immediately.

Katniss laughed under her breath, her hands still covering Red’s eyes as she guided her forward. “Just keep walking.” Red stumbled once on an uneven patch of earth, her hand reaching back instinctively until Katniss steadied her by the arm. The touch was careful, steadying, and despite her confusion, Red found herself following. The scent of earth grew stronger; she could hear the whisper of leaves brushing in the wind.

Johanna’s footsteps crunched ahead of them, her tone light but brimming with barely suppressed excitement. “Okay, careful here—small step up. Perfect. A few more, Red. Don’t peek.”

“I can’t peek!” Red protested, laughing nervously now. “Katniss has me in a hostage situation!”

“Shut up and keep walking,” Johanna said fondly.

They took another turn. The air changed again—warmer somehow, softer. Red could feel it even through the stale chill that had followed them since the bunker. It smelled faintly of pine and something green. Something alive. She frowned. “Where are we—”

“Almost there,” Katniss murmured. Her voice was soft, almost tender.

Red swallowed. Her heart was beating faster now, though she didn’t know why. The nervous laughter had faded into something quieter—an unease that wasn’t unpleasant.

She could feel the ground even out beneath her boots, the crunch of debris fading into soft soil. The air moved differently here, whispering through the trees like breath.

And then—

“Okay,” Johanna said, her voice breaking the moment. “Stop right there.” Red froze. Katniss’s hands lingered for a second longer, warm against her temples, and then she spoke quietly: “Ready?”

“For what?” Red started, but Katniss was already pulling her hands away.

Light. Not bright—not the blinding kind that came from electric bulbs—but the kind that filtered through thin, trembling leaves. A clearing stretched out before her, a small circle of space surrounded by gray-green trees and faint streaks of sunlight bleeding through the mist. The air was soft, almost golden. For a heartbeat, Red didn’t understand what she was seeing. Her brain was still catching up from the sudden flood of light, her lips parting to ask what is this—

And then she saw him.

Finnick.

Kneeling in the center of the clearing.

He looked like he’d been carved out of the light itself, his bronze hair catching every stray glint, his black military uniform neat but his hands trembling slightly where they held the ring. The same ring he’d spent nights perfecting under flickering bulbs, the one he’d nearly given himself away with a hundred times. Red’s breath caught in her throat. “Finnie?” He smiled—soft, nervous, real. Johanna had gone quiet. Katniss stood just behind Red now, her bow hanging loosely at her side, her face unguarded for once—gentle in the way that only came when something pure cut through the ruin of war.

Red’s voice came out small, uncertain. “What… what are you doing?”

Finnick laughed under his breath, the sound shaking slightly. “Something I should have done a long time ago.”

Her lips parted, but no words came.

The forest seemed to hold its breath. Even Johanna—loud, chaotic, unfiltered Johanna—stood still, her grin fading into something like awe. And for a long, fragile second, Red could only stare at him—Finnick Odair, her impossible constant in a world built on ruins, kneeling in the soft light of a dying forest, looking up at her like she was something sacred. The air between them hummed. The wind shifted.

Red took one step forward, her boots barely making a sound in the earth. “Golden-boy what the hell are you doing?” she whispered again, her voice catching somewhere between disbelief and laughter. And there—still on one knee, still holding that small, gleaming ring between trembling fingers—Finnick looked up at her and smiled, that same smile that had once belonged to the Capitol’s darling, now softened by everything they’d survived.

The world felt small. Still.
Like for once, it had chosen to be kind.

Finnick smiled — nervous, crooked, so heartbreakingly human. “Wolfie,” he began, voice low but steady, the lilt of warmth threading through every syllable. “I first met you, your first time training tributes all those years ago.” A shaky laugh escaped him, but he didn’t look away. “You were sharp. Ready to fight at a moment’s notice. You looked at the world like it had already tried to bite you, and you were daring it to try again.” Red’s breath trembled in her throat.

“And gods,” he continued softly, “you were the prettiest girl I had ever laid my eyes on. You still are.”

Her hand flew to her mouth, half-hiding the tears that had already started to blur her vision.

Finnick’s voice cracked, but he didn’t falter. “We’ve been by each other’s side ever since — through the Games, through the Capitol, through everything they tried to break in us. And you never bent, Red. You never stopped fighting for something better — for them,” he nodded faintly toward Katniss and Johanna, “for me.” The ring trembled slightly in his fingers. He laughed under his breath, the sound tight with emotion. “I know we’re knee-deep in a rebellion, sweetheart. I can’t promise you a perfect life — not yet. Maybe not ever.” He looked up at her fully then, eyes wide and glimmering, every word weighted and true. “But I can promise you this,” he said, voice quieting. “Every day until we win — and every day after — I’ll find something to brighten your mornings. A reason to laugh. A way to remind you that even in a world like this, there’s still beauty worth fighting for. And that you, Red, are the reason I still believe in it.” Red’s throat went tight. Her knees wanted to give out. Her hands shook against her lips as her heart crashed against her ribs like a tide she couldn’t hold back.

Behind her, Johanna let out a strangled noise — half gasp, half choke — and muttered, “Oh my god, he’s actually doing this.” Katniss elbowed her, trying to suppress a grin, but her own eyes were bright. Finnick drew in a trembling breath. His words were softer now, like a vow whispered to both her and the earth itself. “I want a life with you, Red. A future. Whatever we can make of it. You and me — and whatever world we help build after this one burns.”

He smiled faintly, glancing down at the ring as if gathering courage from the metal itself. “So what do you say, Wolfie? You think you could stand a few more years of me driving you crazy?” Red let out a choked, disbelieving laugh. Her fingers trembled so hard she could barely lower them from her mouth. “Finnick…” she whispered, voice breaking, and that one word carried a thousand things — the fear, the love, the sheer disbelief that after everything, something so good could still exist.

Johanna, of course, couldn’t take the tension another second.
“THIS IS WHEN YOU SAY YES, BRIAR!” she shouted, voice cracking through the clearing like cannon fire.

Katniss snorted, trying to smother a laugh against her sleeve.

Red half-laughed, half-sobbed, tears streaking down her cheeks. “Yes,” she breathed out, shaking her head in wonder. “Yes, stupid — always, a million times again, yes.” The relief that burst across Finnick’s face was blinding — like sunlight breaking over a storm-torn sea. He rose so quickly it nearly knocked the air from both of them, laughter spilling from his chest as he reached for her hand. The ring slid perfectly onto her finger — too perfect, like it had always belonged there. Her hand trembled as she looked down at it, at the delicate twist of silver and glass, at the small engraving she could barely make out. The air caught in her throat. “You made this,” she whispered, realizing it all at once.

Finnick grinned, the kind that softened his whole face. “Course I did. You think I’d let anyone else make something that’s supposed to last forever?” Before she could even reply, Red launched herself forward — the movement wild, instinctive, so full of joy it nearly knocked him over. Finnick barely had time to catch her before she was in his arms, her legs brushing against his as her arms locked tight around his neck. Their mouths met in a rush — no hesitation, no softness this time — just every ounce of relief, love, and impossible hope crashing together all at once. Finnick stumbled back a step, laughing into the kiss before deepening it, one hand tangled in her hair, the other gripping her waist like she was the only real thing left in the world.

Red broke away just long enough to breathe out his name — “Finnick—” — before he caught her again, and she kissed him harder, the kind of kiss that burned away everything else: the war, the cold, the years of fear. Just them, and the forest, and the sound of her heartbeat hammering against his chest.

Behind them, Johanna made an obnoxiously loud gagging noise. “Oh, come on! We get it! You’re in love, no need to start devouring each other!” That only made Katniss completely lose it — her laughter bursting out sharp and bright, echoing through the trees until even Red had to pull back, breathless and giggling against Finnick’s lips. “Sorry,” Red managed, though the grin spreading across her face said otherwise.

Finnick’s own laugh rumbled low in his throat. “Not sorry enough,” he murmured, stealing one more kiss just to make Johanna groan louder. Johanna threw her hands up. “I swear, if this turns into some fairy-tale forest wedding, I’m lighting something on fire.” Katniss, still laughing, wiped a tear from her cheek. “Too late,” she said, glancing at them. “Pretty sure they already started one.”

Finnick rested his forehead against Red’s, both of them laughing through the tears neither could stop. “I love you, Wolfie,” he murmured, voice breaking on the words like they’d been waiting his whole life to be said.

Red smiled through her tears, brushing his cheek with trembling fingers. “I know, Finnie,” she whispered. “I know. I love you too.” The air around them hummed — quiet, reverent — as if the earth itself had decided to hold its breath for them. Somewhere deep underground, District Thirteen’s lights would still be burning cold and white, and the Capitol would still be watching the world fracture from behind glass screens. But up here, for once, there was no war. Just the two of them. Johanna dropped onto a tree stump dramatically, waving her hand toward them like she was officiating a ceremony.

Red rolled her eyes, but she was laughing so hard she had to lean into Finnick just to stay upright. “Johanna, if you don’t shut it, I’m going to throw you in the lake.” Johanna clutched her chest in mock horror. “You’d attack a newly engaged woman’s maid of honor?”

“You are not my maid of honor.”

“Too late,” Johanna said, smug. “I already claimed the title. Katniss can be your flower girl. She’s got the whole brooding elegance thing going on.” Katniss laughed so hard she actually had to bend forward, bow in hand. “Sure,” she said between breaths, “I’ll sprinkle ash instead of petals.” Red’s face went redder than her hair as she tried to hide her grin against Finnick’s shoulder. “You two are the worst.” Johanna smirked. “And yet, somehow, still invited to the wedding.”

Finnick chuckled, still holding Red close, his forehead pressed lightly against hers. “You know, for once, I think I like this kind of chaos.”

Johanna made a show of wiping away a fake tear. “He’s growing sentimental. Look at that—Finnick Odair, soft and domestic. What’s next? Baking lessons?” Red tilted her head to look at Finnick, her voice a low murmur meant only for him. “She’s going to tease us for the rest of our lives, isn’t she?” He smiled against her temple. “Let her. I don’t mind, as long as you’re here to hear it.”

Katniss slung her bow over her shoulder, still grinning. “Alright, lovebirds. If you’re done turning this mission into a romantic novel, we should probably head back before Coin thinks we actually died up here.”

Johanna groaned. “Don’t ruin the moment, Everdeen. Let them bask.” Red held up her hand, admiring the ring one last time, her chest still aching with that dizzy kind of happiness that didn’t feel real. “I think I’ll be basking for a while.” Finnick kissed her cheek, his voice a soft promise. “Good. Because I plan on giving you a reason to, every day until this war ends.” Johanna fake-gagged again. “Alright, that’s it. I’m walking back alone before they start writing each other poetry.”

“Too late,” Finnick called after her, laughing. “I already started.” Katniss shook her head, still smiling as she followed Johanna toward the trees. “District Thirteen’s not ready for this.” Red turned back to Finnick, and for a long, quiet moment, it was just them again — the forest, the faint wind through the trees, the distant laughter of their friends, and the feeling that even in a world at war, there could still be moments like this. Small, beautiful, and theirs.

Red was still staring at the ring, her thumb brushing across it again and again like she couldn’t quite believe it was real. When she looked up at Finnick, her smile wavered — but didn’t break. “You’re insane,” she whispered, still breathless. He smiled, brushing a stray strand of her fiery hair back from her face. “For you? Completely.”

Johanna groaned loudly. “Okay, that’s enough. If you two start making heart eyes again, I’m heading back underground.” Katniss laughed — really laughed — the sound cutting through the trees like sunlight through storm clouds. Red threw a pinecone at Johanna, still smiling. “You wouldn’t miss this for the world.” Johanna caught it midair, smirking. “Yeah, well. Maybe not.”

And for a moment, they were just four people standing in the woods. Not soldiers, not rebels, not survivors. Just friends. Just family. Just alive. Finnick turned the ring on Red’s finger gently, tracing the vine-like design with his thumb. “It’s supposed to look like the forest,” he said quietly. “The one you always talk about. Antheia’s sanctuary.” Red blinked, her lips parting. “You remembered that?” He smiled. “Of course. You said once that the goddess watches over the brave and the lost. I figured… we’re a bit of both.” Her eyes glistened again, and she nodded, the smallest smile breaking through. “Yeah,” she whispered. “We are.” The sun broke fully through the trees then, spilling gold light across the clearing, making the ring shimmer like fire. Red glanced down at it once more, then back up at Finnick.

“You know this means I’m going to win every argument from now on, right?” she teased, her voice still trembling.

Finnick laughed, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “You already did, Wolfie.”

Johanna groaned behind them. “Ugh, you two make me sick.”

But her grin said the opposite.

Katniss looked skyward, whispering something under her breath — maybe a thank you, maybe just a prayer for something in this world to last. And in that quiet clearing, surrounded by trees older than the war, with laughter echoing between the trunks and love finally blooming where there had only been fear — it almost felt like the world could start again.

--------------------------

The joy from the proposal still clung to Red like sunlight. Even underground, in the sterile gray halls of District Thirteen, it was something she could feel on her skin — a warmth that refused to fade no matter how much metal and concrete surrounded her. She and Finnick walked the narrow corridor side by side, their hands brushing with each step, the echo of Johanna’s laughter and Katniss’s quiet smile still lingering in their heads.

But as the corridors grew quieter, the closer they got to the medical wing, the joy softened into something gentler — still glowing, but fragile. The hum of machines filled the space where laughter had been, and the scent of antiseptic replaced the pine and earth from above.

Outside the medbay, Katniss leaned against the wall, her bow slung over her shoulder, her expression heavy with a kind of cautious sadness. Johanna was pacing, restless energy vibrating off her as she muttered under her breath.

“Are you sure you want to do this now?” Katniss asked, eyes flicking toward the sealed door. “He’s… not himself lately.”

“I know,” Red said quietly, one hand brushing the new ring on her finger. “But I think he’d want to know. He was there for us — for all of us — in the arena. I owe him this.”

Finnick reached out and touched her arm. “We’ll be quick,” he said softly. “If he gets upset, we’ll leave right away.”

Johanna sighed, rubbing the back of her neck. “We’ll be out here if you need us. Just yell.”

Red nodded once, squared her shoulders, and pushed the door open.

The medbay was cold and far too bright. Every surface gleamed with white, every shadow scrubbed away by the harsh lights overhead. In the far corner, Peeta sat propped up on a cot, his wrists still loosely strapped to the railings — not tight enough to hurt, but enough to stop him if another episode came. His skin was pale, almost translucent under the lights, his face hollowed out by weeks of starvation and torture. Bruises still marbled his arms and neck, fading from dark purple to yellow.

He looked up when they entered, and for a moment, confusion flickered across his face — that fractured uncertainty that always seemed to follow him now. His gaze darted between them, wary and distant, as if he were trying to decide whether they were real.

Finnick’s voice was gentle. “Hey, Peeta.”

It took a moment, but Peeta’s expression softened. “Finnick,” he said slowly, his voice rough, scraped raw. “Red.”

Red smiled faintly and moved closer, pulling up a metal chair beside his bed. She tried not to look at the straps, or the dark circles under his eyes, or the way his hands twitched against the sheets like he was trying to ground himself.

“Hey, you,” she said softly, as if they were back in the Training Center, talking between sessions. “You up for some good news?”

Peeta hesitated. “Good news is… rare around here.”

Red’s laugh was quiet, shaky. “Then you’ll like this one.” She lifted her left hand, the small ring glinting under the sterile light. “Finnick proposed.”

For a moment, Peeta just stared. His blue eyes flickered from her hand to Finnick’s face, like he was searching for some trick in it — another Capitol illusion meant to break him. But then his brow softened, and a slow, almost disbelieving smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“Really?” he whispered.

“Really,” Finnick said, leaning against the foot of the cot. “She said yes before Johanna could yell it for her.”

A breathy laugh escaped Peeta — small, fragile, but real. The sound filled the empty space like a patch of sunlight breaking through the gray. “That’s… that’s very nice,” he said, voice trembling slightly.

Red reached out, resting her hand over his wrist, the one unbound from the strap. “We wanted you to know first. You’ve been part of this from the start, Peeta. You kept us alive in there.”

Peeta’s eyes glistened, and for a moment, she could almost see the old Peeta — the boy with flour on his hands, paint on his shirt, always dreaming up beauty in a world that had forgotten how.

“You both deserve something good,” he said softly. “Something that’s… yours.”

Red smiled, though her throat felt tight. “We’re trying. Piece by piece.” She hesitated, then took a slow breath. “Actually, I wanted to ask you something.”

His brow furrowed slightly, curiosity flickering to life.

“When things settle down,” she said, “when we actually get to have a wedding — would you…” she trailed off, the words catching, “would you make the cake?”

For a long time, Peeta just stared at her hand still covering his wrist. His lips parted, but no sound came out. His fingers twitched again, but not with confusion this time — more like muscle memory. A baker remembering the feel of dough, of sugar, of warmth.

He swallowed hard, eyes flicking up to hers. “You want me to make your wedding cake.”

“Of course,” Red said softly. “Who else would I trust with it?”

Finnick’s smile was quiet, tender. “You’d make something beautiful, Peeta. Something that reminds us what we’re fighting for.”

A sound left Peeta’s throat that might’ve been a laugh or a sob — maybe both. His voice cracked when he finally answered.

“Of course,” he said. “I’d… I’d be honored.”

Red’s hand tightened around his. “Thank you.”

He blinked a few times, his gaze drifting back down to the ring again. “She’s lucky,” he murmured, his tone distant but warm. Then, more softly, “You both are.”

There was a pause — the kind of silence that wasn’t empty, but full of everything unspoken. The three of them had survived too much to pretend that happiness came easily anymore, yet somehow it still glowed faintly between them.

After a while, Peeta leaned back against the cot, his breathing evening out. His hand stayed limp but warm beneath Red’s fingers.

“I used to dream about baking again,” he said after a while, his voice barely above a whisper. “When they had me… in the Capitol. Sometimes I’d see the ovens. The smell of bread. It made everything else… quieter.” Red’s throat ached. “Then that’s what you’ll do when this is over,” she said gently. “You’ll bake again. For the whole District if you want.”

He gave a tired little smile. “Maybe I’ll start smaller. Just for you two first.”

Finnick’s voice was quiet. “We’d like that.” The clock on the wall ticked softly. Machines hummed. Somewhere far down the corridor, a nurse’s footsteps echoed. Red stayed seated for a while longer, her fingers still lightly clasping Peeta’s, until his breathing steadied enough that she knew he’d drift soon.

When she finally stood, she brushed a stray lock of hair from his forehead, like Mira used to do for her brothers when they were sick. “We’ll come back soon,” she promised. Peeta’s eyes were already half-closed, but his lips curved faintly. “I’ll start thinking about the cake,” he murmured. Red smiled through the sting in her eyes. “You do that.” As she and Finnick slipped out into the hall again, Johanna and Katniss straightened immediately, searching their faces for answers.

“He smiled,” Red whispered, still clutching Finnick’s hand. “Just for a second. But he smiled.”

Katniss exhaled slowly, shoulders sagging in quiet relief. Johanna nodded once, her grin subdued but sincere.

“That’s good,” Johanna said softly. “That’s something.”

And as the heavy door shut behind them, Red caught a final glimpse of Peeta through the window — thin, bruised, broken, but maybe, just maybe, beginning to remember what hope looked like.

Chapter Text

The corridors of District Thirteen were quiet at this hour. Too quiet, almost painfully so. The hum of the ventilation system was the only constant, a low, mechanical heartbeat that ran through the base like a living thing, unnoticed but inescapable. The pale artificial lights in the hall flickered intermittently, casting long shadows across the gray walls, making every corner a little more ominous, every doorway a potential hiding place for imagined dangers. It was a far cry from the sunlit days above ground, where the forests of District Seven could breathe life into the lungs and hearts of its inhabitants. Here, underground, life was reduced to breath and motion, to the sound of shoes squeaking on the polished concrete floors and the occasional clatter of a distant door.

Red moved like a restless spirit through their apartment, her bare feet silent against the cold tiles. Her long, red braids, undone for the first time in what felt like an eternity, swept across her back and trailed against the floor, tangling in themselves as she spun and pivoted around the small space. Normally, she took care to keep her hair restrained in perfect, tight braids, a practical armor for someone who spent her life training, fighting, and surviving. But tonight, there were no bounds, no discipline, no care—just the wild cascade of her hair, the vibrant red a stark contrast to the monochrome gray of their underground dwelling.

She moved from the edge of the bed to the small window that peered out toward the long hallway, staring blankly at the flickering light above. The blinds were shut, but the glow of the fluorescent panels outside seeped through the cracks, casting uneven lines across her face. Her eyes were wide, restless, haunted by the rush of emotions she hadn’t anticipated to feel so suddenly, so intensely. The proposal had been perfect—or at least, she remembered it that way—but the weight of reality pressed down with it. War hadn’t stopped, the rebellion wasn’t paused for love, and yet here she was, a person who had always carried her own burdens, suddenly grappling with a future that promised joy but was tangled with danger.

Her bare arms moved with agitated rhythm, brushing strands of hair out of her face, running fingers through the loose braids, twisting and untwisting them almost absentmindedly. She was muttering under her breath, half-formed sentences that dissolved before she could commit to them. “…how… how am I supposed to… during a war… Finnick… the wedding…” The words trailed off into a whisper that the walls refused to answer. The sound was soft but urgent, a confession to the empty room rather than anyone in particular. She had barely touched the soft gray blanket that had been tossed aside from the bed, her thoughts pulling her into an orbit of anxious, impossibly contradictory feelings.

Her pacing was endless, circling the room, stopping to lean against the wall for just a breath before springing back into motion. She brushed past the small, worn table where Finnick’s belongings were still arranged in careful chaos, a small reflection of the life they’d carved out together amidst the gray utilitarianity of District Thirteen. A coin, perfectly balanced on its edge, wobbled slightly and fell to the floor, clattering against the tiles. Red barely noticed. Her focus was entirely consumed by the thoughts that churned in her mind, the impossible weight of being a warrior, a lover, a survivor, and soon… a bride. The words themselves seemed absurd, heavy with irony, impossible when measured against the backdrop of the rebellion: “bride… wedding… love…” Each syllable felt like it belonged to another life entirely, a life that existed only in daydreams she had snatched from the corners of the Capitol arenas, stolen moments when she could imagine something unbroken.

She paused at the small bookshelf where she kept manuals, maps, and the occasional memento from her life before, tracing her fingers over the spines of worn books and laminated papers. Her gaze fell to a photograph tucked in between two books, a small snapshot of her and Finnick from a week after the last training exercise, smiling despite the dirt, the exhaustion, and the endless weight of duty. Her thumb hovered over his face in the photo, stroking the outline as if she could trace the memory itself into permanence. The fear of losing him, even for a moment, gnawed at her chest with the same sharp intensity as any weapon she had ever held. She let out a quiet, jagged breath, one that she hadn’t realized she’d been holding, and her body shivered against the chill of the underground air.

The ceiling lights above her flickered again, briefly casting the room into darkness before buzzing back to life, revealing the long lines of concrete and the sharp edges of the furniture. The apartment, though small, had become a kind of cage, a containment unit for her restless energy. The bed where she had been lying moments ago now seemed miles away as she circled, her feet padding lightly against the tiles, keeping her from sinking back into sleep. Finnick was there somewhere, she knew, sleeping just a few feet away, his steady breaths a metronome she could almost tune to—but tonight, she didn’t want that comfort. She needed to move, to burn through the anxiety that coiled in her chest, to wrestle with the impossibility of a future that was both terrifying and bright all at once.

Her bare shoulders ached as she ran her hands through her hair again, tugging gently, twisting it into loose coils that hung over her elbows. She paused at the foot of the bed, staring down at Finnick’s sleeping form. Even in sleep, he was perfect in that unbearable, human way that made her chest constrict. The ring—the one he had shown her earlier, the one he had promised her in a moment of perfect intention—lay in his pocket, and she imagined it there, hidden but close, a symbol of everything she felt she was too restless to express. Her fingers twitched toward the edge of the mattress as if she could touch it, and then she pulled her hands back, pressing them against her face. The braid she had taken out earlier brushed against the floor, a tangle of crimson that she barely noticed.

She moved toward the small kitchenette, running a hand along the edge of the counter where Finnick’s last cup of water still sat, half-drained. The hum of the pipes and the distant mechanical whir of the air vents became louder in her mind, each noise amplified, a reminder that this underground city never truly slept. Even when everything seemed silent, the systems that held them alive, that maintained order and life below the surface, continued their endless, ceaseless work. And so she moved, pacing, unable to still her thoughts, her long braids swinging behind her like a banner of defiance against the enforced calm of the night.

She stopped again, near the window overlooking the hallway. In a rare, reflective moment, she pressed her palm against the cold glass, imagining the surface she could not see. The streets above District Thirteen were empty at this hour, save for the occasional patrol or faint flicker of light from a distant training tower. The world aboveground, sunless now because it was the underground city that sustained her and her people, felt distant, impossibly far. She let her eyes close briefly, remembering the forests of Seven, the smell of fresh-cut timber, the way the wind tangled in her hair as she sprinted through the trees, her blades sharp and ready. That memory was vivid enough to make her pause, to breathe deeply, before her hands fisted at her sides and she resumed her pacing, a silent predator of her own mind.

The room was littered with small signs of their shared life: Finnick’s coin spinning faintly on the counter from where he had left it, a pair of vine daggers she’d sharpened earlier lying next to the training manuals, and the soft, gray blanket tossed from the bed in a moment of restless sleep. She brushed past all of it without noticing, lost in the tidal wave of her own thoughts. Every step echoed slightly, a rhythmic reminder of the life she led—a life of training, of fighting, of surviving, of loving someone with a ferocity she had never allowed herself to express until now.

Her eyes drifted to the small stack of notes they kept on planning missions, scouting the surface, and strategies for the rebellion. She imagined their names written on the paper: Red Briar, Johanna Mason, Katniss Everdeen, Finnick Odair. Each one a survivor, each one a weapon, and yet tonight, her mind could not stop circling the absurdity of what Finnick had promised her: a life together, even in a world still fractured and bleeding with war. Her chest tightened as she envisioned it—training sessions, stolen moments in the gray hallways, whispered confessions of love between drills. And yet there was fear, the kind that sat in the pit of her stomach, reminding her that life was fragile, that nothing about their world guaranteed safety, not even here, underground.

She circled back to the bed again, barely noticing the soft rise and fall of Finnick’s chest beneath the blanket. For a moment, she stopped, bending over slightly to brush her fingers against his shoulder. His skin was warm even through the fabric of his uniform, a constant reminder that he was here, that he was safe, and that he loved her. But the moment passed, her hands falling to her sides as the panic in her chest returned, restless and insistent. She could feel her pulse in her ears, her breathing sharp and uneven, and she muttered once more under her breath, “…how… can we… can we really… survive this and still… marriage…”

The words were a tremor of doubt, unformed and fragmented, dissolving into the quiet hum of the underground apartment. She circled again, dragging her fingers along the counter, the edge of the bookshelf, the wall, tracing lines she would never fully see. The gray of the walls pressed in on her, the artificial light harsh against her skin, yet she couldn’t stop moving. She thought of the rebellion outside, the war they fought, the danger that never slept, and then of the ring, of Finnick, of the love that had grown fierce and unyielding in the cracks of this shattered world.

Her hair tangled around her fingers again as she spun, barefoot on the cold floor. She imagined a wedding, small, underground perhaps, but with laughter, with Johanna yelling and Katniss smirking, with Finnick grinning and that warmth he always carried. And yet, even as she imagined it, panic fluttered in her chest, a restless bird that refused to be caged. How could she celebrate life, she thought, when the world was still burning around them? And yet… Finnick was there, waiting, always waiting, and her heart twisted at the thought of letting herself hope.

The hum of the ventilation system seemed to sync with her racing heartbeat. The shadows cast by the flickering light stretched and bent, warping across the walls as she moved, the room seeming smaller and smaller despite its normal size. She felt the weight of everything—the rebellion, the war, the memories of the arena, the losses, the scars—and yet, somehow, underneath it all, there was the fragile, gleaming thread of hope. A promise in a simple loop of metal, in a man who had fought beside her for ten years, in the very air of District Thirteen that hummed with life and resistance. It was enough to make her hands clench in frustration and longing, pacing endlessly as if movement could chase away the fear.

And so, she moved again, her braids swinging like banners of defiance and fear, her bare feet silent against the cold gray tiles, muttering to herself, whispering her fears into the air that would never answer, circling the room like a restless shadow, the night stretching endlessly before her, the weight of the world pressing, always pressing, against her chest.

The hum of the ventilation system had become a lullaby she could not hear. Red’s pacing sliced through the stillness of their underground apartment like a knife across glass, sharp, precise, and relentless. Her bare feet whispered across the cold gray tiles, a quiet rhythm that contrasted sharply with the chaos storming inside her. Finnick’s eyes, half-closed moments ago, fluttered open to the sound, the gentle intrusion of motion in the darkness drawing him from the edges of sleep.

He propped himself up on one elbow, shirtless, the faint curve of his muscles outlined in the dim glow of the emergency lights. His pajama pants hung low on his hips, soft fabric gathering at the tops of his thighs. Even like this, exhausted and unprepared, he was all ease, a constant in a life that had never promised constancy. And there she was, moving like a wild current through the room, oblivious to him entirely.

Her hair—her glorious, impossibly long red braids that had once been the armor of her youth, carefully coiled and bound to contain her strength—was undone. It tumbled over her shoulders, pooling like molten fire around her bare arms and trailing across the floor, curling into soft coils at her ankles. Each braid that had once been a tether to her composure now lay loose, a tangled mirror of the storm inside her. Every knot undone, every ribbon of red curling and twisting, whispered of a mind unraveling, of a heart too full and too restless to find peace. Finnick’s chest tightened. He had seen her braids like this before—maybe four times in a decade—but never like tonight. Never with the restlessness etched into every movement, every frantic glance toward the floor, the walls, the unseen shadows of the room.

Red did not notice him stirring. She did not notice his eyes, half-shadowed but sharp, following her across the apartment. She was muttering, half-whispered fragments of thought that bled into the gray air: “…how… can I… do this… wedding… during a war… we… Finnick…” The words were jagged, broken on the edges, curling in on themselves like smoke from a candle that had been burned down too far. Her fingers tugged at the ends of her braids, twisting and untwisting them, as if trying to undo the memories knotted inside her mind along with the strands of hair. Each coil that came free was a sigh of frustration, a confession of fear, a surrender to the impossibility of reconciling love with survival, joy with duty.

Finnick sat still for a moment longer, just watching, allowing the weight of the room to settle around them both. He had seen Red in battle, had seen her poised and lethal under the weight of every training exercise, every arena fight, every mission in District Thirteen—but this was different. This was her raw self, stripped of discipline, unguarded, untamed. Her braids—usually a crown of control and intention—lay like fallen towers around her feet, a signal as clear to him as any battlefield flag: she was undone. Her mind, fraying at the edges from joy, fear, and exhaustion, was unraveling as thoroughly as the threads of her hair.

He pushed himself up, rolling his shoulders, careful not to make a sound. The mattress shifted faintly under him, a whisper of movement, and that was all it took. Red froze mid-step, hands still twisting a rogue braid around her fingers. Her head tilted, her wide, eyes narrowing through the shadows of the room. Recognition and panic collided, her pupils dilating just slightly as the reality of his presence sank in.

“Finnick,” she breathed, the word barely more than a sigh, a tremor in the darkness. Her voice had the weight of a confession she hadn’t been ready to give, a fragile admission to someone who had always been able to see her when no one else could. Her shoulders tensed as though she sensed him fully, every nerve in her body alight with recognition, though her mind lagged behind, still tangled in the chaos of her own swirling thoughts. She turned slightly, just a tilt of the head, enough to catch the faint outline of him perched on the bed, the shadows of the emergency lights outlining the curve of his shoulders, the faint glimmer of muscle in the dim glow, the small, patient line of his jaw.

For a heartbeat, time seemed to crack open, and Red’s eyes, wide and luminous in the darkness, locked with his. They were no longer glazed with sleepless panic. They were no longer darting to nonexistent threats or shadows of war. For the first time that night, they were alive. Recognizing. Anchored. And in that moment, every frayed edge of her anxiety, every thread of her fear, every pang of guilt and worry, found its tether.

She lunged forward without thinking, as if instinct had taken control and her reason had been left behind in the tangle of her braids. Her arms wrapped around him with a force that was equal parts desperation and relief, and she buried her face against his shoulder, against the warmth of his neck, as though she could press every haunting memory out of her skin by the simple act of holding him. Finnick caught her immediately, his hands sliding along her back, anchoring her, steadying her, feeling the tremor of her body against his own.

Her braids, once neatly coiled and controlled, now fell like liquid fire around them both, cascading over his arms and torso, pooling on the bed, curling into soft spirals along the sheets. They tangled and enveloped them, a living cloak of red that was simultaneously wild and protective. Each strand seemed to whisper of her release, her surrender, her acknowledgment that she could let herself be seen, truly seen, without the armor of precision and poise. The braids were no longer a symbol of her discipline—they were a symbol of her humanity, of all the battles she had fought, both in arenas and in life, and the unspoken relief of being able to finally let them go.

Red did not speak. She did not need to. Her humming was low, a soft vibration against his skin, a melody of release that spoke of exhaustion and exhilaration, terror and love all at once. The sound was small, almost a whisper, yet it carried the weight of everything she could not say aloud. Finnick’s chest tightened again, his heart threatening to break from the intensity of it. He had held her in training, in battle, in moments of triumph and despair—but this was different. This was Red stripped of every layer except the raw, burning core of her being, and he was the only person allowed this intimacy.

He let himself breathe her in—the scent of her hair, faintly of pine and soap, with a trace of the sweat from hours of training earlier. He let himself feel the weight of her arms around his neck, the tremor of her body pressed against his, and the warmth of her pressed into the small of his back as if she were trying to fuse herself to him, as if the world outside could be kept at bay simply by the proximity of their bodies.

Time became irrelevant. The clock above the door was just another gray square, meaningless compared to the pulse of her breath against his skin, the hum of the ventilation system, and the quiet, steady presence of their shared heartbeat. Finnick tilted his head slightly, pressing a gentle kiss into the top of her head where her braids began to loosen, tangling with his fingers. He could feel her small shivers beneath his touch, the fragile tremors that told him she had been walking the edge of panic for hours before finally noticing him.

Her hums deepened, vibrating against the warmth of his neck, resonating through him in a way that threatened to pull him under the tide of emotion. He tightened his hold just slightly, careful not to restrain her, but enough to remind her that she was not alone, that the weight she carried need not be borne in isolation. Each breath she took was a wave, ebbing and flowing, sometimes shallow, sometimes ragged, and he rode them with her, matching her rhythm in silence.

Her braids continued to shift around them, curling over his arms and onto the sheets, wrapping around his wrist like ribbons of fire. Finnick let them slip through his fingers, letting her take the lead, letting the chaos of her hair mimic the chaos of her thoughts, letting it be a living thing that represented her fear and her courage in equal measure. He had never seen her so exposed, so utterly herself, and his chest ached with both awe and helplessness, knowing that he could not fix all of it with a kiss or a word. All he could do was be here, be steady, and let her unravel while he held the ends of what she could not yet control.

Her humming slowed slightly, though it remained a continuous thread, a tether back to reality even as the weight of her emotions threatened to sweep her under. Finnick let his forehead rest lightly against the crown of her head, closing his eyes, allowing himself to feel the moment fully. He felt her arms tighten instinctively, clutching him closer, as if she feared that letting him go would somehow send the world crashing down around them. And in that instinctive gesture, he understood everything: the terror, the joy, the love, the exhaustion, the release. It was all there, in the curve of her spine against his chest, the tangles of her hair over his hands, the rhythm of her breath, the hum that filled the room like a prayer or a plea.

Hours—or maybe minutes, he could not tell—passed in this quiet, wordless communion. Finnick’s lips brushed against her hair now and then, tiny presses of affection, reminders that he was here, that he would not leave, that her chaos was safe with him. And slowly, gradually, imperceptibly, Red began to loosen further, her body melting into his, her arms tightening around his neck as if drawing strength from his steady presence. She was not speaking, and he did not force words from her. There was no need. The room, the night, the small cocoon of bed, blankets, and red hair was enough.

Her eyes finally lifted just slightly from the bedspread, glimmering through strands of her fire-red hair that had fallen over her face. There was recognition there, full and luminous, a spark of life that had dimmed in the turbulence of her thoughts. She was still trembling, still raw, still fragile—but she had noticed him. She had found him. And that was enough.

In one fluid, almost desperate motion, she leapt forward, throwing herself fully into his arms, and he caught her with practiced ease, laughing softly despite the ache in his chest. Her arms wrapped around his neck, fingers tangled in his hair, in the loose braids that had become her armor and her confession at once. She pressed her face against his shoulder, letting herself collapse, hums vibrating against his neck, no words needed, no explanations required. The weight of the world, the rebellion, the memories, the war—they all slipped away for this moment, held at bay by the heat of their bodies pressed together, the tangling of red hair and callused fingers, the silent promise that they would face whatever came next side by side.

Finnick’s hands moved instinctively, sliding over her back, under her hair, anchoring her without restraint, feeling the warmth, the tremors, the heartbeat pressed against him. Her long braids wrapped around them both like a living cloak, a fiery net that caught them in a private universe, a moment apart from the gray, underground world that continued to hum and thrum outside. She did not speak, did not demand, did not reason—she simply existed here, in him, and he existed in her.

For the first time that night, for the first time in what felt like eternity, Finnick allowed himself to truly breathe. The weight of worry, of war, of planning and fighting and surviving, slipped from him in a long, low sigh. He could feel the tremors in her body gradually ease, could feel her heart slow, could feel the hum of her release. And though her arms remained tight around his neck, though her hair still engulfed them both, there was a small, imperceptible shift—a quiet, trembling acceptance that he was here, that she was safe, that she could let herself be held.

The night stretched on, silent but full, alive in its own way. And Finnick, shirtless, alive, anchored in the chaos of Red’s unbraided hair and frayed thoughts, whispered softly into her crown:

“You’re safe, Wolfie. I’ve got you. Always.”

And she hummed again, low, steady, a sound of surrender, a sound of trust, a sound of love. No words, no promises, just the quiet knowledge that they were together.

Chapter Text

The air in District Thirteen’s living quarters was always coldest before the artificial lights came fully awake. The hum of ventilation filled the silence in rhythmic bursts—steady, low, constant—like a heartbeat buried beneath steel.

Finnick stirred when the rustle of fabric and the faint clink of metal brushed against the edges of sleep. His eyes blinked open to the dim light of their unit, the gray walls washed yellow light. Red was standing by the foot of the bed, already halfway into her uniform. He could tell it was her real one this time—the black military issue that hugged close to her body, layered with padding and reinforced seams, the one that made her look like she belonged to a world that demanded blood and precision. The fabric gleamed faintly where the material caught the low light, reflecting the sheen of weapon-grade weave.

Her back was turned to him, long hair a wild, burning curtain of red spilling unbound down to her hips. She’d brushed it through once or twice, he could tell—it was smoother than usual, the tangled curls relaxed—but it still looked like a living thing, fire-bright and restless. Her two vine-strung daggers hung at her side, the blades nestled against her thighs in their custom harnesses—delicate in shape but deadly in design. Beetee’s handiwork had made the vines themselves both weapon and tether, metal filaments woven through, strong enough to slice air and bone alike if thrown with the right angle. Her fingerless gloves lay on the table beside her, next to her golden patch—the small embroidered emblem of Antheia that she always insisted be sewn onto every uniform. Finnick knew the story. Effie had made it this time.

He sat up slowly, running a hand through his hair, still thick with sleep. “You’re up early,” he murmured, voice low, rough around the edges.

She turned at the sound, the faintest curve of a smile ghosting across her lips. Her eyes, that sharp green-gold that always looked like it belonged to sunlight, softened when they found him.

“Couldn’t sleep.” She lifted the brush in her hand, the wooden one he’d seen her use a hundred times, the one missing a few bristles at the center. “Coin wants me, Katniss, and Johanna ready in twenty minutes. Something about surface recon.” He frowned. “Recon? I thought—”

“I know,” she cut in quickly, voice brisk but tired. “But apparently it’s legit this time. Gas readings spiked up there last night. She wants a team to verify before sending the scientists.” Finnick pushed the covers aside and swung his legs over the edge of the bed, the cold metal floor biting at his bare feet. “So she’s sending you.”

Red shrugged, the motion tight, practiced. “I guess she trusts me not to die.”

He didn’t laugh.

She shifted her weight, holding the brush loosely by the handle. Her movements were brisk, efficient, but her fingers trembled slightly around the brush, betraying the exhaustion behind the composure. “Finnick,” she said quietly, “can you braid it for me?” He blinked, then smiled faintly. “You know you don’t even have to ask.” It wasn’t a rare thing for her to need his help—her hair was too long, too heavy for her to manage alone—but it still hit him in the chest every time she asked. Something about the trust in it. The ritual. She turned and handed him the brush. Her engagement ring caught the dim light—a thin circle of gold, nothing extravagant, just the one he’d shaped himself and slipped on her finger weeks ago. It gleamed faintly against her calloused skin, the only bright thing in the gray morning.

“Sit,” he murmured, patting the floor in front of him.

She sank down between his knees, back straight, posture soldier-sharp even now. The floor was cold, but she didn’t flinch. He took the brush from her, thumb brushing over the worn wood, and began to work through the fiery mass of her hair. He’d done this a hundred times. Maybe more. The brush moved in steady strokes, each pull smoothing out a strand, loosening a knot. The air filled with the faint, clean scent of her soap—mint and smoke and metal—and the quiet scrape of bristles through hair. When the brush caught at the back of her neck, she winced.

“Sorry,” he murmured, gentle, easing the snarl loose with his fingers instead. His hands were warm, his touch patient.

“It’s okay,” she whispered.

He worked until every tangle was gone, until her hair slid through his hands like water. Then he set the brush aside, running both palms down the full length of it to divide it into sections. His fingers moved automatically—practice, muscle memory, the same kind of rhythm that had once kept him alive on the docks of District Four. “You know,” she said softly, “I still don’t know how you do it so fast.” Finnick chuckled under his breath. “You forget—I grew up tying knots before I could walk straight. Nets, ropes, lines—braiding’s the same thing, just softer.”

Her laugh was quiet, but real.

He began the fishtail braid the way he always did—splitting her hair into two thick halves, drawing a small strand from one side and crossing it over, then another from the opposite. The movement was hypnotic, fluid, the kind of skill that came from instinct rather than thought.

Her hair shimmered under his fingers, a cascade of red-gold flame tamed into order. Each cross and pull was as precise as knotwork, every pattern even and deliberate. The braid grew down her back like a woven current, a river of fire drawn into rope.

He tied off the end with one of her dark leather bands, securing it with a sailor’s knot so it would never slip loose in the middle of a mission. Then he started on the second braid, the twin to the first, parting the strands again with the easy confidence of someone who’d done this by lantern light and sea wind a thousand times before. “Perfect as always,” she murmured after a while.

“Of course,” he said lightly. “District Four tradition—never let a knot come undone.”

When both fishtail braids were finished, he gathered them together and tied them off at the base of her neck so they joined into one, heavy and precise. The whole thing looked almost ceremonial—practical, yes, but beautiful too, gleaming like something made for war and sunlight both.

He smoothed his hand down the braid one last time, checking the tension. “There,” he said softly. “Won’t move an inch, no matter what Coin throws at you.” Red tilted her head slightly, letting the ends brush against her shoulder. “You’re sure?”

“I’d stake my nets on it,” he murmured, smiling. “You forget—I make knots that survive storms.” She glanced up at him then, eyes glinting green in the low light, the faintest smile tugging at her lips. “Then I’ll survive this one.” She stayed perfectly still, only breathing, her hands resting loosely on her knees. The fabric of her uniform creaked faintly when she moved, the dark black gleam of it catching the sterile light of the room. Every line of her posture was composed—shoulders squared, chin level, the picture of a soldier who knew how to quiet her nerves by sheer force of will.

And yet, every few seconds, he caught it. The tiny tremor in her hand. The way her fingers brushed her left hand again, tracing circles over the gold band wrapped around her finger.

Finnick leaned on his elbows, watching her. He didn’t speak at first. The air felt suspended, heavy with something unspoken.

That ring—thin, simple, imperfect—was the only fragile thing about her. He’d made it himself, hammered it from a bit of wire scavenged from Beetee’s workshop, polishing it smooth with sand until it shone. And now she sat there wearing it like it had always belonged to her, like she’d been born with it. Every time she turned her hand, it caught the light and sent it skittering up her wrist.

He wondered if she even realized she kept touching it—or if the gesture had already become something unconscious, a small, desperate reminder of what waited for her when she came back.

“Red,” he said softly. She didn’t look up. “Mm?”

“How long till you leave?”

Her thumb moved against the metal again. “Soon,” she murmured. “They’re still running the last safety checks on the airlocks. I think we go up when the next shift switches.” Her voice was calm, steady. Only the faintest crack in the last word betrayed her nerves. He nodded slowly. The light from the bedside lamp painted soft gold across her face, catching the faint circles under her eyes and the shimmer of the golden Antheia patch sewn onto her shoulder. The goddess of the forest. Protector. He wondered if Red still believed in that kind of protection—or if she’d left all her gods behind underground, buried with the rest of the world’s mercy.

“You’ll wear the respirator?” he asked, his voice quiet.

Her mouth quirked into a faint smile. “Yes, Finnick.”

He reached forward and hooked a finger into the end of her braid, giving it a small tug. It was the same motion he used to pull a fishing line taut—gentle, but firm enough to be felt.

“Promise me,” he said.

Red finally turned her head, a strand of hair falling loose to frame her cheek. Her smile was tired, small, but it still hit him right in the chest. “I promise.” But she didn’t turn away. Not yet. He kept his hand on her braid, his thumb rubbing over the woven pattern he’d made that morning. The fishtail design was perfect, each strand tight and smooth. He’d tied the end off in one of his knots—a fisherman’s lock that couldn’t come undone even under a storm surge. And now, staring at it, he wished he could tie her to something stronger than rope. Something that would keep her anchored to him, no matter how the surface tried to swallow her.

She tilted her head slightly, sensing his silence. “You’re staring again,” she murmured.

He smiled faintly. “Can’t help it. You’re very distracting in all that black.”

She huffed out a small laugh and reached up to adjust the strap of her shoulder harness. “You say that like it’s new.”

“Not new,” he said. “Just… sharper every time.”

That earned him a look—a sidelong glance, half fondness, half disbelief. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Hopelessly,” he said easily, though his voice softened at the end. “But it’s true.”

Her hands dropped back to her knees, and for a moment, they just looked at each other. The hum of the ventilation system filled the silence, a low, steady drone that might as well have been the heartbeat of the underground.

“Finnick,” she said after a moment, and her voice was gentler than before. “I’ll come back.” He swallowed. “You don’t know that.”

“I do.” She leaned forward, resting her elbows on her thighs, gaze fixed on the floor. “I have to, we gotta get married soon, cutie.”

It wasn’t arrogance. It wasn’t false bravado. It was just the simple, exhausted faith of someone who had already survived too many things that should have killed her.

He wanted to believe her. God, he did. But he could see the faint tremor still running through her hands. The war had already taken so much—he didn’t know if he could stand to watch it take her too. “You always say that,” he said finally, a quiet edge of fear hiding beneath the tease. “And then you come home covered in someone else’s blood and tell me it’s fine.” Red’s jaw tensed. She didn’t meet his eyes. “It was fine.”

“Until it isn’t,” he said softly.

That landed. She exhaled slowly, shoulders curling inward for the first time all morning. For all her fire and defiance, she had this way of folding in on herself when she felt cornered—not defensively, but like she was protecting something fragile inside. He reached out again and rested his hand on her shoulder. His thumb brushed over the golden Antheia patch, the threads rough beneath his skin. “You don’t have to prove anything,” he murmured. “Not to Coin. Not to the rebellion. Not to anyone.”

Red turned her head, her eyes bright with something sharp. “That’s not what this is about.”

“I know.”

“Then don’t make it sound like it is.”

He wanted to argue. He wanted to tell her that nothing in this rebellion mattered more to him than her being safe. But he also knew how she’d look at him if he did—like he was trying to put her in a cage made of good intentions. So he didn’t say it. Instead, he let his fingers trail down from her shoulder, along the braid, and to the end where it rested against her hip. “You’re sure it’s safe up there?”

“Coin said there’s only residual gas pockets, something weird but not out of the ordinary. Beetee confirmed.”

“And you believe her?”

Red gave a short, humorless laugh. “No.” That made him smile despite himself. “Good. Keep it that way.” The air felt heavier now, the silence stretching longer, thicker. She kept her eyes forward, but her thumb found the ring again. It was almost compulsive—the same small circle, over and over. He’d seen soldiers touch their dog tags that way before a mission. People reaching for something human before they had to step back into hell.

Finnick shifted forward, leaning close enough that his voice brushed the shell of her ear. “You come back to me, you hear?”

“I always do,” she whispered.

“Whole.”

“Mostly.” He let out a low sound—not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh—and pressed his forehead against the back of her head. The scent of her hair filled his lungs, that faint ocean-salt and smoke he’d memorized long ago. “I’ll hold you to it,” he murmured. “You always do.” When she finally stood, she turned to him, her braid swinging over her shoulder. She adjusted her gloves, then her harness, every motion precise. He could see the soldier again now—the one who didn’t flinch, didn’t hesitate.

But as she looked at him, the corner of her mouth lifted. “You’re going to worry anyway.”

“Of course,” he said. “It’s my favorite hobby.”

That earned him a faint laugh. Then she stepped closer and reached out, her fingers brushing his jaw, tracing the faint stubble there. “You’ll make yourself sick one day.”

“Then come back before that happens.”

Her expression softened. She leaned forward and pressed her forehead to his for a heartbeat—just long enough for him to feel her breath. Then she stepped back, the connection breaking like a thread pulled too tight. The door alarm buzzed somewhere down the hall. Shift change. Red looked toward the sound, then back at him. “Time.” He nodded, though every part of him screamed to tell her to stay.

She reached for the edge of her sleeve instead, smoothing it down over her glove, her braid brushing against his chest as she leaned in. For a brief, suspended second, there was no hum of air vents, no shift-change alarm, no world waiting to tear them apart. There was only her—the faint salt on her skin, the warmth of her breath, the way her eyes softened before she kissed him.

It wasn’t hurried. It wasn’t desperate. It was slow, deliberate—like she wanted to leave something of herself behind. He kissed her back just as quietly, memorizing the shape of her mouth, the way her hand fit against the side of his neck. When she finally pulled away, her lips ghosted against his skin as she whispered, “I’ll be back before breakfast.” He tried to smile, but something twisted low in his stomach. That ache again. That wrong, cold feeling that had kept him awake all night. He brushed his thumb across her jaw, trying to chase the fear from his face before she saw it. “Don’t make me eat alone, okay?”

Her smile flickered into something softer. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

The door buzzed, sliding open before he could say anything more. The fluorescent light from the hall spilled across the floor, and two shadows appeared in the doorway. Johanna walked in first, yawning so wide it cracked her jaw. Her axe hung from the loop across her back, the metal glinting under the light. “If this mission doesn’t end with me beating the hell outta something, I’m going right back to bed,” she muttered. “I swear to god, if Coin just wants us topside to count dead trees again—” Katniss stepped in behind her, the black of her gloves blending into the dark uniform, her bow slung neatly over one shoulder, a quiver full of arrows at her hip. Her hair was already braided tight, her face unreadable. But when she caught sight of Finnick and Red, her expression softened. She lifted one hand in a small wave, quiet but genuine.

“Morning,” she said simply.

Red straightened, tugging once on her gloves to hide the faint tremor in her hands. “Morning,” she echoed, steadying her breath. Katniss’s gaze flicked briefly to the ring on Red’s finger. Her mouth tilted into the faintest hint of a smile. Finnick forced himself to stand, his hand slipping from Red’s arm as the three women turned toward the corridor. They’d pick up their gas masks from the elevator on their way to the surface, he knew that. He knew they were armed, trained, prepared.

But none of that loosened the knot in his stomach.

He stayed in the doorway, watching as Red glanced back once—just once. The movement of her braid caught the light, golden thread glinting in the dim gray hall, and then she was gone. The door hissed shut, sealing him inside the room that suddenly felt too quiet, too empty. Finnick sat down on the edge of the bed, rubbing a hand over his face, that wrong feeling coiling tighter and tighter in his chest. He told himself it was nothing—just nerves. Just the usual fear. But deep down, he already knew.

Something about this morning felt like the beginning of an ending.

The elevator was slow, agonizingly slow, the hum of the cables and the soft whir of the motors filling the air with a mechanical monotony. Red shifted from foot to foot, tugging lightly at her vine daggers strapped across her chest. Even with the uniform on—the black matte fabric hugging her torso, the fingerless gloves laced tightly over her wrists, and the golden Antheia patch glinting faintly—she looked restless, impatient.

Johanna leaned casually against the wall opposite her, arms crossed over her chest, axe balanced in the crook of one arm. Her voice broke the silence first, loud and teasing. “I can’t believe you’re wearing that ring right now, Red,” she said, smirking. “Seriously? You’re going to risk losing it in a firefight or getting it smashed into the dirt?” Red rolled her eyes, adjusting the strap of her dagger harness. “I’ve survived much worse than losing a stupid ring,” she shot back, her tone sharp but threaded with amusement. “Besides, Finnick gave it to me. If I’m not wearing it, it might start haunting him.”

Johanna barked a laugh, shaking her head. “Haunting him? Oh, Wolfie, he’s already scared stiff enough without a ghostly fiancée nagging from beyond the grave!” Katniss, standing slightly to the side and fiddling with her bow strap, let out a quiet, controlled laugh. Her eyes crinkled at the corners, but she kept her voice even, teasing only lightly. “Honestly, Red, you look like you’re going into battle and a wedding reception at the same time.”

Red glanced at her, smirking despite herself. “Little Ms. Face of the Rebellion, I’ll have you know my combat skills are unaffected by my engagement.”

Katniss raised an eyebrow, amusement flickering across her face. “Good to know. But I’ll still expect you to keep the ring on a leash if we get into the thick of it.” Johanna elbowed Red lightly, nudging her in the ribs. “See? Even little Ms. Face of the Rebellion agrees with me. You’re going to get it muddy, scratched, probably lose it in some pile of rubble, and Finnick will cry about it later. You know him.”

Red huffed, shaking her braid out of her shoulder. “You both just love imagining me failing, don’t you?”

“Maybe a little,” Johanna admitted with a grin, her tone softening. “But mostly we love imagining you kicking ass while looking ridiculously fancy doing it.”

Red laughed lightly, though a thread of anxiety tugged at the edges of her amusement. She tugged the braid at the nape of her neck, long strands cascading like a waterfall down her back, twisting and catching slightly on the strap of her dagger harness. There was a strange symbolism in it—her hair usually tightly braided, now slightly freer, like the tension in her chest, loose and restless.

Katniss shifted her weight from one foot to the other, watching the interplay between the two younger victors with the kind of quiet amusement she reserved for moments like this. “You two are like children,” she said, shaking her head. “Bickering over nothing and somehow making it look dramatic.”

Johanna smirked, wagging a finger at Katniss. “Little Ms. Face of the Rebellion, that’s the honor of being around me. You just don’t know it yet.” Katniss rolled her eyes, smiling faintly, though there was warmth behind it. “I know enough. I survived you once already; I think that counts.” Red leaned against the side of the elevator, her hands brushing over the vine-dagger handles as she tried to steady herself. “I just… I don’t like the surface,” she admitted quietly, her voice barely carrying over the soft hum of the elevator. “I’d rather stay down here, train with Finnick, practice—”

Johanna’s face softened, her smirk replaced by a brief look of understanding. “I get it. I hate the early surface drills too. But this is real danger, not just simulated danger. You’re needed out there, Wolfie.” Red exhaled sharply, tightening her fists on the harness straps. “I know, I know…” She looked at Katniss, who gave her a small, encouraging nod. “I just—” She swallowed, trying to push back the knot of nerves twisting in her stomach. “—don’t want to screw up.”

Johanna waved a hand, dismissive, though she stayed close. “Relax. If anyone can handle it, it’s you. And me, obviously. Katniss will keep us from dying like idiots.”

Katniss shook her head, laughing softly. “You’re both ridiculous.”

Red felt her cheeks heat, a mix of nerves and amusement. Her hand brushed lightly over the golden patch of Antheia stitched into her uniform—an anchor, a reminder of what she fought for, and for whom. She adjusted the vine-daggers again, making sure they were secured. There was a strange comfort in the weight of her weapons, the familiarity of their presence, the sense of control they provided amid the unknown.

Johanna leaned in, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “You know, if we survive this, I expect a full debrief over breakfast. Every single mistake. Every near-death. And then, when we’re done laughing at ourselves, maybe we’ll let Finnick hear about how heroic you were today.” Red chuckled quietly. “You’re just mad because you can’t propose too.” Johanna smirked, wagging a finger. “Exactly.”

Katniss pulled a gas mask from the elevator rack and began securing the straps over her head. “Alright, you two, masks on. We don’t want to inhale any of the toxic gas before we even make it to the woods.”

Red retrieved hers, slipping it over her head with practiced ease, the ring catching the dim light as she adjusted the strap. It gleamed faintly against the matte black of her uniform, a small promise in the middle of chaos.

Johanna grabbed hers next, letting out a small, dramatic groan. “I hate mornings. I hate elevators. I hate toxic gas. And I hate that this is technically a real mission, not a fake one. But fine, fine, I’ll do it.” Katniss stepped to the back of the elevator, her hands adjusting her bow strap, quiver secure. “Everyone ready?” she asked, her voice calm but sharp. Red tightened her grip on the vine-daggers, taking a slow breath. “Ready.”

Johanna gave a thumbs-up, a grin spreading beneath the gas mask. “Ready enough.”

The elevator creaked and hummed, moving upward slowly but steadily, the gray walls enclosing them in their own world as the hum of the machinery filled the silence between teasing and tense anticipation. Each tick of the mechanism felt stretched, every floor passing longer than the last. Red’s heart thudded, not from fear, but from a strange combination of excitement and dread. The ring on her finger felt warm, heavy with meaning and weighty with promise. She flexed her fingers inside the glove, as if the simple motion could steady the fluttering in her chest.

Johanna leaned casually against the elevator wall, glancing at her partner-in-armament. “You’re so weird, Wolfie. You know that, right? Wearing your engagement ring into a gas-filled elevator during a surface mission. Classic you.”

Finally, the elevator dinged, the soft chime echoing in the enclosed space. A mechanical voice broke through the hum.

“Surface level reached. Masks mandatory.”

Each of them had their weapons secured, their gas masks in place, the hum of anticipation thick around them as the doors slid open, revealing the faint, artificial glow of the surface beyond. And there they stood—Red, Johanna, and Katniss—ready for what awaited aboveground, the ring gleaming faintly on Red’s finger, their laughter and teasing still lingering in the elevator like a fragile shield against the danger outside.

The elevator doors opened with a slow hiss, revealing a sky stretched thin with ashen gray clouds. The faint sun tried to pierce through the thick smog but was swallowed immediately by the haze. The ground was littered with rubble—broken concrete, twisted metal beams, shattered remnants of what had once been trees. Burned and dying vegetation poked up from the soil in jagged, blackened stalks. The air smelled faintly of smoke and dust, a lingering reminder of the Capitol’s previous attacks. Every step the girls took crunched against the debris, the sound muffled only by the oppressive silence around them.

Red, Johanna, and Katniss emerged cautiously, their boots pressing into the cracked earth. The uniformed black of their outfits absorbed the gray light, blending them into the ruined landscape, while the golden Antheia patch on Red’s chest glimmered faintly. The ring on her finger felt heavier than it had in the elevator—more like a reminder of everything she was fighting for, every promise she had to keep.

No one spoke. Not yet. Not here. Not with the threat of potential Capitol spies lurking in the ruined trees or the poisoned pockets of air that might wait around every corner. Instead, their hands moved fluidly, fingers flashing signals they had long ago perfected in training. Each tilt of the hand, each gesture of a finger, communicated more than a whispered word ever could.

Red crouched low, vine-daggers strapped to her forearms, the vine tips quivering slightly as if anticipating the hunt. Her eyes scanned the horizon, taking in the twisted landscape—the skeletal remains of what had once been proud trees, the jagged scars where bombs had ripped the earth apart, the shallow craters pocked across the terrain like the remnants of some giant’s malice. Every instinct in her screamed to run, to hide, to pull back underground where the air was clean and the danger less immediate. But duty—and Finnick’s voice in her head, telling her she could do it—kept her moving forward. Johanna led slightly to the left, her axe ready, crouched so low her knees almost brushed the soil. Her sharp eyes picked through the debris, scanning every broken branch, every fallen wall, every shadow that moved unnaturally. Her lips were pressed in a thin line, occasionally twitching into a smirk, though she remained utterly silent. She shot a quick glance at Red, nodding imperceptibly, before signaling with her hand: a subtle motion for “stay low, cover left.”

Katniss stayed at Red’s right, bow strung tight, her quiver snug against her back, arrows perfectly aligned. Her black-gloved hands were steady, betraying none of the tension in her chest, though every sense screamed alert. She gestured to Red with a quick flick of a finger—a silent confirmation that the path was clear—and then ducked behind a fallen concrete slab, scanning the trees for any glint of metal or movement that might betray the presence of a spy. Her eyes narrowed slightly as a breeze stirred the ashen leaves, and she tilted her head, listening for any unnatural sounds.

The three moved as one unit, silently weaving through the ruined expanse. Each crouch, each careful step over rubble, each hand signal was choreographed from years of training and instinct. Their weapons were unsheathed and ready, but their movements were careful, deliberate, precise—blending patience with the quiet anticipation of confrontation.

Red’s mind, though focused, was still a swirl of thoughts. The ring on her finger felt like a weight, grounding her to the memory of Finnick’s smile, his hand brushing hers, the way he had looked at her just hours ago. She forced herself to push the memory aside, focusing on the present, on the ruined forest around them, on the mission. Every shadow could conceal an enemy. Every unnatural stillness could hide a trap. Every puff of wind could mask the hiss of poison gas seeping from the soil.

Johanna crouched low to whisper a quick signal, pointing to a half-collapsed tree that had been scorched at its base. She tilted her head, motioning for Red to circle left while she and Katniss flanked right, moving with the precision of predators. Red followed, her vine-daggers trailing behind her like extensions of her arms, the tips brushing against the jagged bark of the burned trees. The silence stretched, thick as the dust that clung to their boots. Occasionally, a fallen branch cracked underfoot, a subtle jolt that made every muscle in Red’s body tense. She forced her breath to stay steady, listening for the faintest hiss, the smallest movement, anything that might hint at danger. The ruined world around them felt frozen, as if holding its breath along with them.

Johanna paused suddenly, dropping low to the ground, and raised a finger—one finger, held taut and unwavering. Red instinctively mirrored her movement, crouching even lower. Katniss did the same, her eyes scanning the horizon, bow raised in a defensive position. The signal was subtle but unequivocal: something was out there, unseen, and the girls had to move with extreme caution.

They continued their methodical progress through the barren landscape, each step calculated, each breath measured. Red’s mind remained alert, balancing fear and focus, the weight of responsibility heavy on her shoulders. She thought of Finnick, back belowground, the warmth of his hand in hers earlier, the way he trusted her to come back safe. It was that thought that drove her forward, steadied her movements, and pushed the panic in her chest down to a manageable hum.

The ruined trees stretched endlessly in every direction, their skeletal forms clawing at the gray sky, leaves long dead or blackened by fire. Shattered buildings jutted out in the distance, concrete ribs of what had once been homes or government facilities. Red’s boots crunched over the debris-strewn ground, and each step echoed softly, lost in the oppressive quiet. Katniss gestured for them to halt, crouched low behind a fallen wall that had once been part of a building. Her eyes swept the area, scanning the shadows cast by the broken structures and the charred trunks. She nodded subtly, and Red understood immediately: the suspected gas leak was near, and any signs of tampering or danger could appear at any moment.

Johanna mimicked the movement, raising her axe slightly, the tip glinting faintly in the muted light. She motioned for Red to move left again, careful to keep behind the cover of a toppled column. The three girls became a fluid, silent unit, moving as though the world aboveground had reduced them to nothing more than shadows and whispers.

Red’s fingers brushed over the vine-daggers at her sides, feeling the familiar tension of the vines coiled and ready. Her muscles were tight with focus, every nerve on edge. This was the surface, a place that reminded her of loss, of war, of destruction—but also a place where she had to trust herself and the people beside her completely. She drew a slow, measured breath through the mask, allowing herself to become attuned to the rhythm of the others, the quiet language of hand signals and eyes. The wind stirred the blackened leaves again, and Johanna’s sharp eyes caught a glint of something metallic partially buried in the dirt. She froze, raising a hand in a precise signal. Red immediately halted, vine-daggers twitching slightly in anticipation. Katniss mirrored the motion, bow raised, eyes sweeping the area with a predator’s patience.

Red felt her pulse quicken but kept her movements steady. The three of them remained crouched, scanning the ruined landscape, listening for any unnatural sound, any hint that the Capitol had left behind more than just the poisoned gas—more than just death and decay. Each ruined tree, each broken beam, each ashen stalk of vegetation could be hiding a threat, and they had to be ready.

The girls moved slowly, methodically, communicating with subtle gestures that spoke volumes. A flick of a wrist, a nod, a tilt of the head—it was a language of survival, of trust, of shared purpose. Red felt the weight of responsibility press down on her shoulders, but she bore it willingly. She had trained for this. She had lived through worse. And she had Finnick and the others waiting belowground, trusting her to make it back alive. The wind shifted, carrying a faint chemical smell, almost imperceptible, but enough to make Red’s stomach twist. Katniss sniffed subtly through her mask, her eyes narrowing. Johanna’s axe twitched in her hands as she sniffed the air, registering the same thing.

Red’s hands tightened around her vine-daggers, and she nodded to the other two. The suspected gas leak was close. They had to proceed carefully, but quickly. Their movements became even more deliberate, slower, quieter, as they stalked toward the area Coin had pinpointed.

Every step, every glance, every breath was measured. Silence had become a weapon, each girl an extension of the others, and each shadow a potential threat. The ruined world around them held its own kind of menace, but they moved like ghosts, unseen and unheard, fully attuned to one another, fully committed to the mission at hand. And somewhere in the back of Red’s mind, beneath the focus and the tension, a small thrill of anticipation flickered. Danger might wait around every corner, but so did survival—and the certainty that, together, they could face anything.

The air on the surface had a weight to it that was different from anywhere Red had ever trained. Even aboveground, it felt off—heavier, stale, and tinged with a chemical bite that made her lungs itch slightly behind her mask. She moved slowly, vine-daggers coiled and ready, bowing her head as though the world itself could see her coming and might strike first. Johanna trailed slightly to the left, axe in hand, her boots crunching on the ash-streaked ground with a softer rhythm than usual, each step deliberate, calculated. Katniss stayed to Red’s right, bow drawn and arrow nocked, eyes scanning every blackened stalk of vegetation, every twisted metal beam, every fallen shard of concrete as though the Capitol had hidden its traps in the shadows themselves.

At first, the girls had relied solely on sight, moving through the ruined forest like ghosts, communicating in subtle hand signals that were instinctive at this point. But then Red felt it—the air shifting, almost imperceptibly at first, like the quiet exhale of something long dormant. She froze mid-step, vine-daggers twitching as her nostrils flared beneath the mask.

Johanna paused beside her, head tilting sharply as she drew in a careful breath. Even through her mask, her face betrayed the tiniest crease of suspicion. Katniss did the same, raising a gloved hand in a sharp flick: halt.

The wind had changed.

It was subtle, a whisper against the scorched leaves, the difference so slight that a lesser-trained pair of eyes or untested instincts might have ignored it. But Red had survived arenas, the Capitol’s manipulations, the underground drills that felt like punishment, and every nerve in her body screamed at her that this wasn’t ordinary air. The very molecules seemed alive with menace, carrying a faint metallic tang and the chemical undertone that could only mean one thing: poison. Red’s heartbeat thumped hard against her ribcage as she signaled Johanna and Katniss to crouch lower. Her vine-daggers coiled tight against her forearms, the tips glimmering faintly under the gray sky. Every muscle in her body screamed readiness, and yet there was an edge of fear she couldn’t completely shove aside.

Johanna mirrored her movement, crouching low, the axe resting lightly in her grip but ready to swing at a moment’s notice. Katniss adjusted her stance, keeping her bow drawn, arrows trembling faintly in the tension of her fingers. The three of them were a shadowed triangle of vigilance, moving as one unit with a silent understanding born of years of training and trust.

Red inhaled slowly, deliberately, attempting to analyze the shift in the air. It wasn’t just the smell. It was the feel—the pressure of the invisible molecules, the way the wind seemed to hesitate, to thicken, to resist their movement as if trying to warn them off. Her eyes swept over the blackened ruins, noting how the skeletal remains of trees twisted unnaturally, the jagged edges of concrete beams jutting into the air like claws, the scorched soil that might have once been soft ground now hardened and brittle.

Katniss tilted her head, eyes narrowing as she scanned the horizon. “It’s coming from ahead,” she whispered, the hand signal barely moving her fingers as she traced the faint trail of disturbed air. Johanna nodded sharply, her axe resting against her shoulder now, ready to strike if anything emerged from the shadows. Red felt her pulse quicken, every step forward measured, deliberate. They were moving into the unknown, and yet their training and instincts allowed them to anticipate danger before it even fully revealed itself. The forest around them was a graveyard of color—blackened, gray, dead—but even in this desolation, every sound, every flicker of movement, every whisper of the wind could conceal a threat.

They advanced carefully, the crunch of ash and rubble beneath their boots sounding loud in the eerie silence. Red’s hands gripped the vine-daggers tightly, coiled and ready, each step calculated to avoid alerting any hidden dangers. Katniss’s eyes flitted to every shadow, every uneven terrain that could harbor the unseen, while Johanna’s senses were sharp, body poised like a cat ready to spring.

Red signaled a pause as she caught sight of a faint disturbance in the dirt ahead. The ground itself seemed altered—slightly lifted in places, the soil cracked and broken, leading toward a half-buried pipe that disappeared underground. Her mind clicked instantly: this must be the source of the toxic gas, the venting point where the Capitol—or some leftover trap—had released the chemicals to poison the surrounding area.

Johanna crept forward slightly, keeping low, axe poised, and gave Red a subtle nod. Katniss mirrored it, bow taut, eyes scanning every angle. The girls communicated without words, each motion deliberate, precise—a language of survival that didn’t require sound. Red’s pulse raced as she crouched closer to the pipe, noting its jagged edges, the discoloration of the metal, the faint hiss that seemed almost imperceptible against the wind. The smell, metallic and biting, intensified slightly as she approached.

And then she saw them.

Two figures, standing motionless over the broken pipe, frozen as if sculpted from the very whiteness of the world itself. The first thing that struck Red was the uniformity of them: the color of their skin, their hair, even their eyes—pure white, stark against the scorched, gray-black landscape. Their clothing was a seamless continuation of their pale skin, almost reflective, as if they had been designed to be ghostlike in the ruins. Every inch of them screamed unnatural. Red’s fingers tensed around her vine-daggers. Her pulse thundered, but her breathing remained steady, controlled. She counted herself, Johanna, and Katniss, feeling the strength of their unit, the shared instincts honed over years of survival. Every part of her screamed caution. These weren’t ordinary enemies. The light glinting off their pale skin caught her eye, the rigidness of their posture, the fact that they hadn’t moved a muscle even as the wind stirred around them.

Johanna’s hand brushed against Red’s shoulder, a subtle signal to stay still, to observe, not react. Her sharp eyes flitted over the figures, noting their mirrored stance, the almost ceremonial way they stood, and the unnatural brightness of their presence. Even through the haze, the whiteness of them felt almost like a physical force pressing against the gray desolation, out of place in a way that made every instinct in her scream danger.

Katniss’s bow remained drawn, fingers flexing around the string, arrow ready. Her gloved hand twitched slightly as she traced the outlines of the figures, memorizing their positions, anticipating every possible movement. Her face was calm, but every tiny motion spoke of readiness, a predator’s calculation of risk. Red could barely breathe as she realized the sheer symmetry of the two figures. Their identical movements, the mirrored tilt of their heads, the precision in their stance—it was as if they were reflections of one another, unnaturally synchronized. And yet, there was no mask, no weapon visible, nothing to explain their presence except the palpable threat they radiated.

The girls stayed crouched low, shadows among shadows, breath controlled, every sense stretched taut like a wire ready to snap. Red’s mind raced, thinking of escape routes, ways to neutralize a threat, how to signal the others without making noise. Every instinct screamed danger, every fiber of her being attuned to the possibility that a single misstep could set off a chain of lethal consequences.

The hiss of the gas pipe beneath the duo was faint but noticeable, a subtle undercurrent that only heightened the tension. Red’s pulse thrummed in her ears as she calculated distance, potential attack angles, and how quickly the figures might react to their presence. Johanna shifted slightly, hand brushing against her axe, a signal that she had the same thoughts, the same cautious respect for the unknown.

Katniss tilted her head slightly, eyes scanning the terrain between them and the mysterious figures, noting every rock, every fallen branch, every shadow they could use for cover. The air felt thicker now, laden not just with the threat of poison but with the unsettling presence of the two pale, mirrored figures. Every second stretched, heavy with anticipation, as the girls crouched low, weapons poised, hearts racing.

Red’s fingers flexed around her vine-daggers, feeling the tension in the coiled vines. Her ring glinted faintly as she adjusted her stance, a small reminder of the life she was fighting for, the love waiting for her belowground, and the stakes of surviving this moment. She felt the familiar surge of adrenaline, tempered by years of training, and the awareness that the mission wasn’t just about the gas—it was about survival, strategy, and trust. And as they stared at the two figures, perfectly identical, unnervingly still, standing over the broken pipe that led underground, a silence deeper than any before settled over the ruined surface. The world seemed to pause, holding its breath, waiting for the first movement, the first sound, the first sign of life—or death.

Red’s mind was sharp, calculating, every instinct screaming, every muscle coiled. Johanna’s axe glinted in her peripheral vision, Katniss’s arrow trembled against the string, and the two white figures remained motionless, unnaturally still, staring toward them—or perhaps into them.

Time stretched, tense and unyielding, and the girls remained crouched, ready, aware that anything could happen next.

The surface air was thick with the scent of burnt foliage and earth still scarred from past bombardments, and the trio of girls moved like shadows across the skeletal remains of a forest. Every step Red took felt deliberate, calculated, the soft crunch of ash and splintered wood beneath her boots a harsh reminder of how dangerous the world aboveground had become. Katniss, always the sentinel, kept her bow taut, arrow nocked and ready, scanning the horizon for any movement. Johanna’s axe rested in her hands, her posture relaxed only in so much as a trained predator could appear relaxed before a hunt. Red’s vine-daggers twitched at her sides, coiled tight. She had learned long ago how to read the faintest cues in the air, the subtle shift of wind, the weight of a shadow. And now, as they approached the broken gas pipe that led underground, the tension in the air thickened further—more than just the threat of poison. There were two figures standing over the pipe, eerily still, covered entirely in white.

The figures were startling for reasons beyond their uniforms. They were identical, as if mirrored by some cruel perfection: skin pale, almost translucent, hair a shock of white falling straight and smooth, eyes the color of ice. No weapon, no mask, nothing to give away their intent. And yet, every instinct in Red’s body screamed danger.

Katniss shifted slightly, noting the unnatural symmetry, the rigidness of their posture. Her gloved fingers tightened around the bowstring, and then, almost reflexively, she began to rise. The movement was slow and deliberate, a challenge in itself, a test to see if the twins would respond before she had even spoken. The white boys turned in unison, heads tilting slightly, eyes fixing on the trio as though they had been waiting for this exact moment. They did not speak. Their silence was unnatural, deliberate, and calculated to unnervingly perfect effect.

Katniss’s voice, though calm, carried authority. “Are you—are you okay?” she called out, tone clear over the soft hiss of wind and the faint groan of shifting debris. Her arrow stayed nocked, bow steady, but the words were meant to probe, to test whether these creatures were friend or threat.

The twins remained silent, the eerie perfection of their movements almost mechanical. Their gaze did not waver, and their stillness made the air feel heavier, suffocating in the weight of anticipation. Red crouched low, vine-daggers coiled and ready, the tips glinting faintly under the dim light, while Johanna moved slightly to the side, her axe ready, waiting for the signal that the calm was about to break.

Red’s mind raced, analyzing the figures in front of them. Around nineteen years old, she realized, younger than any of them. The Capitol had always been cruel in its selection, and these boys were no exception. Genetically modified to be identical, to exude perfection in a world of chaos, yet controlled entirely by forces beyond their own will. There were no powers, no innate abilities beyond the training and conditioning they had endured in the Capitol’s laboratories. Every twitch of muscle, every shift of their stance had been honed by manipulation, programming, and fear. They were puppets, yet deadly ones. The breeze shifted, carrying the faint metallic bite of residual gas from the broken pipe, the subtle undercurrent that made Red’s nostrils flare beneath her mask. Every instinct screamed for caution. The girls had trained together for years, yet even with their combined experience, this was something new. Unpredictable. They were facing a threat that wasn’t just physical—it was engineered, honed to provoke fear and hesitation.

Katniss lowered her gaze slightly, calculating the distance, the angle, the possibility of retreat or advantage. Johanna, as unpredictable as ever, shifted her stance just enough to allow her momentum to flow naturally should she need to strike. Red’s hands flexed around her vine-daggers, tightening the coils against her forearms as though drawing strength from the physical weight of them.

Then, in a flash—a sudden, almost blinding reflection from the pale skin and white uniforms—the twins moved. So fast it almost seemed like the air itself had been ripped apart, a motion too swift for human perception. The precision in their movement, though unenhanced by powers, was terrifying. Years of Capitol training and conditioning had taught them anticipation, timing, and a predatory coordination that made their attack terrifyingly effective. Red’s eyes widened, adrenaline kicking in, her fingers releasing the coiled tips of the vine-daggers as she prepared to strike. Johanna let out a low growl, gripping her axe tighter, and Katniss shifted, lowering her stance, arrow ready to release the first shot.

Everything slowed, yet the chaos of the moment—the hiss of the gas, the crunch of debris underfoot, the ghostly white forms racing toward them—made every heartbeat feel like a drum signaling the start of war. Red’s mind was clear in the way that only the arena could teach: focus on the threat, anticipate the movement, trust the instincts honed by years of survival. She glanced at Johanna and Katniss, reading the subtle hand signals that told her they were ready, that they trusted her, and that they understood this was a fight that demanded coordination, precision, and nerve. The twins were still moving, still calculating, their motions perfectly mirrored, a testament to the cruel efficiency of their Capitol conditioning.

Red’s pulse pounded in her ears as she lunged forward, vine-daggers whipping in arcs designed to intercept and deflect. Johanna swung her axe in wide, powerful motions, while Katniss released the first arrow, its flight perfectly timed to force the twins into a defensive maneuver.

Even as the initial contact approached, Red’s thoughts flicked momentarily to the surface itself—the dead trees, the broken earth, the twisted landscape scarred by bombs and neglect. It was a world that mirrored the chaos of their lives belowground, a world they were forced to navigate with skill, courage, and trust in one another.

Every movement had to count. Every breath, every step, every slight tilt of her wrist or angle of the vine-dagger could mean the difference between survival and death. The twins advanced with terrifying synchronicity, almost mechanical in their coordination, but the girls were not untrained. Years in the arenas, years surviving the Capitol’s cruelty, years fighting together had honed their senses, their reflexes, their instincts.

Red could feel the anticipation building in her chest, the sharp edge of adrenaline cutting through the fear. Johanna’s growl mingled with the soft whisper of wind through dead branches, and Katniss’s arrow twanged against the string, ready to fly at the precise moment that opportunity presented itself.

The twins had been genetically molded, trained to anticipate, to react, to strike. But they were not invincible. Red’s fingers flexed around the vine-daggers, feeling the weight of both weapons and responsibility, the memory of past arenas where she had faced overwhelming odds alone, the countless lessons learned under pressure, under fear. The flash of white that indicated the twins’ approach was almost blinding in its intensity. Red’s muscles coiled, her vine-daggers whipping into motion, and she braced herself for impact. Johanna’s axe spun in a perfect arc, ready to intercept, and Katniss’s arrow hovered just above release, poised to disrupt the symmetry of the Capitol’s engineered soldiers.

Time seemed to stretch, each second loaded with tension, with threat, with anticipation. The girls moved as one, a unit shaped by survival, by trust, by experience, their coordinated instinct honed to perfection. Every footfall, every subtle shift in posture, every twitch of fingers and blades mattered.

And then, as the twins closed the distance, the first signs of contact—the moment when training met instinct, when calculation collided with survival—loomed. The world seemed to hold its breath, the dead landscape a silent witness to the clash that was about to erupt.

Red’s gaze met Katniss’s for a fraction of a second, then Johanna’s, and back to the white twins. No words were spoken; none were needed. Every muscle, every sense, every learned reflex was tuned to the single purpose of surviving the first strike, of turning anticipation into action, of meeting the engineered perfection of the Capitol’s creation with the unpredictable reality of three human minds, three hearts, three lives intertwined in trust and battle.

The flash of white figures against the gray, ruined landscape, the hiss of the broken gas pipe, the tension in the girls’ crouched forms, and the stillness of the world itself—all of it coalesced into that singular, impossible moment where instinct would meet danger, and survival would demand everything they had learned together. The surface air was sharp in Red’s lungs, carrying the bitter tang of ash and metal from the scattered ruins around them. Every step was deliberate, careful, each footfall threatening to give away their position. Yet before any of them could make another move, the first twin struck.

Katniss barely had time to flinch. The pale figure lunged, all sinewy movement and precision, aiming for her center of gravity. Her body crumpled under the force of the impact, a sharp gasp leaving her throat as the wind was knocked from her lungs. Arrows flew instinctively from her bow even as she struggled to regain her balance, but the twin’s reflexes were flawless, and Katniss found herself backed against a ruined concrete wall, skidding along the debris-strewn ground as arrow after arrow bit into the dirt and shattered wood around her.

Red’s eyes widened. The world seemed to slow for just a fraction of a second as she registered the twin’s speed and precision. “Katniss!” she shouted, voice sharp, cutting across the hollowed forest. Her vine-daggers uncoiled in an instant, the flexible, braided vines twisting in her hands like living things, glinting faintly against the gray sky. She lunged toward the other twin, who had already pivoted, anticipation in its precise, mirrored movements.

Johanna’s axe swung in a wide arc, slicing through the broken branches around them with a satisfying hiss of wood giving way, but her attention was drawn immediately to the twin Red was closing on. The pale figure was fluid, almost unnaturally calm in its advance, its eyes ice-cold and expressionless beneath the thin streaks of dirt that marred its skin. Red didn’t hesitate. Her legs shot up, wrapping around the twin’s shoulders like a hunter clamping onto prey. She threw her body backward, using momentum and her own weight to try to destabilize the Capitol-trained boy. The vines lashed out instinctively, coiling around the twin’s arms and torso in an attempt to slow him down, to gain any advantage at all.

Johanna pivoted just in time, swinging her axe toward the twin’s legs, aiming to knock him off balance so Red could finish her maneuver. The boy twisted in midair with an unnatural grace, barely missing the impact of the axe, yet the distraction was enough for Red to leverage her momentum. She spun backward, landing with a sharp, controlled thud on the ground, vines still entangled with the twin’s arms.

Katniss staggered upright, bow snapping another arrow into place, and for a heartbeat, the three girls moved almost in perfect unison—a deadly, graceful counterpoint to the eerie perfection of the twins’ mirrored attacks. The white-haired attackers adjusted instantly, coordinating with inhuman precision as if they were two parts of a single organism. Red felt the twin beneath her squirm, trying to throw her off, and the realization struck her: these were not ordinary enemies. They had been molded, trained, controlled. Every twitch, every subtle movement, had been honed to predict human reaction. But she had something they lacked: instinct, improvisation, a connection to her teammates. “Johanna! Left side!” Red barked, spinning to avoid the twin’s attempt to toss her aside. Her daggers flexed in her hands, coiling and uncoiling as she calculated her next strike.

Johanna’s axe connected with a sickening thud against the twin’s knee, the sound echoing across the broken landscape. The boy staggered, and Red seized the moment, leaping to her feet and planting her daggers against his shoulders, twisting her body to use the leverage to shove him backward.

Katniss, her chest heaving, released a flurry of arrows with meticulous precision. Each one forced the twin attacking her to dodge or parry, buying them precious seconds to recalibrate. She darted from cover to cover, using the ruined terrain to her advantage, the bow an extension of her body as her eyes tracked every micro-movement of the attackers.

The twins didn’t speak, didn’t show emotion, and yet there was a palpable intensity in the way they moved—a cold, unyielding efficiency that made every strike and parry feel like a calculated puzzle rather than a fight. Red’s stomach tightened, every instinct screaming that one misstep could cost her.

Johanna’s voice cut through the chaos, low and fierce. “Red! On me!” She swung her axe in a wide arc to intercept the twin Red had wrapped in her vines. The impact reverberated through Red’s arms, and the boy lost his grip momentarily. Red twisted, vines lashing like serpents, trying to seize the advantage, but the twin reacted with eerie synchrony, sliding backward and throwing a sharp elbow toward Red’s midsection.

Red grunted, muscles tensing as she absorbed the blow, and in a fluid motion, she swung herself over the boy’s shoulders again, vines coiling to restrain his movement. Johanna pressed her advantage, bringing the axe down toward his legs, aiming to topple him completely, but the boy landed in a crouch, eyes blank and calculating, his white hair flicking across his face like a living warning.

Katniss’s arrows whistled past, each one forcing a shift in the twins’ positions, but they moved like mirrors, one perfectly copying the other’s evasion. Red’s pulse pounded in her ears, adrenaline surging through her veins. This was no ordinary training exercise—this was life and death, and she had to trust Johanna and Katniss implicitly. The twin that had been attacking Katniss lunged again, faster than she anticipated. She barely rolled to the side, releasing another arrow instinctively, which glanced off the boy’s shoulder. His mirrored counterpart moved in perfect synchronization, flanking Red as she struggled to restrain her own attacker.

“Katniss! Focus on the one to your left!” Red shouted, twisting her body to avoid a sweeping strike from the twin she had pinned with her vines. Johanna’s axe struck again, glancing off the other twin’s torso, leaving a faint, red scratch in the white fabric of his uniform.

Red’s vines tightened, pulling the twin closer, attempting to unbalance him, to bring him down to the ground where Johanna could finish the move. The boy twisted sharply, throwing her backward with a forceful jerk. She hit the ground but rolled expertly, using the momentum to spring back up. Her daggers flexed in her hands, coiling around the twin’s arms again.  Katniss released another arrow, this one striking the twin squarely in the arm. He recoiled slightly, and Red seized the moment, wrapping her legs around his shoulders and spinning backward to leverage his momentum into a throw. The boy’s mirrored sibling rushed to intercept, but Johanna’s axe connected with his legs, knocking him slightly off balance.

The three girls moved as one, the synergy of their years together in the arenas and in the rebellion coming to the forefront. Red’s breathing was sharp, measured, her mind entirely focused on the rhythm of the fight—the push and pull, the timing, the instinctive trust in her friends’ movements. Every twist of the vine-dagger, every swing of the axe, every arrow released was part of a dance as old as their survival.

And yet, the twins adapted. Even with one staggered by Katniss’s arrow and Johanna’s axe, they maintained a terrifying coherence. The genetic manipulation, the Capitol training—it all showed in the precision and mirrored coordination of their attacks. Red’s heart hammered against her ribcage, knowing that a single slip could undo everything, knowing that the boys were both engineered for this exact moment, yet also knowing that they had the unpredictability that humans wield naturally in their favor. Red spun again, vines lashing like whips, catching the twin around the midsection, yanking him off balance just long enough for Johanna to strike a heavy blow with the axe at his legs. He tumbled backward, landing hard on the broken ground, but his brother immediately adjusted, moving with eerie synchronicity to cover his fall.

Katniss ducked behind a half-collapsed wall, releasing two more arrows in quick succession. One hit the twin’s shoulder, and for a fleeting second, Red saw a flicker of human pain in his icy eyes—then it was gone, replaced by the same blank, controlled mask of obedience.

Red’s muscles screamed, her arms burning with exertion, but she didn’t stop. She leapt toward the twin she had pinned, vines wrapping around his torso like living ropes, using her weight and momentum to flip him over backward. Johanna swung with a low growl, aiming to knock the boy onto his legs, and the twin hit the ground, sprawling, only to twist just enough to avoid complete defeat.

Katniss’s breathing was harsh now, bow in hand, eyes sharp and calculating, constantly feeding information to Red and Johanna through subtle shifts and micro-movements. Every arrow she loosed was a tiny signal, a tactical adjustment, a thread in the web of their survival. Red’s mind was entirely in the moment, adrenaline sharpening her focus. Her fingers flexed around the vine-daggers, her legs coiled for the next strike. The twins, trained, conditioned, and engineered to perfection, were formidable opponents, but they had not accounted for the unpredictable chaos of three humans fighting in perfect tandem. And just as Red twisted to leverage the vines once more, Johanna readied her next swing of the axe, and Katniss drew another arrow, the twins’ synchronized precision was about to meet the raw, chaotic skill of the rebellion’s three most lethal daughters.

For a heartbeat, Red thought she had the advantage. The twin beneath her struggled, vines coiled tightly around his torso, but in an instant, both attackers shifted their focus. It was subtle at first—the micro-adjustments in their stance, the synchronized slide of their feet across the debris—but Red noticed immediately. Her heart thudded violently as her body tensed, instincts screaming danger.

One twin lunged, fast, too fast, catching her by surprise. His hands snaked around her arm, twisting it sharply behind her back. Pain flared in her shoulder, and she let out a sharp gasp, fighting to pull free, to twist herself out of his iron grip. The other moved in perfect coordination, pinning her to the cracked, jagged earth. Her knees scraped against stone and broken roots, and she felt herself being forced down further, the ground unforgiving beneath her. Every instinct screamed for escape, but the twins had her trapped with a precision that left no room for error.

Red’s vine-daggers, which had been her lifeline moments ago, were snatched from her hands in a fluid, practiced motion. Her pulse leapt into her throat as the twin holding her weapon angled it against her gas mask. She didn’t have time to react before the sharp edge struck. There was a grinding crack, a shocking metallic snap, and a sudden, choking intake of air as her mask shattered.

Poisonous gas hissed into her lungs, its acrid, metallic tang searing her throat and eyes. Her chest tightened violently, a cough tearing through her as she struggled to breathe, the world around her narrowing to the immediate panic of survival.

Both Katniss and Johanna screamed in unison, the sound ripping through the ruined forest. “NO!”

The words barely registered in Red’s ears over the burn of the gas, her lungs fighting with each desperate, shallow breath. Her arms strained against the twin’s grip, vines useless in her hands now, the weight of helplessness pressing down on her. The three of them—Red, Johanna, and Katniss—were caught in a moment that could tip everything. Time itself seemed suspended, hanging on the edge of a knife as the first wave of poison began to seize Red’s senses, the reality of the twins’ coordinated assault finally crashing into the rebellion’s most lethal daughters.

Red’s hands clawed at her throat, her fingers scrabbling against the invisible weight pressing down, the gas biting into her lungs with every shallow breath. The world had narrowed to a suffocating, hot blur, and memories surged uncontrollably behind her closed eyes: Finnick’s steady hands guiding hers through training, his voice low and certain in the arena, every strike, every move, every dodge they had perfected together. He had always been there—always—protecting her, showing her a way forward, and now she was alone, pinned beneath two impossibly fast, identical attackers.

Johanna’s growl pierced the haze of pain and gas. Her axe swung in wide, violent arcs, catching one of the twins flush across the shoulder. The impact threw him backward slightly, but he twisted in the air with uncanny reflexes, landing lightly and immediately coming back at her. Her teeth clenched in frustration, her arms shaking as she drove into him again, forcing him to block, dodge, parry—but every second was agony knowing Red’s gasping breaths were shortening with each passing heartbeat.

Katniss, crouched low on the rubble-strewn ground, let her bowstring hum as she loosed arrow after arrow, each one aimed with surgical precision at the twin holding Red’s arms. Even as the poisoned air clawed at her lungs, Red’s sight caught every flicker of movement—the familiar shift of Katniss’s shoulders, the subtle aim of her elbow, the calculated rhythm that had saved them all so many times before. But this time, she couldn’t reach for her own weapons. She couldn’t shield herself. She couldn’t breathe.

Her mind darted to Finnick, to his hands, his steady laugh, the way he whispered to her in quiet moments, always patient, always certain. She remembered the nights they had huddled together after training, after missions, after the arenas, when the world had been too cruel and dark and yet somehow manageable because he was there. Her throat burned as tears slipped down her cheeks, and she realized she was fighting not just the gas, not just the twins, but the raw, aching panic of losing the man who had always been her anchor.

Katniss lunged, twisting her body, using her knees to shove against the other twin’s chest, forcing him back just enough for Red to claw at the edge of the debris beneath her. Each movement was agony, every breath a battle against the gas filling her lungs, but instinct and training took over. She flexed her legs, braced her arms, and pushed, twisting her body violently, trying to knock the twin off balance. Her vision blurred, the world spinning, but she could hear Johanna and Katniss coordinating without words, their movements precise even as the fight raged around them.

Red’s fingers finally managed to scrape against the earth, finding traction against a jagged stone. Pain shot through her shoulder, but she twisted, sending her weight backward, hoping to unbalance the twin holding her. The gas was relentless, her chest tight, but the raw, unrelenting memory of Finnick—his calm voice, his laughter, his touch—gave her strength. She remembered his lessons in the arena, how he had shown her that even in the direst circumstances, she could fight back, and she channeled it into a feral, desperate burst of energy.

Johanna’s axe struck again, this time knocking the twin holding Red’s arms to the side. Red seized the moment, wriggling furiously, rolling, spitting out a cough from the gas, clawing at the dirt and rubble. Her braids, long and tangled from the struggle, whipped across her face and arms, but she didn’t care—they were part of her chaos now, part of the wild, untamable fight for survival that had defined her from the very first day she’d trained in District Seven.

Katniss moved faster than Red could track, her arrows a blur, driving the twin back as she shouted orders under her breath. Hand signals had given way to shouted commands, and Red’s mind, half-fogged by the poison, struggled to keep up. But even in the haze, she could hear it: the synchronized growls of Johanna and Katniss, the rhythmic pounding of her own heart, the memory of Finnick whispering that she was more than capable, more than lethal, more than even she believed.

Her hands scrabbled at the twin holding her down, nails digging into fabric and skin, tearing, but she didn’t care. Every second she could gasp for air, every second she could twist and kick, was another second closer to freedom. She felt her muscles scream in protest, felt the poison clawing at her lungs, and yet she pressed on. Every twist, every grunt, every push was a testament to the life Finnick had helped her reclaim after the arenas, after the Capitol’s cruelty. She would not go down without a fight.

Johanna and Katniss pressed the attack relentlessly, driving the twins into defensive stances, forcing them to split their attention. The chaos gave Red precious moments. Her legs lashed out, her body twisted, and finally, just for a second, she broke one twin’s balance. The world lurched, the gas still biting, but she could taste air, even if it was poisoned. She could feel her chest heaving, could feel her lungs screaming for relief, and yet, beneath it all, there was a spark. The spark of defiance, of survival, of everything Finnick had ever believed she could be.

Red’s braids tumbled around her face and shoulders, wild and unkempt, as if they mirrored the turmoil inside her—the gas, the struggle, the desperate fight for breath, the memory of all she had survived, the love she held for Finnick, the trust she had in her friends Johanna and Katniss. Each strand seemed to pulse with her heartbeat, a living, breathing symbol of her chaos, her pain, her determination. Her hands met fabric and flesh again, twisting, pulling, and at last, just for a flicker of a heartbeat, the twin lost his balance entirely. Red coughed violently, gasping, a shred of air filling her lungs, and she kicked backward with everything she had, sending him stumbling into Johanna. Katniss’s arrow struck true at the same instant, the second twin faltering under the combined assault.

Red’s vision swam, the world still a haze of smoke, rubble, and poison, but she could see them now—Johanna and Katniss fighting for her, the rebellion’s three most lethal daughters moving as one, protecting each other with everything they had. And even in the chaos, even with her lungs screaming and her body trembling, Red felt it—the faintest, tiniest spark of hope, burning amid the poison, the panic, and the peril.

Her hands, shaking and slick with sweat, clutched at the dirt. Her braids were loose now, tumbling wild around her arms and face, but she didn’t care. They were her armor, her wild defiance, her declaration that she was not finished. Not yet. Not while Johanna and Katniss fought for her, and not while Finnick’s lessons and love coursed through her memory. She would survive this. She had to.

The twins had finally retreated, melting back into the ruined expanse of the surface like shadows fleeing the sun. Their unnatural white forms disappeared against the gray rubble and dying foliage, leaving the three girls panting, bruised, and bloodied in the eerie silence that followed. The acrid tang of the poisoned gas still clung to Red’s skin and hair, but it was less biting now, thanks to the retreating attackers. Yet her body remained rigid, trembling violently as she tried to draw air into her lungs. Johanna swore under her breath, wiping sweat and blood from her face with the back of her glove. She crouched low beside Red, her axe still clutched in one hand while her other moved to support her friend. “Damn it, Wolfie, you’re gonna kill me with a heart attack one of these days!” she spat, her voice rough and ragged, yet threaded with fierce concern.

Katniss knelt on the other side, her bow slung low but ready, glancing quickly around to ensure the immediate threat was gone. Her gloved hands hovered over Red’s daggers, which had skittered across the broken ground when Red had been slammed to the earth. Without hesitation, she nudged them with the tip of her boot, dragging them close enough for recovery but not touching Red until she was steady.

Red coughed, a jagged, painful sound that rattled her ribs and made her eyes water. She coughed again, and this time, flecks of dark red stained the front of her uniform. She gasped, the metallic taste burning at the back of her throat, and tried to push herself up, but her muscles refused to obey. Every joint felt wrenched, every breath a battle against the remnants of the gas and the raw pain in her chest and shoulders. “Wolfie!” Johanna barked, slapping Red’s cheek lightly, not enough to hurt, but enough to jolt her out of her spiraling panic. “Keep your fucking eyes open, alright? There’s an annoying ass boy with a trident downstairs who needs you breathing, not dying in the dirt like some drama queen!”

Red’s lips trembled, words coming out in little broken fragments between coughs. “Tell… Finnick… I… I love him… I’m… I’m sorry… so sorry…” Her voice cracked, a mixture of guilt, fear, and delirium, and she pressed her face into Johanna’s chest instinctively, gasping as blood trickled from her mouth with every intake of air.

Katniss’s hand rested lightly on Red’s arm, steadying her. Her voice, calm and surprisingly gentle given the chaos, pressed softly against her friend’s ears. “You’re okay, Red. Just breathe. Don’t fight it. We’ve got you. You just need to stay with us a little longer.”

Johanna’s eyes rolled dramatically at Katniss’s calmness, her lips curling into a scowl that barely disguised her worry. “Stop being so nice for one second, Little Ms. Face of the Rebellion! This isn’t a tea party!” She crouched lower, adjusting her grip under Red’s shoulders, preparing to sling her over herself. “I’ll carry her, and you, little Ms. Fancy Hands, drag her daggers. We move now!”

Katniss nodded, letting the cold, hard efficiency of their training take over. She knelt and carefully maneuvered Red’s vine daggers closer, dragging them along with the tips of her boots as Johanna readied her stance. “On my mark,” Johanna said, her voice sharp and commanding, the leader in her shining through the exhaustion and fury. “Three… two… one—” Before Red could protest—or even understand what was happening—Johanna wrapped her arms firmly around Red’s torso and hoisted her onto her shoulders in one fluid motion. Red let out a choked sound, part gasp, part weak laugh, but she didn’t resist. Her body was too heavy with exhaustion, pain, and the lingering effects of the gas to offer much struggle. Katniss moved in close, her hands gripping the base of the vine daggers. “Got them,” she muttered, dragging them along the rubble-strewn surface, making sure the sharp edges didn’t catch on anything. Every step they took sent small jostles through Red’s body, and she coughed again, blood flecking the side of Johanna’s uniform.

“You’re a mess, Wolfie,” Johanna muttered, her tone rough but undeniably affectionate as she began sprinting toward the elevator. Her steps were steady, calculated, and fierce, carrying the weight of Red with an ease that belied the strain. Her eyes scanned the horizon with a predator’s precision, alert for any other threats, yet all focus remained on getting Red to safety.

Red’s braids hung loose now, tumbling around her face and shoulders like molten fire, catching on Johanna’s uniform in places. The long red strands twisted and wrapped around Johanna’s arm as they ran, and yet, Red didn’t push them away. She barely moved at all, coughing and gasping, her lips murmuring incoherent pleas and fragmented confessions.

“Finnick…” she whispered again, voice barely audible, trembling. “Tell him… tell him I love him… I—” Katniss reached forward, steadying Red’s head against Johanna’s shoulder, brushing some of the sweat-soaked hair from her face. “Tell himself, okay Briar?” Johanna’s pace didn’t falter, but her voice, normally fierce and roaring, softened slightly as she gritted her teeth. “You just keep your ass alive for me, Wolfie. That’s all I care about right now. Keep breathing, or I swear I’ll yell at you until you wish the twins were back to finish the job!”

Red coughed violently again, and a trickle of blood ran down her chin, falling onto Johanna’s shoulder. She whimpered weakly, trying to nod, and Johanna’s grip tightened involuntarily. “Stop doing that to me, you ridiculous girl,” she muttered under her breath, almost fondly, though her eyes flashed with fear.

Katniss, stooped low and dragging the daggers, glanced at the elevator’s blinking panel up ahead. “Almost there,” she said, her voice steady, clipped, like she was giving orders on a battlefield. “Just a few more steps. Keep your fucking eyes open, Red. Seriously, we need you conscious when we hit the elevators. Finnick’s going to have my head if you pass out on me again.”

Red’s hands fluttered weakly, her grip on Johanna’s uniform slackening, then tightening again reflexively. Her vision swam, the edges of her world hazy and red-tinted from coughing and blood. Her mind kept returning to Finnick—his calm strength, the warmth of his arms, the way he’d always been her anchor in every storm. Her lips quivered, a soft, broken murmur barely audible even over the pounding of their footsteps. “I… love him… so much…” she whispered again, her voice cracking with exhaustion and fear. “Tell him I’m… sorry…”

Johanna muttered under her breath, shaking her head. “Will you shut up with the apologies, Wolfie? Save your energy for breathing, not whining!” But even as she spoke, her shoulders tensed in concern, adjusting slightly to carry Red more securely.

Katniss, a flicker of a smile breaking through her worry, added quietly, “He knows, Red. He knows. You’re going to get to him. Just… just hold on a little longer.” The elevator panel glowed faintly ahead of them, the metallic hum growing louder as they approached. Johanna glanced down at Red, a flicker of annoyance giving way to something more fragile, more real. “I swear, if you die on me now, Wolfie, I’ll—” She broke off mid-sentence as Red coughed again, blood flecking the concrete below, and she gritted her teeth, forcing herself to focus. Katniss, moving alongside, muttered sharply, “Grab the daggers when we hit the doors. I don’t want you leaving them behind, Red. They’re yours, and I’m not cleaning up if you drop them again.”

Johanna growled in agreement, adjusting her grip and beginning a final sprint. The elevators loomed closer now, the doors blinking as if beckoning them to safety. Each step sent small jolts through Red’s fragile body, her coughing growing weaker but still fierce.

“You’re doing fine,” Katniss said quietly, crouched low, dragging the daggers with a precision born of years of training. “Just a few more feet. Keep breathing. Keep those eyes open.” Red’s lips quivered, and for a fleeting second, her gaze flickered toward the ceiling of the elevator shaft, her hands twitching weakly. Her mind was half in panic, half in delirium, half in the memory of Finnick’s warm, strong hands, and all she could manage to whisper was, “I… I love him…”

Johanna’s voice, sharp and commanding, cut through the haze. “I know, Wolfie! And now you just keep holding on! Almost there!”

And finally, the elevator doors loomed directly ahead. Katniss kicked the daggers up just enough to slide them safely onto Red’s chest, while Johanna adjusted her hold, preparing to carry her inside. The metallic hum of the elevator filled the air, a small beacon of refuge in the toxic chaos of the surface.

The elevator doors slid closed with a metallic sigh, sealing them in the small, confining space. Red sagged against Johanna, gasping raggedly, each inhale sharp and painful as if her lungs were catching fire. Her hands clutched at Johanna’s shoulders, fingers trembling, and a thin sheen of sweat slicked her skin. Johanna’s hands moved quickly, hitting Red’s back with firm, measured pats. “Breathe, damn it! Come on, Wolfie, fill those lungs!” she barked, her voice rough with both command and panic.

Katniss crouched beside them, pressing her gloved hands lightly against Red’s arms to steady her. “Deep breaths, Red. You’re safe now. Just… breathe. Focus on the air in the elevator—it’s clean.”

Red’s chest heaved, her eyes fluttering open just enough to catch a glimpse of their determined faces. The relief in seeing them there made her shiver, but the poison’s grip still clawed at her throat. Each cough rattled out like a small explosion, but Johanna and Katniss refused to let her collapse into it. “You’re okay,” Katniss murmured softly, her fingers brushing a strand of damp hair from Red’s face. “We’ve got you. Just a little longer, alright?” Johanna’s grip tightened under Red’s arms, her tone softer now, but still firm. “Yeah, Wolfie, you’re not dying on me. Not today. Not after all this.” She hit her back again, sharper this time, coaxing her to breathe, coaxing life back into her lungs.

Red’s head lolled forward slightly, her long braids cascading over Johanna’s arm, but she obeyed, drawing in trembling, jagged breaths. Each inhale was a victory, each exhale a small reclaiming of control. Slowly, the tremor in her body eased, though the coughing persisted, dark streaks staining her uniform.

Finally, as the elevator hummed steadily beneath them, Red’s eyes found theirs fully, and she managed a weak, grateful nod. She was still fragile, still aching, but for the first time in minutes, she wasn’t fighting for air alone.

The three of them sank onto the cold metal floor of the elevator, laughter bubbling up before any of them could stop it. It was brittle at first, uneven, but as the sound mingled with the steady hum of the elevator descending back into District Thirteen, it became a lifeline. Johanna’s hand patted Red’s back with a rough gentleness, Katniss’s fingers brushing at her hair, and Red couldn’t help but let out a weak, wheezing chuckle between coughs.

Red’s chest still heaved painfully, small coughs catching on the last bits of poisonous gas she had inhaled. She tried to straighten herself, but the shards of glass from her shattered mask had left tiny lines across her face, crimson streaks catching the dim gray light of the elevator. Her own blood glinted faintly, and she made a soft, humor-tinged groan.

“Oh, he’s going to freak,” Red muttered, touching her cheek where a particularly nasty shard had nicked her skin. “Finnick is going to look at this and—oh, I don’t even want to imagine it.” Her attempt at a laugh was shaky, coughing catching her mid-sentence, but her words were still laced with that trademark dark humor.

Johanna leaned over, unclipping the remains of her own gas mask, tugging gently at Red’s straps. “Easy, Wolfie. Let’s get this crap off your face before it drives you completely insane.” She gave a tiny smirk despite the worry flashing in her eyes. “You always were stubborn. Just wait till Finnick sees you like this—he’ll either cry or throw himself at the first twin that looks at you wrong.”

Katniss knelt on the other side, lifting Red’s chin just enough to get a better angle to help slide the mask away. “We need to get you to medbay as soon as this elevator stops. That’s your first priority,” she said firmly, though her voice held the gentleness that always softened her commands when it came to Red. “Blood and gas do not mix well.”

Red’s lips curled into a small, humor-laden grin despite the pain. “Oh, I know, ‘Little Ms. Face of the Rebellion’ is going to lecture me to death, but can you imagine what Fin would do when he sees my beautiful face all scratched up? He’ll probably make me sleep in a bubble or something. Or maybe just cry in my hair for an hour. I’d honestly let him.”

Johanna rolled her eyes but didn’t stop helping. “You mean he’s going to melt into a puddle of guilt and despair? Yeah, I can see that. Don’t worry, Wolfie. We’ll survive the tears, the moral panic, and your charming jokes while dragging your ass to the medbay.”

Red let out a wheezing laugh and coughed into her shoulder, the taste of blood tangling with her words. “Charming? Oh, yeah, the charming ‘I just nearly died and look fabulous’ charm.” She tried to straighten herself but sagged back against the elevator wall, exhausted, hair loose over her shoulders, tangling with Johanna’s arm as she moved.

Katniss nodded, a small, rueful smile tugging at her lips. “We’re almost there. Just hang in a little longer, Red. You’re safe now. That’s what matters.” She gently worked to remove the straps and shards still embedded in the mask, careful not to tug too hard on the raw skin.

Johanna added with a smirk, “You’ve got to stop making jokes about Finnick right now. You’re a bloody mess, and I swear if he gets here and you try to be witty, I’m throwing you into the medbay bed myself.” Red groaned, but her eyes gleamed with a mix of pain and amusement. “You two are hilarious. I can’t wait to see the face Finnick makes when he sees all of this. Maybe he’ll propose again just to make me shut up.” She gave a small cough, then winced, pressing her hands gently to her cheeks where the glass had scratched her skin.

Katniss’s hands were steady and precise as she helped free Red from the rest of her mask, letting it fall to the elevator floor with a soft clatter. Red lifted a trembling hand to touch her cheek, wincing at the sting, but her dark humor remained intact. “You know,” she whispered through shallow breaths, “I bet I’ll look like a warrior goddess. Like Antheia herself carved her wrath into my face.”

Johanna chuckled despite the tension, helping Red adjust her posture. “If anyone deserves to look like a goddess after surviving that mess, it’s you, Wolfie. Though, maybe with less blood on your cheeks next time?” She nudged Red gently with her knee, earning another wheezing laugh. Red’s voice dropped to a soft, teasing rasp, “Less blood would be boring. I prefer dramatic entrances… and exits.” She coughed again, and both girls instinctively pressed closer to support her.

The elevator hummed softly around them, the steady mechanical thrum a stark contrast to the chaos of the surface they had just escaped. They had fought, scrambled, and nearly been overpowered, and now they were back underground, in the safety of District Thirteen’s bowels. The gray walls felt suffocating yet comforting, enclosing them like a protective cocoon.

Katniss reached for Red’s daggers, checking that they were still secure despite the struggle. “We’ll get you patched up, Wolfie. Then you can make Finnick explain why he let you go out there without him.” Her tone was teasing, but the sharpness in her eyes betrayed her worry.

Johanna nudged Red’s shoulder gently, “You’re lucky you’ve got two annoying, wonderful sisters watching your ass tonight. That and you’re covered in blood. He’s going to flip, but at least you’re alive.”

Red lifted a hand, her engagement ring catching the faint elevator light, and her lips curved into a weak smile. “Yeah… alive… but oh, the speech Finnick’s going to give me… about responsibility and listening to the damn fiancé. I can hear it now.” She coughed again, smaller this time, and her laughter trembled with exhaustion. The three of them remained on the elevator floor, laughter fading into soft breaths and gentle pats. The tension ebbed slowly as the elevator hummed further into the underground tunnels, carrying them back toward the sterile, familiar gray of District Thirteen. Relief mingled with exhaustion, and Red, bleeding and coughing but alive, felt the weight of being cared for surround her in a way only Katniss and Johanna could provide.

Her hands instinctively found her ring again, tracing the curve of the metal as she muttered quietly, half to herself, half to the air around them: “Finnick… I hope you’re ready for the mess you’ve gotten me into.”

Katniss let out a soft laugh, squeezing Red’s arm. “He’ll survive. Probably. Somehow. Now let’s just get you to medbay before you make him worry himself gray.” Johanna snorted beside her, shaking her head but still offering steady support. “And I swear, Red, if you make one more joke before he sees you, I’m smacking you upside the head. Just breathe, wolfie. That’s your job right now.” Red’s laughter was soft, ragged, mixed with wheezes and coughs, but it was there—proof that she was alive, still herself, and still defiant even in pain. And for the first time since the chaos on the surface, she let herself relax into their arms, letting the exhaustion wash over her as the elevator descended further into the safe depths of District Thirteen.

The elevator groaned and rattled to a stop, the faint mechanical clang of its arrival echoing down the gray underground halls. Red’s chest heaved with ragged breaths, a low wheezing sound accompanying the faint coughs that still wracked her body. Blood flecked the corner of her mouth and smeared across the edges of the broken mask that had now been discarded at her side. Each movement was a jolt, a reminder of how close she had come to the gas—and to the twins’ brutal assault.

Johanna and Katniss didn’t wait for the doors to open fully before they lifted Red to her feet, each supporting a side of her as the elevator doors slid back with that slow, grinding hiss. Every step was careful, methodical, but urgent. The dim lights of the corridor reflected faintly off the gray concrete walls, throwing long, harsh shadows behind them, and Red could barely register the environment as her body wavered between adrenaline and shock.

The scent of antiseptic hit her first as the medbay came into view, sharp and clinical, cutting through the lingering metallic tang of blood and dust. It smelled like safety and discipline, but also like the reality of war—the long nights, the endless casualties, the effort it took to stitch people back together after the Capitol had torn them apart.

Two medics from District Thirteen, clad in the standard gray uniforms and protective gloves, stepped forward the instant they spotted Red. Their eyes were alert, scanning her wounds as if reading the damage before she could even protest. “Over here, now!” one of them barked, voice firm but not unkind, directing Johanna and Katniss to guide Red toward the nearest examination table.

Red’s legs felt like lead, her body refusing to cooperate fully as Johanna lifted her from beneath the arms while Katniss steadied her. She coughed again violently, a spray of blood landing on the floor, and instinctively raised a hand to her face, but the medics were already rushing closer, their movements smooth and practiced.

“Stay with us,” Katniss murmured softly, pressing a hand to Red’s back as the coughs shook her entire frame. Her other hand brushed at Red’s hair, now loose and cascading around her shoulders in wild waves. The fishtail braids Finnick had painstakingly done that morning were undone, strands tangling around the medic’s gloves and Johanna’s sleeve.

“Wolfie, we’ve got you,” Johanna added, her voice sharp and commanding despite the worry creeping into it. “No gas, no idiots, no anything. Just stay upright, yeah?”

Red tried to nod, but the motion was weak, and another cough overtook her, smaller, but with a bitter edge of blood. “F-finnie…” she croaked, voice hoarse and uneven, eyes flicking briefly to the corner where Finnick would normally be, her mind picturing him waiting, hands clenched around the ring he had made, his expression taut with worry even now.

The medics were already moving, one steadying Red’s torso while the other examined her face, tracing the fine cuts and splintered shards of mask that had lacerated her skin. “We need to get these cleaned and bandaged first, then check lungs for any residual gas damage,” the taller medic said, a faint edge of urgency under the clinical calm. Katniss’s hands tightened briefly on Red’s shoulders. “Keep breathing. One, two, three… okay, you got to wait to die till at least your married, Red. Focus, Wolfie, just focus on the rhythm.”

Johanna leaned down close, her voice a low rumble beneath the beep and whir of the medbay machines. “And you better not think about swooning on us again. Save that for Finnick. Right now, you’re mine.”

Red’s eyes flicked between the two of them, hazel glinting with exhaustion and relief and a dark sort of humor that always seemed to accompany her even at the worst times. “He’s… going to lose his mind,” she rasped, trying to shift her weight without much success. Her hand drifted instinctively to the spot on her left hand where the engagement ring caught faint light through the overhead fluorescents. The simple loop of metal, polished and perfectly circular, a symbol of something solid in the chaos, seemed to steady her just slightly.

The medics worked in tandem, one swabbing at her face gently, dabbing at the fresh cuts while the other guided her to sit fully on the examination table, easing her legs so she didn’t collapse beneath her own exhaustion. “You’re going to be okay,” one murmured, almost to themselves, as they began disinfecting the jagged lines left by the mask shards. “Just a few bandages, some rest, and we’ll keep a close eye on the lungs.”

Red gripped the edge of the table, her knuckles white as she coughed again, small whimpers of frustration escaping. “I… I can’t believe… I almost… died… again…” Her voice trailed off, jagged and raw. Katniss reached over, brushing a damp strand of hair from her face. “Don’t think about that now. You’re here. You’re breathing. That’s all that matters.” Johanna, standing on the other side, pressed a gloved hand briefly to Red’s arm. “And you’re not leaving until Finnick sees you. You hear me? You’re alive, bloodied, but alive. And he’s going to explode when he sees you. So stop whining and let the doctors do their jobs.”

Red tried to manage a small laugh, though it broke halfway into a cough. Her eyes, hazel flecked with red, wandered to the medbay walls—the antiseptic smell, the hum of the ventilation, the faint clink of surgical tools—and yet, despite the clinical sterility, the knowledge of Finnick waiting, of the ring, of the promise between them, anchored her. Just slightly. The taller medic moved with gentle authority, examining her lungs with a stethoscope, nodding once, satisfied, before moving back to check the rest of her posture and cuts. “Good, strong lungs. You’ll have some soreness from the gas, and these cuts will sting, but it’s nothing we can’t handle. You’re strong, obviously. But rest—”

Johanna, ever blunt, pressed a quick kiss to the top of Red’s head. “We’ve got you, Wolfie. Don’t you dare think otherwise.”

Red’s hand automatically went to the ring again, tracing the simple circle, feeling the weight of it against her finger. A tether. A promise. Even in the haze of pain and blood and exhaustion, it reminded her that some things were steadfast, some things were real. Finnick was waiting. And she was alive. “See?” Johanna murmured, leaning closer, “you’re still alive. Still talking. Still joking. Still going to make Finnick explode when he sees you.” Red’s gaze flickered toward the ceiling, blinking rapidly to keep tears from spilling over. “He… better be ready…” Her lips curved faintly into a smile, weak but genuine, as the medics finished their checks and preparations. “I… I’m alive… for him… for us…”

Katniss nodded, brushing her hair back gently. “Yes. And he’s waiting for you. Just a little longer. Hold on. You’re going to be okay, Wolfie. You hear me? Okay.”

Red’s hazel eyes, still flecked with red, blinked up at her. A soft, raspy laugh slipped out between coughs. “Okay… for him… for us… yeah.”

Johanna let out a low, victorious hum. “Atta girl, Wolfie. You’re a mess, but you’re our mess.” She nudged her lightly, and Red let herself sink back slightly, exhaustion finally letting her slump into the support around her.

The medbay’s harsh lights softened in her vision as she leaned back against the table, hands still tracing the ring, lungs working steadily now, and for the first time since the surface fight, the tiniest shred of relief, fragile and trembling, settled in her chest.

Finnick’s boots pounded against the gray concrete floors of District Thirteen, each step echoing like a drumbeat in the near-empty corridor. The warning from the guard had been enough to send his stomach into a tailspin: Soldier Briar… she’s been seriously injured… medbay… now. His mind had gone from disbelief to panic in a fraction of a second. His chest tightened with every step, every breath shallow, every heartbeat a frantic drum urging him faster. Around him, the underground base hummed with its usual muted life—the faint buzz of ventilation, distant clanging of machinery, and the occasional footsteps of soldiers and medics—but all of it seemed to fade away. There was only the single thought: Red.

As he rounded the corner leading to the medbay, he could see the bright, harsh lights spilling from the doorway, cutting through the gray shadows of the hall. His boots slipped slightly on the polished floor as adrenaline carried him forward, his hand instinctively reaching out as though he could push the doors open faster.

When he finally burst into the medbay, his eyes immediately found her. She was lying on a cot, chest rising and falling under the careful guidance of the oxygen mask strapped over her face. Her hair, loose and wild from the fight and the gas mask, fanned across the sterile white sheets, a riot of red against the pale medical linens. Her hands rested lightly against the sides, one of them curled, fingers brushing at the edges of her black uniform where the daggers were tucked, and even in this state, her posture spoke of strength.

But it was the cuts on her face that stole the breath from him. The jagged shards of glass had carved thin lines into her skin, the medics working quickly and skillfully to stitch and bandage them while keeping her oxygen steady. Each tiny motion, each careful suture, made his chest tighten further.

Johanna and Katniss flanked her cot, sitting close, voices low but firm, encouraging her, grounding her as the medics worked. Finnick saw Johanna’s jaw tight, eyes glinting with worry that threatened to spill over into anger, and Katniss’s hand resting lightly on Red’s shoulder, fingers brushing against the smooth fabric of her uniform, silently giving strength.

Time seemed to slow as he took in the scene. Red’s hazel eyes flickered behind the mask, catching his, and for a moment, he could see the recognition spark. The tiniest flutter of life in them that told him she knew he was here, that she knew he had made it.

“Red…” His voice broke slightly, raw with fear and relief, as he rushed closer.

Red’s eyelids lifted, and the oxygen mask slipped slightly as she turned toward him. A low, ragged breath escaped her lips, and her eyes met his. In that instant, all the pain, all the exhaustion, all the fear melted away from her expression.

Without a word, she yanked the oxygen mask off, the strap snapping against the back of her head, and leapt forward. Finnick barely had time to catch her as she wrapped her arms around his neck, her body trembling against his chest. Her ring, glinting faintly even under the harsh medbay lights, rested against his chest as she clutched him tightly.

He pressed her to him instinctively, arms locking around her waist, holding her as if he could keep her grounded simply by sheer force of will. His heart pounded, a mix of fear, relief, and overwhelming love, and he buried his face into the crown of her wild, fiery hair. The scent of her, the warmth of her, the familiar weight of her arms around him—it anchored him in the moment, reminding him that she was here. She was alive.

Red’s fingers dug into his shoulders, holding on as though she would never let go, her breath ragged but steadying against his chest. The oxygen mask lay discarded on the floor, forgotten, because right now there was nothing else that mattered but the feel of Finnick’s arms around her, the security in his presence, and the unspoken promise between them—he would never let anything take her from him again.

Chapter Text

The bunker lights had dimmed to their midnight hush, the faint hum of District Thirteen’s generators whispering like an old heartbeat in the walls. Most of the base was asleep—except for the handful of rebels who never could rest easy when tomorrow promised something that looked too much like hope. Finnick and Red were one of those few. Their narrow quarters were still and warm, smelling faintly of oil, soap, and the herbs Red tucked beneath their cot to keep the air from tasting like metal. She was half-asleep in his lap, hair loose again, falling in waves like copper water across his knees. Finnick’s fingers traced small circles along her arm, quiet, reverent, as if he could memorize her by touch alone before the morning came.

He’d already taken his shirt off, because he always slept hot, and she was murmuring sleepy nonsense against his shoulder—words about vines and forests and home—when the door hissed open with a clatter of boots.

“Absolutely not!” Johanna’s voice filled the small room like cannon fire. “No sleeping with the bride! You hear me, Odair? Bad luck, bad form, bad everything!” Finnick’s head snapped up, halfway between protective instinct and indignation. “Johanna, it’s midnight,” he groaned, running a hand through his hair. “You’re going to give someone a heart attack.”

“That’s the point,” she said cheerfully, striding in with Katniss right behind her. Katniss looked exhausted but amused, like she’d been strong-armed into this. “It’s bad luck,” Johanna continued, already grabbing Red by the wrist. “You can kiss her hand, you can sing her a lullaby, but you are not sharing a bed tonight, goldilocks.” Red mumbled something into Finnick’s collarbone that sounded suspiciously like, over my dead body. Katniss stifled a laugh. “You know, she’s technically right,” she said, leaning against the doorway. Finnick looked scandalized. “We’re rebels hiding underground, not characters in a fairy tale! I think we can bend tradition.” Johanna rolled her eyes so hard it was audible. “You can bend a fishing hook, Odair, not fate.” Then, tugging harder on Red’s arm, “Come on, forest girl. Beauty sleep. You need at least a few hours before Effie tries to glue flowers in your hair.”

Red laughed, half-asleep, the sound hoarse but bright. “Effie’s probably already awake doing it herself.”

“Wouldn’t surprise me,” Katniss muttered, smiling.

Finnick’s grip tightened just slightly around Red’s waist as Johanna kept pulling. “You can’t take her yet,” he said, almost childishly, like someone protecting the last sweet thing in a bitter world. “She’s mine for a few more minutes.” Red tilted her face up to him then, eyes glassy with exhaustion but still burning that impossible wildfire gold. “Just a few more,” she whispered. Johanna groaned. “You two make me sick.” But there was affection in it, the kind that cracked and glowed like a match struck in the dark. She turned to Katniss. “Help me out here. If we don’t drag her out, he’s going to start quoting poetry or something.”

“I don’t quote poetry,” Finnick said automatically.

“Sure you don’t,” Katniss said, folding her arms with a grin. “I’ve heard your post-mission speeches, Finnick. You make Gale look concise.” That earned a snort from Johanna, who was already half-hauling Red to her feet. “Alright, sweetheart, up. Come on. You’ve got a wedding to survive in—what—eight hours? And Coin’s already threatening to broadcast it to half the damn planet.”

“Six,” Red corrected blearily, standing and wobbling on her bare feet. Her ring flashed dimly in the low light. “She moved it to six. Said something about ‘striking while the Capitol’s nerves are still frayed.’” Johanna laughed, sharp and mean in that way that only meant she cared too much. “Romantic. Nothing says love like propaganda.” Finnick stood too, and for a moment his expression softened—something fierce and proud all at once. He reached out, brushing a stray piece of hair from Red’s face. “You could wear a potato sack and still make Panem forget the war,” he said quietly. “Just… be careful tomorrow, okay?”

Red’s eyes softened. “It’s our wedding, Finnie. What could possibly happen?”

The silence that followed said everything. Even Johanna hesitated, then clapped her hands once to break it. “Nope. No doom talk. We’re not doing that tonight.” Katniss nodded in agreement. “We’re doing laughter, bad coffee, and maybe some stolen sugar cubes.” Red chuckled, already letting Johanna drag her toward the door. “You’re both insufferable.”

“You love us,” Johanna said, grinning wide.

“I love Katniss, I tolerate you,” Red corrected with mock severity, but the look she gave them both said otherwise. Finnick followed, barefoot, until he stood in the doorway. “Wait,” he said, voice suddenly soft enough that even Johanna paused. “One last thing.” Red turned, curiosity flickering through the fatigue. He stepped closer, cupped her face, and kissed her—just once, gently, the kind of kiss that felt like a promise pressed into bone. “For luck,” he murmured.

Johanna made a dramatic gagging sound. “You’re impossible.”

“Let them have their moment,” Katniss said, smirking. “You remember the last time we interrupted them? Red almost broke your nose.”

“Because for some reason, Katniss tried to shoot me, and you had an axe at my neck!” Red protested, laughing now as Johanna tugged her toward the corridor again.

“Yeah,” Johanna said, unabashed. “And I’d do it again.”

Finnick leaned against the doorframe, watching them go—his fiancée barefoot, laughing under the fluorescent lights, hair loose and wild like she carried the last piece of sunlight left in the world. He didn’t know how he’d gotten lucky enough to hold her heart in the middle of a war, but he did know one thing: he was terrified to lose it. As they turned the corner, Red glanced back one last time, lifting her hand—the one with the ring. Her eyes met his, steady and golden and full of a thousand unspoken things. “Go to sleep, golden boy,” she called softly. “I’ll see you at the altar.” Then she was gone, swallowed by the maze of corridors and laughter.

Finnick stood there for a long moment, staring at the empty doorway, the echo of her voice still tangled in his chest. The room felt colder without her in it. He exhaled slowly, rubbing at his jaw, trying not to think about how bad luck didn’t feel like a superstition anymore—it felt like an omen.

------------

Red was sprawled dramatically across Katniss’s lap, her arms flung over Katniss’s thighs, her face pressed against the older girl’s stomach. She let out a pitiful, theatrical groan that could have been heard across the entire underground base. “I… can’t… breathe,” she gasped, voice thick with mock despair. “Finnick… my Finnie… he’s so far… so far away… and the morning is coming and I—” Katniss rolled her eyes but held Red gently, as if she were a misbehaving child rather than a battle-hardened victor who’d single-handedly toppled careers in the arena. “Oh, save it, Briar,” she said, pretending to fan Red’s face with one gloved hand. “You’re so dramatic. You’ve got your ring on, you saw him literally an hour ago, and he didn’t even leave the bunker. You’re fine. Fine, I say!”

Red lifted her hands in feigned horror, letting her ring catch the dim light of the single bedside lamp. “Fine? FINE?! You have no idea, little Miss Face of the Rebellion,” she whimpered, her hair falling like a fiery waterfall over Katniss’s arm. “I can’t function! My heart—it’s lodged somewhere in that fisherman’s chest, and I—” She froze mid-sentence, her eyes rolling back as she sagged entirely onto Katniss’s lap, mock fainting like a Victorian heroine in a poorly-written romance. “Oh, cruel… cruel fate!” she moaned, sprawled limply, and Katniss had to press her hands against Red’s shoulders to stop her from completely toppling onto the floor.

Johanna, leaning against the wall with her arms crossed and one boot propped on the corner of a chair, groaned with exasperation so loud it rattled the lone window frame. “I cannot believe this. My best friend is a lovesick lunatic,” she muttered, tapping the side of her head lightly against the wall in disbelief. “I have literally lived through arena death, Capitol terror, and now this—this is what destroys me? Listening to my best friend talk about a glorified fish?”

Red flopped her head sideways dramatically so that her braid tickled Katniss’s lap. “Yes!” she shouted. “This destroys me. It consumes me. I can’t train. I can’t eat. I can’t—”

“—function,” Katniss supplied, smirking. “I was going to let you finish, but you basically already did.”

Red gasped. “How dare you interrupt the tragedy of my heart!” she yelled, clutching Katniss’s arm like a lifeline. “He’s my fiancé, Katniss! My—my everything!”

Johanna rolled her eyes so hard it practically made a sound. “Everything is exaggeration, Briar,” she muttered.  Katniss raised a hand, her gloved fingers hovering over Red’s chest. “Oh, don’t tempt me,” she said, her lips twitching in amusement. “If I don’t hold her down, she’s going to start reciting every heroic moment Finnick has ever done in the rebellion like some kind of… epic poetry, and I swear I can’t handle that kind of history lesson at midnight.”

Red’s eyes went wide, sparkling with mischief. “Epic poetry, you say?” she breathed dramatically, lifting herself slightly off Katniss’s lap, hair cascading across the older girl’s knees. “Then let me recount how my brave, fearless, devastatingly handsome Finnick Odair—”

“—will be here in eight hours, wearing that ridiculous suit Coin forced him into—yes, yes, we all know,” Katniss interrupted, cutting her off but grinning. Red groaned, letting herself sink back down like a defeated marionette. “Fine! But the world should know that I am entirely undone by him. Every second without him is—”

“—comedy gold for the two of us,” Johanna finished, smirking. She leaned forward and lightly tapped Red’s braid with her knuckle, as if to measure the level of her panic by the sheer volume of hair. “I mean, seriously. Look at this mess. Every knot is a metaphor for your sanity unraveling. You really are a disaster in human form, Briar.” Red glared but couldn’t stop the laugh from bubbling out. “I am not a disaster!” she insisted. “I am a forest goddess undone by love! And my hair—my hair is symbolic! See this? All my braids undone, and yet Finnick can’t even see it—he’s asleep, poor boy, dreaming of me probably.”

Johanna snorted, shaking her head. “Oh yes, poor boy. Or he’s awake, plotting how to keep you from destroying the apartment in your lovesick state. Either way, someone’s doomed.” Katniss leaned back, still holding Red, and let out a soft chuckle. “You are absolutely ridiculous, you know that? I’m not sure if I should laugh or cry.” Red pressed her hands to her face, then peeked through her fingers. “Laugh. Laugh at me. Mock me. But also… feel my pain! My heart—”

“—is fine,” Johanna said sharply, “because he’s the best man alive, and we all know it. But you, Red, are going to give me a headache before the ceremony even starts.”

Red twisted dramatically in Katniss’s lap to point a finger at Johanna. “You! You don’t understand true love! You're too scarred—this is what’s worse than facing the Capitol. Waiting to marry Finnick Odair while the world burns around you is the ultimate punishment!”

Katniss snorted. “And yet somehow, you’re still managing to be the most charming, entertaining, dramatic disaster alive. Congratulations, Briar.” Red collapsed back, letting her forehead hit Katniss’s thigh gently. “I can’t help it. He’s my everything. I need him.” Johanna shook her head, walking to the corner and leaning against the wall, a faint smile tugging at her lips despite her exaggerated groaning. “He’s not going anywhere, love-sick Briar. And you know it. But watching you flail like this… I might actually reconsider sleep tonight just to witness it.”

Red buried her face again. “Finnick… if anything happens tomorrow… if a bomb drops, if Coin changes her mind to not broadcast this wedding as propaganda… tell him I—”

Katniss cut her off, patting her shoulder gently. “Shh, shh. He’s awake, maybe half-asleep, and probably thinking the same thing about you. You’ll get to say everything when the sun comes up.”

Red let out a long, trembling sigh, her grip on Katniss’s lap loosening. “I’m trying not to be dramatic,” she whispered. “I’m really trying.” Johanna laughed, throwing her head back. “Oh, you’re dramatic. But it’s fun drama. The kind that makes the night worth staying up for.” Red peeked up, eyes shiny with unshed tears, and let out a soft, resigned laugh. “I can’t wait for tomorrow. I really can’t. And yet I’m terrified.”

Katniss rubbed her back softly. “Terrified is allowed. But trust me, you’ll make it through. You always do.”

Red’s hands found Katniss’s, holding on, and for a long moment, there was no teasing, no mock fainting—just a quiet acknowledgment that love, even in the middle of a war, could be a lifeline.

Johanna smirked, watching them both. “Fine. But I’m still holding you responsible if you faint in the aisle, Briar. And Katniss… if she tries, you better catch her.” Red groaned, letting herself sink further into Katniss’s lap. “I think I might just faint anyway,” she whispered. “Because I love him too much. And soon… soon, it’ll all be real.” Katniss smiled, tightening her hold. “Then we’ll be here for you. Every moment. You and Finnick. No matter what.”

Johanna shook her head and muttered something under her breath about how hopeless they all were, but the edge of laughter in her voice gave away the truth: she was as invested in this madness as the rest of them. Katniss had long since fallen asleep on the cot across the small unit, her black gloves folded neatly on her chest, her steady breathing punctuating the quiet like the soft rhythm of a river.

Red sat cross-legged on the floor beside Johanna’s narrow bed, her back leaning against the cool wall. Her long red hair, usually braided tightly in fishtails or plaits, had been let down tonight, tumbling around her shoulders and pooling across the floor in soft waves. The golden light from a single lamp in the corner caught on the tips, making it shimmer faintly in the darkness. She kept glancing at Johanna, who sat curled up on her side on the bed, arms wrapped loosely around her knees, staring at the shadows that pooled in the corners of the room.

“You know,” Red began softly, her voice almost swallowed by the quiet, “it’s… kind of weird. Being here, on the night before… everything.” She paused, fingers nervously twisting the edge of her sleeve. “I don’t know if I can sleep tonight. I’ve… I’ve never felt like this before.” Johanna shifted slightly, turning her head to look at her. Even in the dim light, her grin was faint, teasing, but warm. “You’re nervous,” she said simply. “And also in love. You’re a mess, Briar. But a cute mess.” Red chuckled softly, the sound low and hesitant. “Yeah. Cute, maybe. Terrified, definitely. And… I keep thinking about how different things were… back in District Seven.” She let out a soft sigh, leaning her head back against the wall. “Remember the trees?”

Johanna’s grin widened, and she nodded eagerly. “How could I forget? We used to climb those impossibly tall pines like monkeys. You’d always go higher than me, of course, because you’re insane, Briar, and I’d follow as best I could.”

Red laughed, a quiet, melodic sound that seemed almost out of place in the dark, concrete room. “You were always slower, but you never gave up. I swear, Johanna, I thought I’d break my neck keeping up with you sometimes. But you… you just… didn’t quit.” She paused, looking down at her hands. “Even when the branches were too thin, or when I was afraid of falling. You… kept going.”

“I had to keep up with the best,” Johanna said softly, her voice carrying a fondness that made Red’s chest ache. “You were the one who always dared me to go higher, jump further, swing faster. I was the cautious one. You were the reckless one.” Red smiled, closing her eyes for a moment, letting the memory wash over her. “Reckless… yeah. That’s me. You were the brains, the one who made sure we didn’t get stuck halfway up a tree, or break a leg in the river. You kept us alive more times than I can count.”

Johanna laughed lightly, shaking her head. “And you… you kept it fun. Even when you scared the living hell out of me, even when I thought I was going to get grounded for life—or worse—you made it… I don’t know… magical. Like there was nothing else in the world except those trees and us and… games.” Red’s lips curved into a soft, wistful smile. “I miss that. I miss… being just us. Not the arena, not the war, not District Thirteen. Just… you and me, climbing trees, making bets on who could swing the furthest, racing across rooftops when the adults weren’t looking.”

Johanna tilted her head, her hair brushing against her shoulder. “Remember that time we tried to see who could jump from the tallest branch into the river without falling awkwardly?” Red laughed quietly. “Yes! And I thought I was going to break my spine, but you… you jumped after me and—God—you looked like you were flying. And then… then we both landed in the water like two wet, angry cats.”

“I was furious at you for daring me,” Johanna said, snickering. “But also… I was thrilled. Because it felt like… I don’t know… freedom. Like nothing could touch us. Not even the Capitol back then, not even the Hunger Games. Just… trees and river and the sun on our backs.”

Red’s voice softened, almost a whisper. “Do you remember the games we played in the woods? The hiding, the tag, the races to see who could find the biggest pinecone, or the highest branch?”

Johanna smiled faintly, eyes distant. “Of course I do. You always cheated, by the way. Always somehow made it look like luck, but it was skill… and maybe a little… magic. You had magic hands.” Red laughed softly, a low hum of memory and nostalgia. “Magic hands… that’s what you call it? I thought it was pure talent. Or maybe sheer stubbornness. Or maybe… just being alive, you know? Feeling like we were alive, even if just for a moment.”

The room fell quiet for a few moments, the kind of silence that feels heavy but comforting, as if it’s carrying all the memories that no words could ever hold. Red’s eyes drifted to the ceiling, and she murmured, almost to herself, “I wonder if the world will ever feel that… light again. Like those days in the trees, before everything went wrong.”

Johanna reached over and lightly touched Red’s arm. “It can, Briar. Maybe not exactly the same. Not without all the scars and all the battles we’ve fought. But… moments like tomorrow… like your wedding… they’re ours. And we’ll make them ours. Like those trees, like those rivers… like us.”

Red turned her head, looking at her best friend. The faint golden glimmer of the lamplight caught in her ring, the symbol of a love she had fought so hard to hold onto, a love that somehow made the world feel smaller, safer, and brighter in the midst of chaos. “I… I hope so. I want it to feel like… us. Like when we were just… kids in the sun, racing across branches, daring each other to jump further than we thought we could.” Johanna nodded, a gentle smile on her face. “It will. And you’ll be wearing a ring this time, so maybe I’ll let you cheat just a little less.”

Red laughed softly, the sound almost a song in the dim room. “I won’t cheat at all. Not tomorrow. Not on the most important day of my life. But… maybe I’ll let you win at something else.”

Johanna grinned faintly, the older sister’s protectiveness softened by the warm glow of their memories. “Fine. You can win at… surviving the wedding. That counts.” They fell into a comfortable silence then, the kind of silence that is heavy with history and affection. Red traced the faint scars on her hands, remnants from training, from loser, from survival, and Johanna’s eyes followed her, softening. “You’ve grown,” Johanna murmured. “Into… something unbreakable. Something the world can’t touch. I’m proud of you, Briar.”

Red’s throat tightened. “And I couldn’t have done it without you. Without you keeping me grounded when I was reckless, without pushing me when I wanted to stop, without… just… being there.” Johanna reached out and lightly brushed a hand over Red’s braid, now loosened, unconsciously mirroring the way Finnick often did it for her. “I’ve always been here. And I always will be, Briar. No matter where the war goes, no matter what happens tomorrow… I’ll be right by your side stupid.” Red smiled faintly, the first time all night that the tension in her chest eased slightly. “Thank you,” she whispered. “For everything. For the trees, for the games, for… being my friend. My best friend.”

“And you’ll be my best friend forever,” Johanna said softly. “Even when you’re Mrs. Odair. Even when the world is… still terrible, still broken. We’ll always have these memories. And we’ll make new ones tomorrow. And I promise… I won’t let Finnick cheat at the wedding games either.”

Red laughed quietly, leaning back against the wall. “I wouldn’t expect anything less. You’ve been keeping me honest since we were kids.” The room fell silent again, but this time it was warm, comfortable, and filled with the quiet pulse of friendship that had survived childhood, war, and the unimaginable. Outside, the hum of District Thirteen continued, a faint reminder of the world they were trying to protect, the rebellion they had to fight, and the lives they had yet to live.

For now, in the darkness of Johanna’s unit, two best friends sat together, tracing the contours of a shared past, finding comfort in memories of trees and rivers, laughter and sun, and the unbreakable bond that had carried them through everything. They didn’t speak of tomorrow, or of the arena, or of the war. They only spoke of the small, bright moments that had always belonged to them, a pocket of peace in a world that had too little of it.

-----------------------------

“IT’S MY WEDDING DAY! IT’S MY WEDDING DAY!”

Katniss’s eyes shot open to see Red bouncing on the bed like a spring, long red hair flying in all directions, eyes sparkling, cheeks flushed. She was laughing and squealing at once, and the sheer energy coming off her made Katniss’s chest hurt with fond amusement. Johanna, on the other hand, groaned from the corner of the room, buried under a mountain of blankets. “Bri—Briar, for the love of—STOP!” she shouted, flailing her arms. But Red didn’t hear her. She was too busy spinning in place, squealing again, hopping higher, shaking out her long braids as if she were trying to wring the excitement from them into the room itself.

Katniss sat up, laughing so hard she had to clutch the edge of the bed. “Red, you’re going to break the floorboards at this rate!”

“GOOD!” Red shouted gleefully, not missing a beat, “I want to break the floorboards! IT’S MY WEDDING DAY!”

Johanna finally surrendered to the chaos with a groan that could have been heard across the bunker. She rolled out from under the blankets, grabbed the nearest pillow, and hurled it at Red with perfect aim. Red yelped, laughing even harder, as the pillow bounced off her mid-jump.

“HEY!” Red protested, still squealing, “WHO THREW THAT?”

“It was me,” Johanna said, breathing heavily, smirking. “And if you don’t calm down, it won’t be the floorboards that get broken, it’ll your head!” Katniss had had enough of watching the spectacle unfold from the sidelines. She tugged at Johanna’s arm. “Come on, we need to help her. She’s going to burn through all the energy in District Thirteen before noon!” Johanna grumbled, swatting Katniss’s hand away, but eventually allowed herself to be dragged upright. Red, oblivious to both of them now, was hopping in circles, braids flying like banners of fire.

Katniss shook her head, laughing softly. “I can’t believe this is real,” she muttered. “She’s actually going to marry him today.”

Red leapt again, landing squarely on her knees, arms thrown wide like she was about to take flight. “YES! TODAY! TODAY IS THE DAY! FINNICK, GET READY, I’M COMING!”

Johanna groaned, facepalming dramatically. “I swear, one of these days, your excitement is going to get us all killed.”

“OR KILLED BY HAPPINESS!” Red shouted, spinning around once more and throwing her arms toward the ceiling.

Katniss laughed again, shaking her head, letting herself be swept up in the ridiculous joy. “Alright,” she said finally, “enough horsing around. We need to get moving before she bounces us all into the medbay by accident.” She gently tugged Johanna by the shoulder. “Come on, sleepyhead, help me calm the bride before she literally hyperventilates herself into next week.” Johanna grumbled something under her breath, clearly still half-asleep, but she allowed herself to be guided toward Red. Meanwhile, Red continued squealing and bouncing, completely unaware that she was already outpacing everyone else in the room.

Katniss watched her for a moment, smiling softly, shaking her head at how impossibly alive Red seemed. Even in the middle of a war, in the gray underground of District Thirteen, in a world that had taken everything from them, Red could still radiate this kind of light.

“Katniss,” Johanna muttered, yawn thick in her voice, “we’re going to need coffee for this. I can’t handle her on no sleep.”

“Too late for that,” Katniss said, smiling as she grabbed Red’s arms and gently tried to stop her from bouncing. Red squealed in protest, laughing, “I’m TOO EXCITED!”

“Yeah, well, we’re too old to be catching you mid-bounce like this,” Katniss said, still holding onto her, “so sit down. Just… sit down!”

Red plopped herself dramatically onto the edge of the bed, still wriggling and laughing, hair spreading like a fiery curtain around her. Johanna collapsed into a nearby chair, rubbing her eyes, muttering something about young love being a public hazard.

Katniss shook her head again, a quiet laugh escaping her lips. “Alright,” she said softly, “let’s get our bride under control… and then maybe… maybe we can help her get ready.” Red, of course, immediately forgot to be under control. She squealed again, jumping back up. “I CAN’T BELIEVE IT’S MY WEDDING DAY!” Johanna threw her head back against the wall and groaned, utterly defeated. Katniss sighed, smiling warmly at the chaos of it all. “Well,” she said quietly, shaking her head in disbelief, “if anyone’s going to survive today, it’s going to be her.”

Red didn’t wait for anyone to herd her along. With a squeal of laughter and an exaggerated skip, she bounded out of Johanna’s unit, long braids swinging behind her like fiery banners. Her engagement ring caught the dim light of the underground hallway, glinting as she swung her hands in excitement. “C’mon, slowpokes!” she called back, barely pausing to let Katniss and Johanna follow.

The corridor of District Thirteen was quiet at this hour, the usual hum of machinery softened by the late-night lull. Fluorescent strips overhead flickered faintly, casting a gray glow that did nothing to dampen Red’s vibrancy. She zigzagged between the doors, her black uniform-clad legs carrying her like she was weightless, skipping past the sleeping quarters and storage rooms, toward Effie’s unit just a few doors down.

Katniss fell into step behind her, trying to catch her breath. “Red, slow down,” she warned, smiling despite herself. “We’re not racing to the surface here.”

“WHY?!” Red squealed, spinning halfway around, her hands thrown up in mock indignation. “It’s my wedding day! I’ve got to get into my dress! I can’t be dragging my feet while history—no, destiny—waits!”

Johanna plopped herself onto a nearby bench, letting out a dramatic groan. “History and destiny are going to have to wait, Briar,” she muttered, rolling her eyes, “because your legs are making me dizzy.” Red just laughed and skipped on, ignoring them both. As Katniss reached the corner near Effie’s door, her forward momentum halted. Something—or rather someone—caught her off guard.

Peeta.

He was sitting in his wheelchair just outside a side unit, the harsh white of his hospital scrubs stark against the muted gray of the hallway. His hands rested lightly on the wheels, shoulders hunched slightly, face pale from long hours of healing. And standing—or hovering, as the glow made him look—was Finnick. Light from some unseen source seemed to radiate around him, soft and golden, like a halo in the dim underground.

Katniss froze. Her stomach twisted. She knew she shouldn’t be looking, shouldn’t be witnessing this private, intimate moment between Finnick and Peeta. Her eyes darted away immediately, focusing on the floor, the seams in the gray tiles, anything to avoid the image of Finnick glowing, hands animatedly gesturing as he spoke softly to Peeta.

Red, oblivious to the tableau behind her, bounced a few more steps ahead. “Effie! Come on, get ready!” she called, her voice carrying down the hall. Katniss’s throat tightened. She could feel the weight of the scene pressing against her chest. She couldn’t—wouldn’t—interfere, but the sight of Peeta sitting so fragile, Finnick’s golden presence guiding him, was almost too much. The sharp juxtaposition of light and shadow, vulnerability and strength, left her temporarily breathless.

Johanna shuffled up beside her, squinting down the hall. “What’s wrong with you?” she whispered, noticing Katniss’s sudden hesitation.

“Nothing,” Katniss muttered quickly, eyes still averted, voice tight. “Just… nothing.”

Red, ever impatient, glanced back for the briefest moment, catching the two of them but too caught up in her excitement to register what Katniss was feeling. “Are you coming or not? I can’t wait all day!” Katniss gave a small nod, tugging Johanna along, keeping her gaze fixed on the floor. She could hear Red’s giggles bouncing off the walls, echoing, bright and careless, like she had no idea how heavy the world outside—or moments just a few doors down—could be.

Johanna rolled her eyes but allowed herself to be pulled along. “Honestly,” she muttered under her breath, “she’s going to give someone a heart attack with all this energy.”

The three girls reached Effie’s door, Red practically vibrating with excitement. She pressed the call button, then flung the door open without waiting for a response, barreling inside like she owned the place.

Katniss and Johanna exchanged a glance, an unspoken understanding passing between them. The hallway, the haunting glow of Peeta and Finnick, all of that faded as the threshold of Effie’s unit swallowed them. Red bounded in first, a whirlwind of red hair and gold from her ring, and the faint echo of her laughter lingered in the hallway as the door swung shut behind the trio. The outside world, the tense hallway, and the fragile light of Peeta’s presence were left behind. The adventure, chaos, and magic of preparing a bride for a war-time wedding now waited inside.

The gray walls of District Thirteen hummed softly, the air carrying the faint metallic tang of machinery and anticipation. Inside, Red’s energy could finally be contained, at least for a moment, as they stepped fully into Effie’s unit.

The moment Red burst into Effie’s unit, the small apartment seemed to brighten, if such a thing were possible in the gray underground of District Thirteen. Effie, who had been adjusting the folds of a display ribbon and straightening a stack of papers, froze for just a heartbeat before her practiced composure gave way to delight. “Oh, Red!” she exclaimed, hands clasped to her chest. “You are positively radiating! My stars, I’ve never seen anyone so… so awake this early in the morning!” Red spun around once, her long red braids sweeping behind her like twin flames, her engagement ring flashing as it caught the overhead light. “I CAN’T HELP IT!” she squealed, bouncing on the balls of her feet. “It’s my WEDDING DAY, Effie! I’M GETTING MARRIED! I’M ACTUALLY GETTING MARRIED! I—oh, oh, oh—”

Effie laughed, the rich, melodious sound filling the small room as she reached out to grasp Red’s hands. “Oh, my dear, you must calm yourself at least long enough to let me help you into this dress. Otherwise, we might have a bride with so much energy that she floats right out of it!”

Red giggled, spinning once more before plopping onto a chair with uncontainable excitement. “Do you even know how long I’ve waited for this, Effie? YEARS! YEARS! I—” She broke off mid-sentence as Effie gently shushed her, brushing a stray lock of hair behind her shoulder. “Breathe, Ms. Red. You have all the time in the world—well, for the next few hours at least—but first things first: we dress the bride.”

The dress lay on the chaise, soft cream and mossy green woven into a flowing, forest-inspired design. The bodice was fitted but delicate, shaped like the interlacing branches of a quiet woodland grove. Vines of embroidered gold threaded across the fabric in spirals, catching the light at odd angles. The skirt cascaded in layers of soft tulle that shimmered faintly with silver threads, evoking the glint of dew in early morning sunlight. A long train pooled gracefully behind the chair, the edges trimmed with subtle lace shaped like leaves and tiny blossoms.

Red leaned forward to touch the fabric, eyes wide and glittering. “It’s… it’s like a forest. A real forest! Only… on me! Oh Effie, you didn’t just make a dress; you made a kingdom!” She bounced slightly again, her voice catching in awe. Effie, smiling warmly, helped lift the bodice, carefully sliding Red’s arms into the delicate sleeves that hugged her shoulders with light, comforting pressure. “We’ve built you a little realm, Ms. Briar,” she said, adjusting the seams along her shoulders. “One that will follow you down the aisle and through the rest of your life with Finnick. Now, stay still for just a second.”

Red tried. She really did. But her excitement was like a heartbeat she couldn’t contain, a thrumming energy that made her fidget, bouncing her toes in sheer glee. “I’m TRYING, Effie! I really am, but it’s my wedding! I can’t just… just—stay still!”

Effie chuckled, adjusting the corset laces along the back. “The joy is allowed, hun. Believe me, we will lace you in strength as well as beauty.” Katniss, sitting cross-legged on a small stool nearby, watched all of this with an amused smirk. Johanna, leaning against the wall with arms crossed, tried not to laugh as Red wriggled in the bodice, the faint sounds of her delighted squeals filling the unit. “Honestly,” Johanna muttered under her breath, “you’d think the girl had been engaged for a year.” Katniss snorted quietly. “She’s like a ticking happiness bomb.”

Meanwhile, Effie carefully gathered the skirt, lifting it so Red could step into it without tangling her long legs in layers of tulle. Red nearly skipped in place as the soft fabric settled around her, humming with delight. “It’s… it’s so light!” she said, turning in a slow circle. “I feel like a princess… no, a queen! A QUEEN OF THE FOREST!” Johanna cracked a small grin, stepping closer to inspect the train. “Don’t trip over your kingdom, love,” she teased, tugging slightly at the bottom to show how long it was. “You’d look majestic on the floor, though.”

Red spun again, nearly toppling, but Effie caught her with a gentle hand on the shoulder. “Grace, my dear. Even queens must tread carefully.”

Red gave a dramatic sigh, bouncing slightly again. “I can’t help it! I just… I can’t believe this is actually happening. I… I feel… like me, but better. Like… I’m me, but with magic!”

Effie stepped back and admired her work. The dress fit Red like it was grown from her very essence. The gold embroidery highlighted the curves of her shoulders and torso, and the flowing tulle mimicked her fiery hair. Effie brushed a few stray locks into place, letting them frame Red’s face perfectly.

Red twirled one last time, gasping at the reflection in the mirror. Her braids, still long and slightly tousled from the excitement, now fell neatly alongside the cascading layers of the dress, the golden ring gleaming on her finger. She cupped her mouth with both hands and squealed. “It’s… perfect! I’m… I’m actually perfect! Effie, I think I’m going to cry!”And then Johanna noticed something. Her expression softened for just a moment, and she quickly turned away, trying to hide the small, wet trail forming down her cheek. She muttered, “Damn it… stop being so happy,” though there was no malice in her tone, only the faintest wistful ache.

Katniss, perched on the stool, watched and smirked knowingly. “I see that, Johanna. Hiding the tears, are we? Even for Red?”

Johanna huffed softly, pretending to wipe her eyes casually on the back of her sleeve, but Katniss caught it. “Aww… look at you,” she said with a laugh. “You’re secretly sentimental, huh? Who would’ve thought?” Johanna grumbled, shaking her head. “Don’t make me—don’t make me—ugh. I can’t even argue with you without tearing up. She just… she’s my best friend. She’s going to marry Finnick. And she’s… she’s so fucking happy I never see her this happy.”

Red, completely oblivious to the side conversation, jumped in front of the mirror again, eyes wide with awe and hands touching the embroidered vines on her dress. “Look at this!” she gasped. “The leaves… the flowers… the way the light catches the gold—Effie, you’ve made me feel like I belong to the forest itself. Like I could walk outside and the trees would bow for me.”

Effie laughed, stepping back to admire her handiwork. “You have always belonged to the forest, Red, even before the world forced you underground. This dress… it just makes that belonging visible. Every branch, every stitch, is a testament to your spirit.” Red spun once more, arms outstretched, then giggled. “I’m going to float down the aisle! Maybe even through the whole District Thirteen!”

Katniss shook her head, still chuckling. “I can’t believe how ridiculous she’s being.”

Johanna elbowed her lightly, smirking. “Ridiculous? No. She’s… just happy. After everything we’ve been through? Alive and breathing and happy and… Everdeen, she deserves this. Even if she annoys the hell out of me right now.” Red finally turned toward them, cheeks flushed from excitement and movement, and gasped. “You guys… you really like it, right? It’s… not too much?” Katniss waved, smiling. “You look incredible. Like… like the forest herself.”

Johanna, still grinning but with a quieter softness now, nodded. “It’s perfect, Red. Absolutely perfect. You’ve earned it loser.”

Red’s eyes shimmered, and she reached for both of them in an exaggerated hug. “You guys… you’re the best. I wouldn’t have gotten this far, the arenas, the… everything, without you. And now, I get to marry Finnick!” She bounced on the balls of her feet again, nearly laughing herself into tears.

Red’s eyes sparkled in the mirror, her hands lightly brushing the folds of her dress as if she could somehow absorb all of its magic just by touching it. The golden ring on her finger caught the morning light, flashing in tiny bursts as she shifted from foot to foot, barely able to contain herself. Effie stepped back, giving her a small nod of approval. “You look positively radiant, sweet thing. But now… the hair. We must secure it, so that no matter how much joy you bounce around today, the beauty of your hair will remain impeccable.”

Red’s gaze drifted to her cascading hair, long and fiery as ever, reaching almost to the floor. “I… I don’t want it pinned up! I want it loose! Flowing! Let it be wild like me!” she squealed, spinning on the balls of her feet.

Katniss groaned, barely holding back laughter. “Red, if you move one more time, it will be everywhere but where they’re supposed to be. We need to pin them.” Johanna leaned against the wall, arms crossed, smirking but with a soft warmth in her eyes. “We’ve been through this war together, Wolfie. Trust us—sometimes a little control is necessary.” Red waved them off dramatically. “Control is boring! I am the bride! The forest queen! I must have freedom!” She twirled again, letting the tulle of the skirt flare around her, making a faint whooshing sound.

Katniss exchanged a glance with Johanna. The signal was clear. There would be no gentle coaxing today.

“Red Briar,” Johanna said, voice low and serious—but with just a hint of amusement—“you are going to sit down right now. Or I swear, I will pick you up and plant you in this chair myself.”

Red giggled but shook her head. “Nooo, I can’t! I have… I have too much energy!” Katniss stood, smiling but firm. “We’re not arguing, Red. Sit. Down.” Red hesitated for a breath too long. Then, with a squeal of laughter, Johanna lunged. Katniss moved at the same time, and together, they managed to guide Red into a chair, her feet barely touching the ground as she bounced lightly in her seat. “See?” Johanna said, panting from the effort, “this is why people should respect the laws of gravity, Wolfie.” Red leaned back, her hands gripping the arms of the chair, eyes wide with mischief. “This isn’t fair! You’re pinning me down on my WEDDING DAY! I demand… I demand freedom!” Katniss chuckled, brushing a strand of hair from Red’s face. “Freedom comes later. Right now, we need your hair. Golden clips, steady hands, and no escaping.”

Red laughed, but her eyes were soft, full of trust as she finally stopped squirming. “Fine… but if I sit, you better make sure it looks perfect.”

Johanna grinned, crouching in front of Red, her hands hovering over the fiery cascade. “Oh, it will. Don’t you worry. This is going to be a masterpiece.”

Katniss knelt on the other side, grabbing a handful of Red’s long braids. Her fingers moved carefully but expertly, separating strands, smoothing sections, and preparing them for the tiny gold clips that would hold everything in place. Red shifted slightly, a nervous laugh escaping her lips. “Be gentle… these braids have been with me through everything. Every arena, every mission, every stupid, ridiculous thing Finnick and I have done…”

Johanna laughed softly, leaning in to grab another section. “Don’t worry. They’re in capable hands. And hey, if they don’t survive this… I’ll still fight anyone who dares to say a word.”

Red’s braids had always been her armor, and now, under Johanna and Katniss’ careful hands, they were becoming a crown. Each twist, each braid, each delicate fishtail was a symbol of her past and the life she was about to build with Finnick. The girls worked methodically, intertwining and securing, making sure the fiery threads of her hair didn’t escape their careful weaving.

Red’s hands rested lightly on her lap, occasionally twitching as the energy inside her threatened to break free, but she kept herself anchored, laughing softly as Katniss commented, “You’re lucky these girls love you, otherwise they’d have taken scissors to you years ago.” Katniss muttered, gently sliding a golden clip into place. “Quiet, little Ms. face of the rebellion. This is delicate work, not commentary hour.” Red giggled, feeling every twist and pull as her hair was carefully elevated, the braids intertwining into an elegant yet fierce arrangement that framed her face and flowed down her back. Every clip, every pin, every carefully folded section whispered of precision and love.

Hours of memories and trust were woven into her hair that morning—the forests of District Seven, the long nights training, the war, the arenas, and the love she and Finnick had nurtured amidst all the chaos. Her hair, like her heart, carried the story of everything she had endured, everything she had won, and everything she was about to promise to share forever. Katniss finally leaned back, stepping to the side, inspecting their work. “It’s… perfect,” she said softly. “Absolutely perfect.”

Johanna, brushing off her hands, gave a small, satisfied nod. “Red Briar, if Finnick doesn’t fall to his knees again when he sees you, I will personally fight him. You look… unstoppable.”

Red, finally still in her seat, ran her hands lightly over the braids, a quiet hum of contentment escaping her lips. “I… I can’t believe this. I can’t believe it’s happening. I… I just… I want him to see me. I want him to know I’m ready… for everything.”

Effie entered just then, clasping her hands together with delight. “Marvelous, simply marvelous! Ladies, you’ve captured the spirit of the forest, the fire of the bride, and the elegance of this union. Red, my dear, you are a vision.” Red looked into the mirror again, finally seeing herself whole—dress, hair, ring, heart—and she could feel the beating of the day’s joy, every ounce of excitement tempered by the careful hands of her friends who had made this moment sacred.

Red stood in front of the full-length mirror, the faint reflection of Effie’s unit lights soft around her edges. For a long moment, she didn’t move—just stared. The air around her was quiet except for the gentle creak of fabric as she shifted slightly, her fingertips brushing the skirt of her dress.

It was beautiful.

Not Capitol beautiful—not the kind of beauty made from diamonds and cruelty—but something simpler, truer. The gown had been born from the hands of rebels and dreamers, pieced together from scraps of old silk and reworked parachute cloth. Its base was pale ivory, the color of light filtering through birch trees, overlaid with lace in the faint pattern of curling vines and small blossoms. Tiny embroidered gold leaves shimmered in the dim light, catching the glow of her ring every time she moved.

The skirt was layered, flowing but light—meant for a woman who might need to run through a forest even on her wedding day. The bodice hugged her firmly, laced with fine green threads, and at her waist, a simple golden sash tied in a quiet knot. The symbol of Antheia—the forest goddess, her goddess—was stitched subtly into the lining, close to her heart.

Red spun lightly, the hem whispering against the floor. The air caught the edge of her dress, letting it swirl like mist around her ankles. Her laughter bubbled up, sweet and unrestrained, as she lifted the skirt just enough to spin faster, eyes bright and wild.

“Oh, she’s going to tear it before she even walks down the aisle,” Johanna muttered under her breath, but there was a tiny smile pulling at her lips. Katniss laughed softly, leaning against the doorway. “Let her. She’s been through worse and looked better coming out of it.” Effie just clasped her hands in front of her chest, nearly glowing. “Oh, let her have her moment, girls. Every bride deserves at least one spin in front of the mirror before she’s married.” Red stopped spinning and faced the mirror again, catching her breath. Her reflection met her gaze—braids glinting with tiny gold clips, eyes bright as wildfire, cheeks flushed. For the first time, she looked… happy. Entirely. Undeniably.

She turned, still half-laughing, toward the women behind her. “What do you think?”

Katniss smiled, her voice gentle. “I think… Finnick’s going to forget how to breathe.”

Johanna snorted. “He already barely does when she walks into a room.”

Red stuck her tongue out, and the motion felt perfectly, blissfully childish. For just one heartbeat, the war didn’t exist. The rebellion, the pain, the fear—all of it slipped away, and it was just four women in a dimly lit room, breathing together like a heartbeat before the world resumed. Then Johanna stepped forward, pulling something small from her belt pouch. “Alright, lovebird. Before you float off entirely…” Red blinked as Johanna pressed a small, cool object into her palm. It was a piece of metal—simple, a little rough on the edges, but clearly crafted with care. A small kunai blade, polished silver with faint etchings carved along its flat side.

An axe.
An arrow.
A dagger.

All entwined together, tiny and sharp.

Johanna’s smirk softened into something fond, her voice lower now. “A smart girl is always carrying in the rebellion.” She gave Red a slight wink, the kind that carried years of shared battles and laughter and loss. Red looked down at the blade, the light catching it just enough to throw a faint shimmer onto her palm. “It’s beautiful,” she whispered, voice catching somewhere between awe and tears. Katniss leaned in, smiling softly. “It’s from us. A reminder that you don’t stop being strong just because you’re loved.”

Effie dabbed at her eyes with a tissue. “Oh, you three… you’ll be the end of me.”

Red laughed through the tiny ache in her chest. She turned back to the mirror, lifting the blade carefully before sliding it into the thick braids pinned into her hair. It tucked perfectly into place—hidden, yet gleaming faintly when she moved.

“There,” Johanna said, stepping back to admire her work. “Now you’re armed and radiant. Just how I like you.” Red met her gaze in the mirror, her voice soft. “Thank you.” But then the emotion swelled too heavy for words. In the next instant, she turned on her heel and threw herself at all three of them, arms flinging wide as she pulled them into a tight, chaotic embrace.

Katniss yelped as the full force of Red’s energy knocked her back a step, Effie squealed in surprise, and Johanna groaned—but none of them pulled away.

They were laughing. All of them. Laughing like they hadn’t in months.

Effie’s perfume mingled with the faint scent of forest moss and metal from Johanna’s axe charm. Katniss’ bow clinked softly against the wall as she leaned into the hug, and Red was in the middle of it all—heart beating too fast, cheeks pressed against the shoulders of the women who had carried her through hell and still found a way to make her feel like a girl again.

Johanna’s voice was muffled in the tangle of fabric and laughter. “Alright, alright, Wolfie, don’t wrinkle your damn dress!”

Red only squeezed tighter, laughing so hard she had to gasp for air. “Never! You’re all stuck with me forever!”

Katniss smiled into the chaos, murmuring, “We already are.” For a long moment, none of them moved. The rebellion, the cameras, the pain—they could all wait. For now, it was just this: four women, one tiny room, and a joy so fierce it almost hurt to feel it. When Red finally pulled back, her hair gleamed gold and red beneath the light, the tiny hidden blade nestled safely among the braids like a secret promise. Her dress shimmered as she caught her breath, hands still clinging to theirs.

“Alright,” she whispered, almost reverently, “let’s go make history.”

The corridor outside the ceremony hall was too still. It smelled faintly of metal, dust, and something floral—like someone had tried to disguise the scent of steel and recycled air with a few dried petals tucked into the vents. The hum of the underground lights was the only thing that broke the silence, a low vibration running through the concrete floor and into the soles of Red’s boots.

Her pulse felt louder than the machinery around her.

She stood in front of the sealed double doors that led to the hall—her hall, her wedding—and for a long moment she couldn’t quite bring herself to breathe. The dress brushed softly against her knees, the folds whispering like the wind she hadn’t felt in months. Beyond the door waited every surviving soul in District Thirteen. Beyond the door waited cameras, lights, and President Coin’s cold, calculating eyes. And beyond all that, somewhere far above, the Capitol’s screens would flicker to life—broadcasting the impossible.

A wedding.

Love, in the middle of a war.

She exhaled shakily. Her fingers twitched against the fabric of her dress before another, steadier hand reached out and caught them.

Johanna. Her best friend stood at her side, posture as casual as ever, but Red could see the tension in her shoulders—the faint tremor that betrayed what she was too proud to say aloud. Johanna was in her own black uniform, though she’d cleaned up for the occasion, her hair still wildly short and her axe gleaming faintly at her belt. She looked fierce, familiar. Safe. The two women didn’t speak for a while. They just stood together in the dim light, the hum of the underground all around them. Red’s fingers squeezed Johanna’s.

“You know,” Johanna said finally, her voice low and dry, “I think this is the first time in years you’ve been quiet for longer than thirty seconds.”

Red’s lips twitched. “Give me a minute. I’m trying not to throw up.”

Johanna snorted, the sound echoing faintly down the corridor. “You? Please. You faced two arenas and about a million Capitol freaks. You’ll be fine.”

“Yeah, but those didn’t have cameras broadcasting me in a big dress to the entire Capitol.”

Johanna made a mock shudder. “Touché. That does sound worse.” Red laughed softly, the sound fragile but real. She looked at her reflection in a nearby steel panel—the faint glint of gold at her waist, the pale sweep of her dress, the vines embroidered in careful lines along the hem. Her hair gleamed under the fluorescent light, pinned and twisted into gold-studded braids, the tiny blade Johanna gave her hidden deep within the coils.

For a moment, she saw herself not as a soldier or a victor or a weapon, but just… a woman. A woman who was about to marry the boy who had once teased her into smiling on her darkest day.

She blinked rapidly, forcing back the sting in her eyes. Beside her, Johanna shifted, leaning back against the wall, pretending she wasn’t watching her. “You look good, Wolfie.” Red smiled faintly at the nickname. “You think so?”

“I know so,” Johanna said. Then her expression softened, losing some of its teasing edge. “See you on the other side, loser.”

Red turned toward her, her chest tightening. “Don’t say it like that.”

Johanna raised an eyebrow. “Like what?”

“Like it’s goodbye.”

The smirk faltered for just a second before Johanna let out a soft laugh and shook her head. “Fine. See you in five minutes when I’m standing with you pretending not to cry like an idiot.” Red smiled despite herself, warmth breaking through the nerves. But then, before she could stop it, the tears came anyway—small, bright things she tried to blink away before they smudged the makeup Effie had so painstakingly applied.

She took Johanna’s hand tighter. “Thank you, Jo. For everything.”

Johanna blinked, a little startled. “Red—”

“No, really,” Red pressed on, her voice trembling just slightly. “For being there when everything else fell apart. For keeping me alive in that stupid arena. For keeping me sane after. For… just for being here now.” For a moment, Johanna didn’t speak. Her throat worked, but no sound came. Then she gave Red’s shoulder a light punch—so gentle it barely counted. “Don’t get all sentimental on me now,” she muttered. “You’ll make me cry, and I hate crying. It makes my face puffy.”

Red laughed, swiping a tear with the back of her hand. “You’re impossible.”

“I’m realistic,” Johanna corrected, though her voice had softened into something almost affectionate. She hesitated, then leaned forward and bumped her forehead lightly against Red’s temple. “You deserve this, you know. All of it. Him. The peace. The stupid pretty dress. Even if it’s just for a moment.” Red’s smile wavered, caught between joy and ache. “I don’t know if we’ll ever get peace.”

“Then we’ll make it ourselves,” Johanna said simply.

Red nodded, her throat too tight for words.

For a long, still moment, the two women stood like that—hand in hand, their heads almost touching, one in a dress and the other in a uniform. Two survivors. Two soldiers. Two pieces of the same fractured story. Then Johanna straightened suddenly, brushing her palms on her uniform as if shaking off the weight of emotion. “Alright,” she said briskly, though her eyes still glimmered faintly. “Ready to make President Snow hate the rebels even more?”

Red laughed, full and bright, her eyes lighting up even through the blur of tears. “Always.”

From behind the sealed doors came the faint sound of shifting—murmurs, shuffling feet, someone clearing their throat over a microphone. The wedding march wasn’t music, not really—District Thirteen didn’t have instruments to spare—but Beetee had managed to reroute a speaker system, and now a quiet hum of sound began to build, soft and rhythmic like a heartbeat.

Red exhaled. Her palms were sweaty. Her heart pounded like a drum in her chest.

Johanna gave her hand one last squeeze and stepped back. “Time to go, Wolfie.”

Red nodded slowly. Her braid brushed against her back, heavy with gold pins and the weight of memory. Her ring glinted faintly under the harsh lights.

The heavy steel doors began to open. Light spilled out from the gap—brilliant, almost blinding—and the faint buzz of voices rose, echoing like waves through the air. Red looked back one last time at Johanna. Johanna smiled, soft and proud and just a little sad. “Go make history, Red.” Red smiled through her tears. “With pleasure.” And then the doors fully opened, flooding her world with light.

Red took one breath. Just one. It filled her lungs, steady and sharp, the way it always did right before something big — before the arena, before the first rebel raid, before stepping into the unknown. But this time, the air didn’t taste like fear. It tasted like home. The hall was vast and pale, the metal walls draped in green vines someone must have scavenged from the hydroponics gardens. They curled up the steel like living lace, delicate but stubborn. The air smelled faintly of soil and moss — the closest thing they could manage to a forest underground.

Every seat was filled. Faces she knew from the rebellion, from the districts, from the ruins of what they’d all survived. The people of Thirteen sat shoulder to shoulder, their gray uniforms brightened by the faint shimmer of makeshift ribbons and the glow of tiny lanterns that hung like stars above their heads. The cameras were subtle but everywhere — a handful of silver lenses catching every movement, streaming every flicker of expression up into the world above them, straight into the Capitol’s pristine screens.

Coin’s order, of course. A rebel wedding. A promise that hope still lived.
But Red wasn’t thinking about the Capitol.

Her eyes had already found him.

Finnick stood at the far end of the aisle, just beneath the low arch they’d built from salvaged wood and scattered greenery. He was still, perfectly still — and yet she could see the tremor in his chest from here. He was dressed in black, the rebel uniform cut sharp and fitted, but someone — probably Effie — had insisted on a forest-green sash at his waist. His hair was brushed back, the copper catching every bit of light until it glowed like flame.

And his face — oh.

He looked at her like he’d never seen color before. Like every breath he’d ever taken had led to this one.

Red’s lips parted in a shaky laugh, the corners curling up into the biggest grin she’d ever worn. She could feel the ache in her cheeks, the sting behind her eyes, but she didn’t care. Finnick’s expression alone made her forget the weight of the cameras, the whispers, the war.

He looked so happy. Happier than she’d ever seen him.

Johanna slipped quietly away from Red’s side, blending into the gathered crowd. But not before she leaned close and muttered, “Go on, Wolfie. He’s gonna faint if you make him wait any longer.”

Red stifled a laugh.

Then — as she took her first step forward — a low whistle rose from the side of the room.

It was soft, almost shy, but unmistakable. Johanna again, smirking from the crowd. Then another joined it — and another.

Red glanced over and saw them: her brothers, all five of them, shoulder to shoulder in their plain rebel uniforms, grinning so wide it looked like their faces hurt. They were whistling the old District Seven tune — the one they used to send off couples before weddings, before harvests, before danger. The sound was wild and sweet and so painfully familiar that her throat tightened.

It rippled through the hall, a thread of home that wound itself around every cold corner of Thirteen.

And somehow, it made her laugh.

She walked slowly, the hem of her dress brushing the gray floor, the fabric whispering with each step. Every beat of her heart fell in time with the soft whistle-song, with the hum of lanterns, with the faint camera buzz. Her mother stood waiting at the altar. There were no jewels, no fanfare — only the faint pattern of leaves embroidered along the sleeves, each thread glinting like sunlight through branches. And at her mother’s chest gleamed the symbol of Antheia, the forest goddess of District Seven, the one Red had whispered to before every fight, every storm, every breath she feared might be her last.

The small pendant had been carved from an old coin, its edges dulled by time and hiding. Somehow, it had survived the Capitol’s fires, the arena’s ash, and the years of war. Its surface still shimmered faintly green, like the last heartbeat of a forest refusing to die.

The sight of her nearly broke Red.

Her mother’s eyes softened as Red drew near, a quiet, trembling smile breaking across her face. For all the cameras and soldiers, for all the war around them, she looked every inch the priestess she once wanted to be — steady, strong, glowing with the kind of faith that had survived fire. Red’s steps faltered for half a heartbeat, overwhelmed by the sight of her. Then she looked at Finnick again.

And the world righted itself.

His smile was small now, shaking a little at the corners. His eyes were wet, bright with pride and disbelief. His hands — calloused, trembling — were clenched together as though he was afraid to reach for her too soon. Red wanted to run to him. She wanted to sprint down the aisle, fling herself into his arms, and never let go again. But she forced herself to walk, slow and steady, even though her chest felt too full for breathing.

The closer she got, the more she could see — the tiny lines of exhaustion beneath his eyes, the faint bruises from the last mission, the way his shoulders sagged like he’d been carrying too much for too long. But beneath it all, he was smiling. That same smile he’d worn the first day she’d met him in Thirteen. The one that had made her believe there might still be good things in the world.

When she reached the front, her mother stepped aside with quiet reverence, leaving Red and Finnick standing face to face beneath the arch of green. For a long, fragile moment, they just stared at each other. Finnick breathed out her name. Barely a whisper.

And Red laughed again, bright and breathless.

Her fingers brushed against his, and it felt like the world held its breath. Every sound fell away — the crowd, the whistling, the cameras — until there was only the soft thud of two hearts finding the same rhythm.

Behind them, Johanna let out another low whistle, this one teasing, and a ripple of laughter broke through the crowd. It loosened something in Red’s chest, and she grinned up at Finnick, mouthing a playful District Seven tradition. He looked down at her hand, still resting against his, and his smile deepened, pure awe spilling across his face. “You’re real,” he whispered, so quietly she almost didn’t hear. She tilted her head, whispering back, “And you’re stupid. You were supposed to say that two battles ago.”

Finnick’s laugh — that low, boyish sound that always made her heart flutter — filled the space between them.

Red’s mother watched them, her expression tender and serene. Then she lifted her hands slightly, the room falling back into silence. Her voice, when it came, was low but clear, steady enough to echo through the hall and into every camera. “In the eyes of our goddess who guards the wild places, and before the hearts who stand witness,” she said, “we gather not to forget the war, but to remember why we fight. We gather to honor love that endures through darkness.” Red’s throat tightened. She kept her eyes on Finnick.

Her mother’s voice softened. “The world above watches us now. Let them see not defiance, but devotion. Let them see that hope cannot be silenced.”

Finnick’s fingers brushed hers again, gentle, careful — like he was afraid to break the moment.

Red smiled up at him, eyes bright with tears she refused to let fall.

Her mother looked between them — her daughter in her dress and the boy she’d chosen — and her lips curved into the faintest smile. “Let it be known,” she said softly, “that love, even in rebellion, is sacred.” And in that still second before the vows, before the cameras zoomed closer, before the world held its breath to watch two rebels promise forever — Red thought she could almost hear the forest again.

The wind. The rustle of leaves.
The sound of home.

The air felt too still for a rebel bunker.
Too clean. Too sacred.

The underground hall — usually full of barking orders and the clatter of boots — had gone utterly silent. The hum of the old air vents was the only sound that dared to move, carrying the scent of iron, paper, and candle smoke. Red stood at the altar in her forest-colored gown, the fabric catching every flicker of light like leaves trembling in a breeze that wasn’t there. Her braid had been pinned with gold, her hands steady but her chest heaving like she’d sprinted the whole way here.

And in front of her, waiting — was Finnick.

He looked nothing like the Capitol’s gleaming victor. No jeweled trident. No smirk polished for the cameras. Just him — raw, undone, utterly real — in a suit stitched from the same fabric as her uniform, the thread catching faint glimmers of green when he moved. His hair fell slightly over his eyes, and his ring — simple and copper — glowed faintly against his calloused hand. When Mira’s voice, soft but certain, broke the silence — Red startled slightly, almost forgetting there was anyone else in the room.

“Red,” her mother said, the weight of a thousand prayers to Antheia in her tone. “My daughter — your vows.”

Red blinked. Once. Twice. And then, her trembling laugh cracked the stillness.

Her eyes found Finnick’s.

For a moment, she forgot there were cameras. Forgot there was a war. Forgot that her heart had ever known the sound of screaming or the scent of blood.

It was just him.

She took a breath — shaky, uneven — and began.

“I used to think I’d die young. Most people do when you live in Panem."

A few quiet laughs rippled through the crowd, quickly fading.

Red’s voice shook again, but she smiled, because Finnick was smiling. That same small, knowing, patient smile he always wore when she confessed something too honest. “I thought maybe that’s just what people like us get. A few moments of fire before we burn out. The Capitol made sure of that, didn’t they? They took everything good and turned it into a weapon — our beauty, our names, our love.”

She exhaled, looking down at the ring glinting on her finger. “And then you came along — with your impossible grin and your stupid jokes about ropes and knots and the sea. And suddenly, I wasn’t just surviving. I was living again.”

Her hands were shaking now. Finnick stepped forward instinctively, his eyes soft, but Mira gave him a gentle look — not yet. “I’ll love you through the nightmares,” Red said, her voice growing stronger with every word. “Through every flash of light, every memory that claws at us. I’ll love you when you can’t breathe, when the ocean feels too deep, when the ghosts get too loud. I’ll love you when you forget how to smile — and I’ll remind you every day why you should.”

Her gaze dropped to her feet, tears threatening, then lifted again. “And when this war is finally over — when the Capitol is nothing but dust and the forest grows back — I’ll find you in the sunlight, Finnick Odair. I’ll find you, and I’ll braid your hair with flowers, and I’ll tell our children about the boy who made me believe peace was something we could touch.”

The crowd was silent. Katniss’s lip trembled. Johanna’s hand covered her mouth.

Red’s voice cracked — the kind of break that comes from something too full to contain.

“I love you, Finnie. Not because you saved me, or because you understand me, but because when I look at you, I see every version of myself that dared to hope.” Her shoulders sagged as if her words had taken everything out of her.

She took a tiny step closer, her hands twisting together. “So I promise — through every war, every wound, every night we wake up screaming — I will choose you. I will choose you when the sky falls, when the sea rises, when the forest burns, and when it grows again.”

Finnick’s eyes glistened. His throat bobbed.

“And I’ll keep choosing you,” she whispered, “even when it hurts.” Mira’s eyes shone faintly in the light. She let the silence breathe — let the room fill with the heartbeat of everyone who’d ever loved someone they weren’t sure they’d live to marry. Then, softly, she turned to Finnick. “And you, Finnick Odair,” Mira said, her voice gentle, sure — the kind of calm that could quiet storms. “Your vows, please.” Red’s eyes — wet and trembling — never left him.

And Finnick took one step forward, every breath in the room holding still. For a long moment, Finnick couldn’t speak.

He took another step forward — close enough now that the candlelight painted her face gold. “Wolfie,” he said first, the nickname soft and reverent, his voice breaking halfway through it.
She laughed under her breath, a choked sound, because the way he said it wasn’t teasing — it was a prayer.

“Red,” he continued, quieter now. “You once told me the forest was your version of the sea. That when you were little, you used to close your eyes and imagine the trees dancing like waves.” He smiled faintly. “I think that’s when I fell in love with you — before I even admitted it. Because you looked at the world like it was something that could still be beautiful, even after it broke you.”

Finnick’s fingers twitched at his sides; he wanted to reach out, to trace her face, to make sure she was real.

“I used to think the sea was the only thing I could ever love,” he said softly. “It was the one thing that made sense — wild, unpredictable, impossible to hold. But then you came along.” He laughed — quiet, shaking his head. “And suddenly, the sea wasn’t enough anymore. Because it never looked back at me the way you did.”

Red’s hand went to her mouth. Mira’s eyes were glistening.

Finnick took another breath, his voice low but sure now — steady like the tide. “I think I’ve loved you in every universe,” he said. “In every lifetime. Maybe even before I knew what love was. Because somehow, I’ve always been searching for you — in the sound of waves, in the smell of pine, in the quiet right before dawn.” He swallowed, blinking fast. “You’ve been my anchor when I thought I’d drift forever. My compass when the world spun too fast. My home, when I didn’t believe I’d ever deserve one.”

His hand brushed the copper ring on his finger, the one that matched hers.

“I can’t promise you peace, or safety, or forever,” he said, voice breaking on the word. “But I can promise you this — when the nightmares come, I’ll hold you closer. When you forget how to breathe, I’ll remind you. And when you start to believe you’re unlovable—”

He paused, eyes flicking up to meet hers. “I’ll love you louder.” The words hung in the air like a heartbeat. He stepped closer again, until he could almost feel her breath on his skin. “I’ll fight by your side through every battle,” he murmured. “And when the war is over, when the world finally quiets, I’ll take your hand and we’ll walk back into the forest — and for once, we won’t be running from anything.”

Red’s lip trembled. Her hands were shaking again.

Finnick smiled through his tears. “I know we were never meant for simple things. But, Red — Wolfie — I don’t need simple. I just need you. Always you.”

The room was silent — too still, too heavy, as if even the air couldn’t bear to move until he was done.

Finnick took one last breath, chest trembling. “I love you,” he said, his voice breaking completely now. “In this life, and every one that comes after.”

For a single heartbeat, the world holds its breath.
Mira’s voice, gentle but ringing with emotion, cuts through the quiet:
“You may kiss the bride.”

And Red—gods, Red doesn’t even hesitate. Before Finnick can move, she’s already surging forward, a blur of ivory and gold, her bouquet tumbling from her hands as she collides into him with a laugh that sounds half like a sob. He catches her with a startled grin, his hands instinctively curving around her waist, pulling her close, dipping her low in one smooth, instinctive motion. The crowd gasps and then erupts— the air alive with clapping, cheering, and that electric, dizzying sound of joy.

The cameras flash, capturing her veil sweeping forward, the way his lips find hers like he’s been holding his breath for years and only now gets to breathe again. Her hands tangle in his hair, his thumb presses beneath her chin, and for a moment, the war, the Capitol, the nightmares—they all vanish. It’s just them.

The golden boy of the sea and the girl of the forest, finally home in each other’s arms.

When he pulls back just enough to look at her, her eyes glimmer through happy tears, mascara smudged from crying long before this moment even came. He presses his forehead against hers, and Red laughs breathlessly, voice muffled against his cheek as she whispers something no camera can catch—something only he will ever hear. From the crowd, a shrill whistle cuts through the chaos, followed by another and another.

Johanna’s the first culprit, fingers in her mouth, whistling loud enough to shake the walls. Katniss joins her, clapping with an actual grin tugging at her lips—rare, real, and soft. And then Red’s brothers, loud as thunder, hollering like they’re back in District Seven among the trees, shouting her name until it echoes.

District 13 joins in, stomping and cheering, the room trembling under the force of it.
Even the guards at the doors smile.

Because this is what they wanted to broadcast. Not just a wedding. A symbol.
Two victors, two survivors, two rebels in love so fiercely the Capitol can feel it.

Red’s hand stays on Finnick’s chest, her ring glinting under the harsh lights, the gold band catching on the light like sunlight through leaves. Finnick cups her face with trembling fingers, brushing a stray piece of hair from her temple as she grins up at him, cheeks flushed, the corners of her lips trembling with the weight of it all. “I told you,” she murmurs, eyes shining, “we’d make the Capitol remember our names.”

He smiles that soft, devastating smile—the one that makes her knees weak and her heart pound—and murmurs back, “They’ll never forget you, wolfie.”

The crowd roars.

The camera shutters flare again, each flash like lightning, freezing them in time: her dress like a breath of forest mist, his suit catching the dull light of underground steel, their bodies tangled in a perfect rebellion-made fairytale. And for a brief, impossible, breathtaking moment—
hope feels real.

The underground hall of District Thirteen had been transformed into something impossibly warm and glowing, despite the sterile concrete walls and low ceilings that normally defined the space. Lamps strung along the rafters gave off a soft amber light, diffused through layers of cloth banners the color of autumn leaves, painted with the subtle greens and golds of Antheia’s sacred forest. It was a makeshift ballroom, but to Red and Finnick, it felt like an entirely different world—one stitched together from hope, from rebellion, and from the love that had carried them through so many impossible nights.

Red stood near the center of the hall, heart hammering, the golden band of her engagement ring glinting as she twisted her fingers together nervously. She wore the dress Effie had perfected for her—flowing, forest-green silk that trailed slightly along the ground, embroidered with tiny golden leaf patterns. The skirt shimmered softly in the light, a gentle, living green, like the forest itself had lent its blessing.

He was waiting, as impossibly charming as ever, the corners of his mouth tugged upward in that mischievous, warm smile that had stolen her heart so long ago. He wore the dark, tailored suit they’d scavenged together for the wedding: midnight-blue with subtle forest-green accents at the cuffs and collar, tying him beautifully to her forest-themed dress without looking anything less than elegant. His hair was slightly mussed, a touch of the long day’s excitement still clinging to it, but his eyes were fixed entirely on her.

Finnick lifted his hand, just a little, the familiar playful invitation in the gesture. "May I have this dance, Wolfie?" he said softly, his voice low and rich, carrying a hint of that teasing smirk she loved and hated in equal measure.

Red’s chest fluttered. She laughed quietly, shaking her head, and then placed her hand in his without a second thought, her fingers slipping into his. It was absurd, really—how calm yet how elated she felt, her nerves tangled with exhilaration—but all of that melted away the instant Finnick drew her close. The musicians, a small string ensemble stationed along the far wall of the hall, began to play. Their instruments resonated softly through the cavernous underground chamber, the notes reverberating against concrete and banners alike. The song, chosen for this very moment, poured into the room like liquid emotion, curling around each person present.

"You're the northern wind, sending shivers down my spine. You're like fallen leaves, in an autumn night."

Finnick leaned into her, pressing a tender kiss along the curve of her neck as they moved together. Red’s fingers clenched lightly in his jacket lapel, the warmth of him grounding her, steadying her despite the roar of excitement in her chest. Her breath caught, not from nerves but from the perfection of the moment—the fact that after all they’d survived, after every stolen night and battle fought, she was here, spinning with him in a space carved entirely from hope and love.

All around them, the citizens of District Thirteen watched in awe, a hushed respect falling over the crowd. No one dared speak, not even Johanna, who usually would have been hollering sarcastic commentary from the sidelines. Katniss had slipped into the shadows near the musicians, her dark-gloved hands folded in front of her, smiling at the sight of her two closest friends enveloped in one another’s warmth. Mira, standing proudly at the side as officiant and mother, let out a small, satisfied sigh, her eyes glinting as she watched Red and Finnick move together, a living testament to love thriving even in the midst of rebellion.

Finnick’s hands were steady on her waist, and he guided her gently, a graceful yet playful spin here, a dip there. Red laughed, a light, unrestrained sound that made him chuckle as well. The music swelled, echoing off the walls of the underground hall, carrying the words that now felt as if they were written for them alone. Red lifted her chin, meeting his gaze as she felt the familiar pulse of adrenaline and emotion. "I… I can’t believe we’re really doing this," she whispered, though the words were swallowed by the music.

"You’ve been waiting far too long, Wolfie," Finnick replied, voice warm, a teasing undertone hiding the depth of emotion there. "And now, well… you’ve got me, and the world be damned."

Their steps flowed together as though they had been dancing this waltz for years, despite the chaos of war and the countless nights spent clinging to survival. Finnick spun her again, this time dipping her closer to the floor, and Red gasped, letting herself feel utterly weightless in his arms. Her hair, freed slightly from its braids in motion, tumbled around them like a river of red and gold, catching the light of the lamps as though the underground forest of Antheia herself had reached through the ceiling to bless them.

The couple’s movement was a perfect blend of strength and tenderness, a reflection of everything they had been through: the battles, the losses, the quiet moments of love snatched in stolen hours. Finnick’s hands remained firm on her back, anchoring her to him, and her hands threaded into his hair and around his neck, clinging as though she never wanted to let go. Even as their world felt small in the underground chamber, the universe itself seemed to collapse into the circle of them. Red’s heartbeat, rapid and soaring, matched Finnick’s steady, calm rhythm, as if they had found a way to sync the chaos of their lives into something intimate and perfect. The music continued, sweeping around them, each note punctuating the unspoken vows that had already been exchanged.

"You're the northern wind, sending shivers down my spine." Finnick murmured the lyrics softly into her ear, the warmth of his breath stirring goosebumps across her skin. "You always have, Wolfie. You always have."

Red pressed closer to him, laughing softly against his chest. She felt the familiar tug of vulnerability, the softness she rarely allowed herself to show, the part of her that could still be overwhelmed by joy despite all the pain they had endured. And in that moment, as Finnick dipped her again and held her there with unwavering strength, she let herself sink entirely into it—the safety, the warmth, the love, the relentless joy of being seen so completely.

The crowd around them was a blurred backdrop, faces fading into shadows, their applause and whistles reduced to soft echoes in her mind. There was only Finnick, holding her, spinning her, kissing the delicate line of her neck, and letting her feel that she was enough, that their love had been enough to survive everything.

Her laugh mingled with his soft chuckle, and the two of them moved together effortlessly, weaving through the underground hall as though the music had enchanted the very air around them. She raised her chin again, eyes shining with the reflection of the lamps above, and Finnick brushed his lips across her forehead, soft and reverent.

"Look at me, Wolfie," he whispered, his hands framing her face now, thumbs brushing over the corners of her eyes. Her own hands were pressed against his chest, heart hammering against him.

And for a moment, all the war, all the rebellion, all the nights of fear and terror melted into the room, leaving only the two of them, spinning and twirling, safe in each other’s presence. Finnick dipped her once more, pressing a soft kiss to the curve of her jaw, and she shivered with delight, clinging to him, letting the moment carry her as if the world outside these walls didn’t exist. Red rested her forehead against his chest, laughing softly, utterly lost in the rhythm of their steps and the way his hands felt firm yet gentle, grounding her after years of chaos. She whispered something incoherent, a string of giggles and breaths, and Finnick pressed his lips to her hair, murmuring against her temple, "I’ve got you, Wolfie. Always."

The strings continued to swell, the music wrapping around them in a cocoon of warmth and quiet triumph. Every note was like a promise, every sway a testament to the battles they had survived and the love that had grown in spite of it all. Red tilted her head, catching his eyes, and saw the exact same awe mirrored there—the man who had fought by her side through blood and fire, now smiling at her like she was the only person in existence.

And as Finnick pulled her closer once more, spinning her slowly, brushing his lips over her shoulder, Red couldn’t stop herself from thinking that no matter how dark the world outside might be, no matter the rubble and war waiting beyond District Thirteen’s walls, this—this moment, this dance—was theirs entirely.

It didn’t matter that it was underground, that the lights were artificial, that the banners only suggested a forest. To Red, in Finnick’s arms, it was real. It was perfect. It was home. And as the music swelled, the lyrics threading through their hearts, she pressed her cheek to his chest, letting him guide her through the dance of their lives, the first of many dances yet to come.

The song was still playing, the soft underground lights shimmering off the banners and the polished concrete floor, when Red suddenly pulled back in Finnick’s arms, a giggle bubbling up from deep inside her chest. She pressed her hands against her face for a brief second, but it was useless—the laughter had taken over completely, shaking through her like sunlight cracking through a storm.

“Oh my—oh my fucking lord,” she gasped between laughter, tears already brimming in the corners of her eyes, “I just realized… my name… my name is Red Odair now!”

Finnick froze for the briefest second, eyes wide, heart hammering—not from fear, but because he had never seen her so utterly, unrestrainedly joyous. Her laugh was electric, wild and free, reverberating across the underground hall like a burst of fireworks that no one had expected. He blinked once, then his own laughter joined hers, low and deep, rich in warmth and love, as he gently pulled her into his arms again.

“Red…” he murmured, his voice trembling just slightly as he pressed his forehead to hers, “with all the love in the world, are you stupid?” She threw her arms around his neck without thinking, spinning in the middle of the dance floor as Finnick held her tight, twirling her carefully so she wouldn’t stumble. Her kisses rained against his cheeks and lips in quick, fevered bursts, leaving him laughing and dizzy, his heart hammering so hard he thought it might escape his chest.

The crowd—District Thirteen’s citizens, their closest friends, even the camera operators capturing everything for broadcast—burst into laughter and applause, some whistling, some letting out small cheers. Johanna and Katniss exchanged glances, Katniss smirking as she clapped her hands quietly, and Johanna pretending to scowl but unable to hide the soft warmth of amusement tugging at her lips. Even Red’s brothers, still in the crowd, hooted loudly, Rowan giving a mock salute as Alder smirked, and Birch, Flint, and Ash laughed so hard they nearly fell into one another.

Red’s hair had loosened slightly in the excitement, the fishtail braids Effie had pinned so carefully now dancing with her every movement, brushing against Finnick’s chest and shoulders. Finnick pressed another soft kiss to the curve of her neck, inhaling her scent, letting the pure warmth of the moment sink in. Every single misstep, every battle, every near-impossible day they had survived flashed behind his eyelids, and he pressed her closer as if holding her could somehow keep the world at bay forever.

“You’re so beautiful, Wolfie,” he whispered, voice low and reverent, fingers brushing along her jawline. “I don’t know how I ever got this lucky.”

Red, still laughing, shook her head, breath catching as she pressed her lips to his again, soft this time, a quiet promise threaded into the sweetness. “I’m the lucky one,” she murmured against his lips, letting her fingers tangle in his hair. “I get to be your wife.”

Finnick’s chest tightened, a swell of emotion threatening to make him choke on his own words. “You’re my life, Red,” he said, almost to himself, pressing a lingering kiss to her temple before capturing her lips in another long, heart-stopping kiss. Every ounce of chaos in the underground hall, every harsh memory of the arena and the war outside, melted away in that moment, leaving only the two of them, spinning in their own world, tethered by the sheer gravity of love and relief and joy.

Red let out another soft laugh, biting her bottom lip as she pressed herself against him, her ring catching the light of the lamps and gleaming like a tiny sun between them. “I love this,” she whispered, voice trembling. “I love us, right now. I love that we’re here. I love… everything.”

Finnick held her tighter, eyes roaming her face as if memorizing it one last time before the night ended. “Me too, Wolfie. Me too,” he murmured, kissing the crown of her head. He twirled her again, careful to keep her balanced, and the music shifted seamlessly into a slower, lighter tune, the musicians laughing quietly as they improvised to match Red’s infectious energy.

Red, still spinning with him, laughed until tears streamed down her face, until her chest ached with the intensity of it. She wrapped her arms around his neck again, legs brushing his as he steadied her in his arms, and Finnick leaned his forehead to hers, voice breaking just a little with emotion.

“You’re mine now,” he whispered, low and aching, “and I’m yours. Always.”

“And I’m yours forever,” Red whispered back, pressing her lips once more to his cheek, her hands gripping his shoulders as she rested her head there for just a moment. “Forever and always.”

Finnick pressed a lingering, soft kiss to the crown of her head, brushing his thumb over the back of her hand where her ring gleamed. “And no matter what the world throws at us,” he murmured, voice heavy with love and promise, “I’ll never let go. Not for a second. You’re my everything.”

Red’s laughter bubbled again, bright and ringing through the hall, and she lunged forward, arms wrapping around his neck, pressing herself into him in another spontaneous burst of joy. Finnick caught her without a pause, spinning her lightly, letting her energy flow through him, letting himself be dizzy with her happiness, dizzy with the sheer overwhelming perfection of it all.

The citizens of District Thirteen erupted into applause and whistles, cameras clicking furiously, but neither of them noticed. Their entire world had shrunk into the small circle of their dance, the underground hall, and the glow of their love reflected in each other’s eyes. Johanna let out a loud, exaggerated fake gag from the sidelines, covering her mouth with a gloved hand, shaking her head with a grin, while Katniss laughed, shoulders shaking, arms crossed as she watched the wild, beautiful chaos of the bride covering the groom in kisses.

Red’s lips met Finnick’s again, this time in a slow, dizzying kiss, full of all the emotion that had built between them over years of rebellion, loss, love, and shared survival. Every glance, every brush of fingers, every tumble of laughter was a promise made and kept, an unspoken vow that this moment—this underground ballroom filled with glowing banners and forest-colored silk—was theirs alone.

As Finnick spun her one last time before letting her feet touch the floor firmly, Red threw her arms around his neck again, letting out a long, joyful sigh, forehead resting against his chest. “I’m Red Odair now,” she whispered breathlessly, a triumphant, laughing note threading through her voice.

“And I’m the luckiest man alive,” Finnick replied softly, pressing his lips to the top of her head. “Red Odair, Wolfie… sweetheart… my love.”

And in that moment, the underground hall, the rebellion, the shadows and lights, the whispers of war outside—they all disappeared. There was only Red and Finnick, spinning, laughing, kissing, and dancing as if the world had been waiting for this one perfect, aching, beautiful second.

Chapter Text

The music began almost imperceptibly at first, a gentle, rustling harmony of strings and wind that seemed to rise from the walls themselves, as if District Thirteen had borrowed the sound of a forest and bottled it underground. The guests fell silent, sensing something sacred in the shift of tone, though most didn’t fully understand the tradition. Red, in her wedding dress still shimmering faintly from the lights, turned to her younger brother Rowan. He stood nervously beside her, his hands clasped behind his back, but the faint smirk tugging at his lips betrayed his excitement.

“You better not step on my toes,” Red whispered, tugging at his sleeve with a grin.

“I could say the same about you,” Rowan shot back, rolling his shoulders as if stretching out unseen muscles of readiness. “You’re the older sibling. You’re supposed to set the pace.”

Red laughed, a short, delighted bark of sound, and linked her fingers through his. “Don’t you dare make me fall on my ass in front of everyone.”

Rowan’s smirk deepened. “I make no promises.”

They lowered themselves carefully onto the floor, the room watching in rapt attention as the three most lethal daughters of the rebellion—though only one of them was technically participating—shifted around each other with practiced grace and familial rhythm. Their feet glided over the polished surface, but there was no stiffness, only a careful mimicry of the forest floor: the way leaves might brush past one another, the way roots might twist together underground.

“You’re supposed to follow me,” Red teased, leaning forward and nudging him lightly with her shoulder. “I’m the bride! I lead!” Rowan made a mock bow. “The bride, yes—but the forest always decides the steps. You just follow the wind, asshole.”

Red snorted at the nickname, “Oi, keep your eyes on the steps!” she snapped teasingly, and Rowan feigned offense. “I’m just admiring the artistry!”

“You’re ridiculous,” Red replied, and they both laughed, soft and ringing, a private warmth that the rest of the room could sense but not fully feel. Their teasing continued, light and ridiculous, as if the weight of rebellion and war could be lifted, even for a moment, in the sacred circle they’d carved around themselves on the floor.

Rowan dipped his shoulder slightly, mimicking the sway of a tree in wind. “Step lightly, dummy. One misstep and the fake roots will trip you.” Red grinned fiercely. “I’ll bite the roots if they try anything. And don’t think I won’t bite you, either.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” Rowan whispered, just loud enough for her to hear. “You might get caught in your own hair.”

She spun lightly on the floor, a playful pirouette that sent a cascade of fiery red hair trailing behind her, brushing Rowan’s arms. “Caught? Me? Never.”

“You’ll fall, mark my words,” he said, lunging lightly to “catch” her as she teetered, but his fingers barely brushed hers, and Red laughed harder, head thrown back. The music swelled, faint but unrelenting, the melody mimicking the northern wind they both loved from stories of Antheia, their goddess. Every rise and fall, every gentle gust of imagined wind, seemed to guide their movements: the smaller, precise steps Rowan took mirrored the protective branches of a tree, and Red’s expansive motions, her arms sweeping, her laughter spilling into the air, mimicked the untamed freedom of leaves brushing against sunlight.

“You’re supposed to look solemn for this part,” Rowan teased suddenly, his voice low as if mimicking the hush of the forest, “like the forest itself is watching. You can’t laugh all the time!”

Red tilted her head, hair falling forward like a curtain over her grin. “Solemn? Me? Sorry, Rowan. I’m not a forest tree. I’m a wolf of the forest, remember?” The nickname made him chuckle. “Always the wolf, huh? Fine, I’ll let you lead the wolf dance.” Red laughed again, and this time she flung herself forward slightly, leaning into his chest, letting their foreheads brush. “Watch your step, stupid,” she whispered. “I could knock you over if I wanted to.”

Rowan smirked, feigning fear. “You’d dare? Fine, then I’ll tackle you with our four younger idiots who share our last name.”

“You wouldn’t!” Red gasped through her laughter, but he did, gently knocking her to the side, and they rolled just slightly before she sprang up again, hair flowing, grin intact, laughter echoing across the underground hall. The crowd of District Thirteen citizens, gathered around the edges, watched in awe and quiet amusement. They didn’t fully understand the tradition—the sacred dance of forest, the ceremonial weaving of familial protection, or the way Antheia’s blessing seemed to pulse in the motion—but they felt it. The laughter, the careful nudges, the mirrored steps, the lighthearted swipes of hair and hands—all of it radiated a bond so deep it could hardly be put into words.

Rowan lowered his hand slowly, and Red, without missing a beat, grabbed it with both of hers, weaving their fingers together. “Okay, okay,” she said breathlessly, “maybe you’re not so bad at this dance after all.” Rowan’s grin softened. “You’re saying that now, but wait until you step on my foot.”

“You’d deserve it,” Red shot back, leaning into him again, twirling slightly as the music continued to wind around them like the wind through a hollow tree trunk. Her smile was wide, radiant, a fierce, unguarded joy that only Rowan had ever managed to coax out of her.

And for just a moment, in the underground city of rebellion, beneath the hum of ventilation systems and the dim glow of artificial daylight, the forest of their home—Antheia’s forest, their memories of climbing trees and skipping through shadows—felt alive again. The floor beneath them was no longer cold concrete but softened with leaves and soil in their minds, a stage for the wild, joyful, protective love of a sister and brother. “Hey,” Rowan said suddenly, his voice lower now, almost reverent. “I can see you in every tree, you know that? In every branch I climb, every leaf I brush past… you’re there. Always.”

Red’s chest swelled in an ache of affection, and she caught her own breath, leaning forward to bump her forehead gently against his. “And you’re always there to make sure I don’t die, dummy. Always keeping me in line, even when I don’t want to be.”

Rowan’s lips quirked in a smile. “Someone has to. Wouldn’t want the wolf wandering into trouble without me.”

“You’ve got me now,” Red whispered, voice soft. “Even on my wedding day.”

“And I’ll always have you,” he replied. Their eyes locked, laughter and unspoken memories dancing between them. Every tree they had scaled, every game they had played, every secret whispered in the quiet of District Seven’s forests was here in this moment. The music swelled again, carrying the northern wind and the rustle of leaves into their ears, and they moved together with more fluidity now, the teasing softened into harmony. Red spun once more, hair whipping around her like the wild flame it had always been, and Rowan caught her just in time, steadying her against his chest as they both laughed and breathed together.

The crowd’s clapping, whistles, and soft cheers from District Seven floated around the edges of their ritual, but it felt distant—secondary to the bond they were celebrating: the wolf and her protective brother, a dance of love that was older than the rebellion, older than the arena, older than the war. It was a moment stolen for them, a memory to hold in the shadows of chaos.

“You’re insufferable,” Red said breathlessly, laughing into his chest.

“You love it,” Rowan shot back, grinning.

“I do,” she admitted, resting her forehead against his shoulder. “I really do.”

And in the underground halls of District Thirteen, with the northern wind of memory and legend swirling through them, they danced: the wolf of the forest and her brother, their laughter echoing like leaves brushing the branches, a sacred, playful, unbreakable bond.

----------

The door to their unit burst open before Red could even take a step inside, the sound of it banging against the wall echoing faintly in the hallway. Finnick appeared in the doorway like a beacon, his arms already wrapped securely around Red, bridal style, and his grin was so wide it threatened to split his face.

Red, still laughing, wiggled in his arms as if trying to get free, but only succeeded in bumping her cheek against his shoulder. “Golden-boy! Put me down! I’m not a child!” she giggled, the champagne from the ceremony—and from President Coin’s surprisingly generous allowance to the rebels—coursing through her, making her tipsy, light, almost floating.

“You’re my bride now, Wolfie,” Finnick said softly, a twinkle in his eye as he brushed a stray lock of red hair from her face. “And if I can carry you without tripping, you’re going to let me, yes?”

Red tried to glare at him, but the spark in her eye betrayed her. “I suppose… but if you drop me, I swear—”

“I’ll never drop you,” he interrupted, voice gentle, grinning as he took careful steps across the floor. He moved slowly, deliberately, making sure her long gown didn’t catch under his boots, careful to guide her across the threshold into their apartment. The fabric brushed softly against his arms, silky and light, and he inhaled her scent—flowers and honey and a faint trace of the northern wind from the ceremony, somehow still clinging to her despite the underground air.

Red’s laughter tumbled freely, unrestrained, echoing in the small unit. “You’re ridiculous, you know that?” she said, trying to wriggle a hand free, only to have Finnick catch her wrist and squeeze gently. “And so serious. For someone so handsome, you take everything too seriously.”

“I’m serious about you,” he whispered, leaning his forehead against hers as he paused to make sure she could steady herself. “Every single second. I’ve got you, Wolfie. Always.” Red giggled again, letting herself melt into him. Her hands rested lightly on his shoulders as he stepped closer to the small corner of their unit that they had cleared for moments like this, moments without eyes, without war, without masks. Her dress swirled softly in the dim glow from the overhead light, the layers of silk cascading over the floor like molten sunset, and Finnick couldn’t stop staring.

“Alright,” he said, voice hushed but playful, “we need to get you out of these shoes before someone calls a medbay alert for a falling bride.”

Red rolled her eyes but laughed anyway. “I could walk just fine…” she started, before her foot slipped slightly, sending a tiny squeal from her lips. Finnick caught her in an instant, holding her close and steadying her.

“Not today,” he said, eyes soft, almost worshipful as he gazed down at her. “Today, I carry you, Wolfie. Every step.”

She sighed, leaning her head against his shoulder as he knelt carefully on one knee to unlatch the corset of her dress. His fingers were gentle, precise, working at the laces with ease, teasingly slow as he tied and untied knots like he’d done a thousand times for her, each pull of the ribbon a whispered reminder of their history. The silk stretched under his touch, the fabric warm against his hands, and Red’s breath hitched at the intimacy, the simplicity of it all.

“You’re spoiling me,” she murmured, voice slightly slurred from champagne and happiness. “You know that, right?”

“You deserve it,” he said, eyes meeting hers, the softest light of adoration in their depths. “You’ve earned every bit of it, Wolfie. And you’ll get all of it, every day, as long as I can.”

Red let out a contented sigh, leaning back into his chest as he loosened the final ties, revealing her shoulders and collarbone. Finnick’s lips pressed lightly to the nape of her neck, her shoulder, tracing a path of soft kisses as she shivered under his touch, giggling again despite herself.

“You’re ridiculous,” she whispered breathlessly, tilting her head so he could press a kiss to her lips, fleeting but tender.

“And you’re mine,” he countered, voice low and warm, fingers lingering at the small of her back as he guided her carefully to the edge of their bed. The silk of her gown whispered against the sheets as he lowered her gently, the carefulness in his movements belying the pounding of his heart.

Red’s hands found his shoulders, then his face, and she kissed him in a messy, giggly, utterly happy way that made Finnick laugh, the sound rumbling in his chest. He leaned down, brushing her hair behind her ear as he rested his forehead against hers.

“You are ridiculously beautiful,” he murmured, tracing soft lines along her bare collarbone with a thumb. “I can’t believe you’re mine.”

Red’s smile was dizzying, infectious, the happiness spilling out in every breath she took. “And you’re ridiculous,” she countered softly. “I can’t believe you’re mine.” He pressed another soft kiss to her shoulder, to the curve of her neck, letting his lips linger over her skin like a vow. “Every day, Wolfie,” he whispered. “Every single day, I get to love you like this.”

Red giggled again, letting herself sink back into the bed as he settled beside her, brushing a few loose strands of her fiery hair over her shoulder and across the sheets. Her fingers twined with his, the warmth of her hand grounding him, and for a long moment, the war, the rebellion, the Capitol—they all melted away. All that existed was this tiny apartment in District Thirteen, the glow of the lamps, the soft rustle of fabric, and the steady beat of each other’s hearts.

“You’re going to smother me with kisses all night, aren’t you?” she whispered, voice teasing, a tremor of contentment underneath. “Maybe,” he said with a grin, leaning in to press another soft, lingering kiss to her collarbone. “But you’re not complaining, are you?”

“Never,” Red murmured, closing her eyes and tilting her head toward him, letting him cover her bare shoulders with the warmth of his lips, tracing every line like he was memorizing them all over again.

Finnick chuckled softly against her skin, inhaling her scent, the faint trace of forest, celebration, and love. He let his lips drift to her neck, to the small hollow just beneath her ear, leaving soft, feather-light kisses along her collarbone, worshipful, slow, gentle.

Red’s breath caught with every press of his lips, every touch, every soft hum of warmth and happiness. She had never felt more adored, more safe, more utterly hers. “Sleep soon, Wolfie?” he whispered, finally settling next to her, his fingers entwined with hers as she rested her head on the pillow.

“Eventually,” she murmured, still giggling lightly from champagne and joy, eyes sparkling even in the dim light. “But… stay here a little longer.”

“Always,” he said, pressing his forehead gently to hers. His lips brushed hers again, soft, lingering, full of promises, of every vow they had made, of every future he swore to her.

And as the soft glow of their lights filled the small room, the echoes of their laughter, kisses, and whispered words wrapped around them like a cocoon, the chaos of the world outside reduced to nothing but the warmth of each other’s presence. Finnick kissed her shoulder once more, then her collarbone, then her temple, and finally settled beside her, the ring gleaming faintly on her finger—a symbol of the bond they had cemented, of the love that would outlast every battle, every night, every shadow.

Red closed her eyes, and for the first time in a long while, she felt the world was completely, achingly perfect.

The soft hum of the ventilation system filled the small apartment, but to Red and Finnick, it sounded like a lullaby, steady and constant, a quiet reminder that they were somewhere safe. Somewhere that belonged to them, if only for this night. The underground walls of District Thirteen pressed in around them, gray and utilitarian, but for the first time in what felt like forever, those walls didn’t feel like a prison—they felt like a cocoon. Finnick stayed curled beside Red, their hands entwined, her head resting lightly against the pillow, hair spilling across the sheets like fire and silk. He traced slow, lazy circles on the back of her hand, thumb brushing over the gleaming ring on her finger. His other hand rested lightly on her hip, keeping her close as if even the smallest movement could shatter this perfect moment.

Red stirred slightly, a contented hum escaping her lips as Finnick brushed a soft kiss along her shoulder. The champagne had left a faint warmth in her cheeks, her skin glowing in the dim overhead light, and he couldn’t help but marvel at her—at how utterly perfect she was, in this moment, in every moment.

“You feel like… home,” he whispered against her collarbone, voice low and intimate. “Even when the world outside is chaos, you feel like home.”

Red murmured something indecipherable, nuzzling closer, and Finnick’s chest tightened. He lowered his lips to hers, brushing them softly, tasting her laughter in the curve of her smile. Her hands moved to his shoulders, fingers sliding up his back, tugging him closer, and Finnick leaned into her touch, savoring the warmth, the softness, the way she made the underground feel like sunlight.

She shifted slightly, and the blanket slipped down, leaving her shoulders and arms bare. Finnick’s lips found her collarbone again, pressing gentle, worshipful kisses along the curve, tracing the lines of her skin like he was committing every inch to memory. Red’s breath hitched with every press of his lips, every light, careful caress, and he couldn’t stop the small smile that tugged at his mouth.

“You’re annoyingly attractive,” she murmured, voice drowsy but playful, fingers tangling in his hair. “All these kisses… I don’t know if I can keep up.”

“You don’t have to,” he replied softly, leaning his forehead against hers. “I just want to remind you… remind both of us… that even in this underground maze, even in all the mess of war, we have each other. Always.”

Red shifted slightly, curling closer into him, legs brushing against his. Her hair, long and heavy, spilled across the sheets and over him, catching on his skin, tangling slightly in his fingers, and he couldn’t stop the small laugh that escaped him. “It’s… so much hair,” he murmured. “And yet… I love it. I love all of it. You, and this, and… every single thing about you.”

Red pressed her lips to his shoulder, humming softly, letting herself be cradled. Finnick traced slow patterns along her arm, fingers brushing against her skin, memorizing the warmth and the softness. Her hand reached up, cupping his cheek, and he leaned into her touch, resting his forehead against hers, just breathing in the moment.

“You’re so… gentle,” she whispered, voice soft, almost reverent. “I don’t… I don’t deserve you.”

“You deserve me more than anyone,” he said firmly, fingers brushing a stray lock of her hair behind her ear. “You’ve survived more than anyone should have to. You’ve fought more battles than anyone should have to. And yet… here you are, still burning brighter than anyone I’ve ever known.”

Red let out a soft laugh, barely more than a breath, curling closer. “I feel like… a child again,” she admitted, voice hushed. “Being held, being safe… it’s been so long since I felt this.”

Finnick pressed another soft kiss to her temple. “Then let me be your anchor tonight. Let me remind you… we can have this. Even underground. Even in the middle of war. We can have this.”

Her hands slid down his chest, clinging gently, and Finnick leaned down again, pressing his lips to hers, slow and steady. Red responded immediately, hands tangling in his hair, pulling him closer, laughing softly against his lips. Each kiss was a promise, each press of their mouths together a vow that no amount of Capitol terror, no amount of underground war, could ever take this from them.

He let her pull him down beside her, curling against her, and they lay there, faces inches apart, sharing quiet kisses and whispered laughter. Finnick’s hands trailed over her arms and shoulders, over the bare skin revealed by her dress, careful and reverent. Red’s hair enveloped them both, a cascade of red that felt like fire and life, cocooning them in a warmth that the world outside could never touch.

“You’re going to make me cry,” she whispered against his neck, giggling softly, lips brushing his skin. “And I’m already drunk on happiness, so it’s not fair.”'

“I like it when you cry happy,” he murmured, pressing another kiss to the hollow of her throat. “Because even when the world is ugly, even when it’s gray and cold… we’ve got moments like this. And I’ll make sure there are a thousand more. A million more.”

Red sighed, nuzzling into him, letting herself relax completely for the first time in what felt like forever. Her hand moved to his cheek, thumb brushing over his jaw. “Promise me we’ll always… always have this,” she said, voice trembling slightly.

Finnick kissed her forehead, eyes soft. “I promise. Every day. Underground, aboveground, wherever we are… we’ll have this. Just you and me. Always.”

Her fingers twined with his, holding onto him as if she could physically keep him there, and Finnick let her. He held her close, kissed her shoulder, traced the curve of her collarbone again, all the while whispering soft reassurances, soft confessions of love, until her giggles settled into soft breaths.

Minutes—or maybe hours—passed in silence, just the two of them, cocooned in the small space of their unit, the underground humming around them. Finnick pressed soft kisses along her arms, over her shoulders, back to her collarbone, lingering over her neck, each one slow, deliberate, full of affection and reverence. Red’s fingers tangled in his hair, in his hands, in his shirt, holding on as if the world could end outside these walls and it would still be enough.

“You smell like… our wedding,” she whispered, voice soft, eyes half-closed. “Like… love and loudness and… champagne and… you.”

“And you smell like… everything I’ve ever wanted,” he countered, pressing another kiss along her temple, holding her closer. “Everything I’ve ever fought for. You, Wolfie… always you.”

Red smiled, resting her cheek against his chest, letting her breath even out. “I’m so happy,” she whispered. “I never thought… this would feel… this perfect.”

“Then we’ll make sure it always does,” Finnick murmured, brushing a soft trail of kisses over her shoulder and down her arm. “Even underground. Even in war. Even when everything is chaotic… this is ours. Forever ours.”

Red’s eyes fluttered closed as she snuggled closer, lips brushing his chest, hair fanning over both of them. Finnick pressed his lips to the top of her head, holding her, feeling the weight of her in his arms, the warmth of her pressed against him, the steady rhythm of her breathing slowly syncing with his own.

He pressed one final, soft kiss to her shoulder, then over her collarbone, murmuring her name like a prayer. “Wolfie… I love you. Always.”

Red hummed softly in response, curling closer, letting the exhaustion, the happiness, and the safety settle over her. Finnick wrapped the blanket around them both, tugging it over her shoulders, over her hair, over the small, vulnerable parts of her that belonged only to him tonight.

And for the first time in years, underground, amidst the gray walls and hum of District Thirteen, they slept. Not just rested—they slept in a cocoon of warmth, love, and promises, a bond so strong that not even the shadow of war could touch it.

Chapter Text

The air inside the hangar shimmered faintly with heat from the engines. Red stood at the bottom of the ramp, her gloved hands clasped behind her back, staring up at the hulking shape of the military transport. The matte-black hull bore no insignia—only faint streaks of graphite paint that caught the light like ghostly veins. Her braid swayed against the long patch sewn into her shoulder: the gilded sigil of Antheia, the forest goddess of her home, threads of green and gold forming delicate leaves. Beside it, the small band of silver that marked her rank as a rebel captain.

Her uniform was made for motion—her motion. The jacket cinched tightly at the waist, with armor panels sewn beneath the fabric so they flexed when she jumped or spun. Her sleeves ended just below the wrist where her fingerless gloves began, and the edges of her trousers were tucked into light combat boots that rose mid-calf. A thin belt crossed her torso diagonally, the knives of her twin-bladed weapon secured at either hip, the dark vine-like rope coiled neatly between them. Every inch of her looked ready to spring—to climb, leap, fly.

Finnick stood just behind her, fastening the last strap on his own gear. His uniform was the same deep black, but the cut was different—sharper, heavier through the shoulders, allowing for the wide swings of his trident. Subtle silver threadwork traced the seams of his sleeves, curling in wave-like patterns that only showed when the light hit right. Across his back, the trident was secured diagonally, its prongs folded inward for travel. Even she could feel the faint hum of its charge through the air—like a heartbeat, quiet but electric.

And on his hand, the simple gold band gleamed against all that black. Hers matched it. The only bright things on either of them.

Red turned her head, catching his grin as he slung a pack over one shoulder. “You ready for our honeymoon, Odair?” she teased. He laughed, shaking his head. “If you mean flying into the frontlines with half of District Thirteen’s explosives? Absolutely romantic.”

“See, that’s why I married you,” she shot back. “You just get me.”

They climbed the ramp together, their boots thudding against the metal, and ducked through the doorway into the dim belly of the plane. It smelled like oil and cold air and adrenaline—rows of seats bolted along each wall, crates of ammunition stacked between them, med kits strapped in with heavy webbing. Around them, other soldiers murmured quietly or checked their weapons. A few of the younger ones looked up as the couple entered; Red caught one of them whispering something about the victors and rolled her eyes. Finnick only smiled and gave a little mock salute that made the poor boy blush and look away.

There weren’t enough seats for everyone, not comfortably, so Red tugged on Finnick’s sleeve and sank down onto the floor against the sidewall. He followed, sitting cross-legged beside her, their shoulders brushing. The engines rumbled to life, a low vibration that crawled up through the metal floor and into their bones.

“Think they’ll let us get a window seat?” she murmured, smirking.

“Yeah, right. Coin would black out the windows before she lets anyone daydream about sunlight.” His voice softened. “We’ll see it again soon, though.”

Red leaned her head on his shoulder. “You promise?”

He turned, kissed the top of her hair. “Always.”

The pilot’s voice crackled through the intercom—sharp, static-bitten words announcing takeoff—and the plane jolted as it began to move. Red reached out automatically, gripping Finnick’s gloved hand as the G-force pressed them both backward. The hangar blurred away, swallowed by the darkness of the tunnel beyond. Somewhere deep in her chest, excitement and dread tangled together until she couldn’t tell one from the other. She looked down at their joined hands—the black gloves, the matching rings catching what little light there was. For just a heartbeat, she thought about the wedding a week ago, the music, the crowd, his voice when he’d said Wolfie, I think I’ve loved you in every universe. The memory shimmered like a flame inside her, fragile and untouchable.

Finnick must have felt her looking. He glanced over, eyes soft and bright in the dim light. “Hey,” he murmured, “don’t go getting sentimental on me now.”

“I’m not sentimental,” she lied immediately. “I’m just plotting where I’ll hide your trident if you ever call me that in front of Coin again.”

He chuckled. “Oh? You liked it at the ceremony.”

“That was different. You were sweet then. You’re annoying now.”

The banter carried them through the first stretch of flight—easy, natural. Around them, the other rebels relaxed a little, the hum of conversation rising above the steady growl of the engines. Red watched as one of the medics passed out ration bars, as another strapped down the last crate. Her gaze flicked to the small porthole window near the cockpit—no glass, just reinforced polymer, a faint suggestion of the outside world moving by.

“Feels strange, doesn’t it?” she said quietly. “To be leaving the underground.”

Finnick followed her eyes. “Feels good, actually. Like we’re climbing toward something.” She nodded slowly, but didn’t answer. Her fingers toyed with the handle of one dagger, tracing the vine-engraved steel. The weapon had become almost a part of her now—a tether, both to Beetee’s genius and to the forests she’d once known. Every movement she made with it reminded her of home, of branches and wind and the freedom of open sky. The things she was fighting to bring back.

“You think they’ll recognize us up there?” she asked.

Finnick tilted his head. “Who?”

“The trees.” He looked at her, studying her expression. “If they’ve got any sense, they’ll be running toward you.” She smiled faintly at that, a quiet thing that didn’t reach her eyes but didn’t need to. “You’re such a sap.”

“Coming from a tree worshipper, that’s rich.”

She nudged him with her knee. “You’re lucky I love you.”

“I know.” He squeezed her hand again. “I’m the luckiest man in Panem.”

The intercom crackled again—another clipped update from the cockpit: Fifteen minutes to landing. Secure equipment. Everyone shifted into motion. Belts clicked, straps tightened, crates locked down. Red stood, checking the coils of her weapon, testing the balance of the blades. Finnick rose beside her, unclipping his trident and flipping the prongs open. The faint hum of power filled the small space, blue light running like veins through the metal before he powered it down again.

“Still think this is a good honeymoon?” she asked.

He grinned. “Depends. Do I get to see you in action?”

“You always see me in action.” He leaned close, voice dropping low enough that only she could hear. “That’s true.” Her cheeks flushed, and she shoved at his shoulder. “Focus, Odair.” He laughed, brushing his thumb over her jaw for just a second. “Yes, gorgeous.” The floor shuddered beneath them as the plane began its descent. The air pressure changed—ears popping, the hum of the engines deepening to a growl. Through the narrow window, light flickered: clouds, then sky, then the scorched patchwork of land far below. Red caught the faintest glimpse of what used to be a forest—dark stumps and ash, the ghosts of trees. Her heart clenched, but she didn’t look away.

Finnick’s hand found hers again, steady and sure. “We’ll plant new ones,” he said softly.

She blinked. “What?”

“When it’s over. We’ll go back to Seven, and you’ll tell me which ones are sacred, and we’ll plant as many as you want.”

Red swallowed hard, forcing down the lump in her throat. “You really shouldn’t make promises during wartime.”

He smiled. “I know. But I like breaking rules for you.” The plane jolted again—wheels scraping earth, the screech of metal against the rough landing strip. Everyone braced, packs bouncing against the floor. Dust swirled through the vents, the smell of smoke and something sharper filtering in from outside.Red let out a slow breath. Her pulse was steady, her eyes fixed on the ramp that would soon lower, on the light spilling through the seams of the door.

They’d landed. The carrier hit the ground with a bone-deep thud. The sound rippled through the floor like a heartbeat.
“On your feet!” someone barked.

Red and Finnick were already moving, unclipping harnesses as the hatch creaked open and a sheet of sunlight sliced through the dim cargo bay. The light was blinding at first—after weeks underground in Thirteen, it almost hurt to look at. But Red grinned anyway, squinting as the wind rushed in, sharp with dust and ash. The soldiers poured out first—boots thudding on metal, rifles clattering, voices sharp and efficient. Finnick followed, his trident strapped to his back, his black uniform catching the light in dull gleams where the fabric stretched across muscle. His jacket hugged his waist tight, matte black with faint silver lines tracing along seams that hid reinforced panels. Utility belts lined with shock cartridges glinted at his hips.

Behind him, Red landed lightly on the ramp, a small leap like the motion was instinct. Her own uniform was built for movement—tight through her chest and ribs for support, loose at her knees, slits along her thighs to let her move mid-air. Her vine-linked daggers swung behind her hips, blades sheathed in a cross pattern. There was a golden patch for Antheia over her shoulder, just visible when she turned her head.

Red inhaled deeply, eyes fluttering shut for a half-second. “Gods, I forgot what the sun feels like.”

Finnick smirked, checking the latch on her shoulder harness. “You also forgot how to stay still. Come on, Mrs. Odair.” She laughed under her breath, low and bright, before they both started jogging down the dirt runway toward the rows of tents that made up the rebel command post. District 2’s mountains loomed behind them, jagged and pale in the midday light, and the air smelled of gun oil, sweat, and earth. Everywhere they looked, soldiers moved with purpose—teams unloading crates, medics hauling stretchers, engineers yelling for parts. Radios hissed. A whistle blew somewhere near the comms tent. Finnick’s eyes tracked everything automatically, cataloguing movement, the way a man trained to survive always did.

Red, though, looked alive. Her boots kicked up dust as she walked backward ahead of him, taking it all in. “They weren’t kidding,” she said. “District 2’s a whole army.”

Finnick caught her wrist and tugged her back into line. “Keep moving, before they think Thirteen sent us to sightsee.”

“I am sight-seeing,” she said, smile flickering, eyes bright despite the fatigue of travel. “You’re just jealous because I look better in black.”

He gave her a sidelong look, voice dry. “You look better in everything. Now tighten your straps.”

They reached the equipment table near the edge of the airstrip. Rebel quartermasters shouted names and serials, tossing gear out in quick rhythm. Red took hers—re-secured the daggers’ vine-link across her torso, clipped the small throwing knife Johanna had given her under her sleeve. Finnick adjusted the trident’s grip straps and checked the charge. He crouched in front of her then, wordless, running a hand down her thigh strap to make sure it was firm, then checking her belt buckle and side holsters. His touch was brisk, professional—but there was something gentle buried beneath it.

“Knife latch is loose,” he murmured.

Red rolled her eyes, leaning her elbows on his shoulder as he fixed it. “You know, Odair, some couples exchange rings. We exchange safety checks.”

He smirked. “That’s marriage in wartime for you.”

“Romantic,” she said dryly, but her smile was soft. When he finished, she returned the favor, tugging his trident free and checking the wiring at its base. “You forgot to secure your shock line again,” she muttered, twisting a connector tight. “I was going to—”

“You always say that,” she interrupted, looking up through her lashes. “And then you fry someone and I have to listen to you bitch about it for hours, Finnick, and I'm too pretty for that shit.” He arched a brow. “And yet you married me anyway.”

“I like living dangerously.”

“Clearly.”

Around them, the sounds of the camp swelled—orders being shouted, boots scuffing against the dirt, the low hum of distant engines. The tension was palpable, the kind that lived in everyone’s bones this close to the Capitol’s border. Finnick could feel it crawling through him too, a quiet alertness, a readiness that never really went away. But beside him, Red rolled her shoulders, stretched her neck, and looked every bit like she was meant to be here. The air lifted strands of her hair that had escaped her braid. She looked up at the distant sky and smiled faintly.

“Feels weird,” she murmured. “To be above ground again. Like we’re ghosts, coming up for air.”

Finnick followed her gaze. “Let’s make sure we don’t go back under too soon.”

She huffed out a small laugh, and he reached over, brushing his thumb over her knuckles where her ring glinted dully beneath the dirt. It was the only flash of color on either of them—rose gold against black. A voice called from across the tents: “Odairs! Report once your gear’s secure—Star Team’s tent, center camp!” Finnick gave a short nod of acknowledgment, then turned back to her, grin still tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Did you hear that?” he asked. “Odairs. Plural.”

Her cheeks went pink under the dirt and sun. “Don’t make it weird.”

“I’m never gonna stop making it weird,” he said, slinging his trident over his shoulder. “They’re gonna get sick of hearing it. ‘The Odairs this, the Odairs that’—”

She elbowed him, but couldn’t stop smiling. “You’re insufferable.”

“Maybe,” he said, taking her hand. “But you love me for it.”

“Unfortunately,” she muttered, but her thumb brushed over his ring before she let go.

They started walking again, weaving through rows of canvas tents until they reached the wide one in the center of the command post. The insignia of Thirteen was stenciled across the flap—two silver bars intersecting in an X, faded from dust. Radios hummed inside, static crackling with coded bursts of speech. The wind kicked up dust as they approached, and Red lifted a hand to shield her eyes. “Think we’ll get yelled at for being late?”

“Probably. You can blame me,” Finnick said easily.

“Oh, I plan to,” she said.

They were a few paces away when the flap rustled—and out stepped Katniss Everdeen, head held high, face streaked with the same gray grime as every soldier’s but eyes sharp as ever. Gale followed just behind her, clipboard tucked under one arm. For half a heartbeat, Katniss squinted across the sunlight. Then recognition hit, and the edges of her mouth broke into something dangerously close to a smile. “Is that the Odairs I see?” she called, voice bright with disbelief. Red laughed, a full, unguarded laugh that carried across the clearing. “In the, Everdeen!”

Katniss was already moving—closing the distance in a few strides and throwing her arms around Red, catching her mid-spin as Finnick chuckled behind them. Dust lifted around their boots as the camp noise swelled, the war temporarily forgotten, just three friends together again under the open sky. Katniss still had one arm around Red when she leaned back with a laugh. “That was a short honeymoon, guys.”

Finnick’s grin was immediate, a flash of teeth and mischief under the harsh fluorescent glow that leaked from the tent. “Yeah, well, we’re going to have to have one in the Capitol.”

Red elbowed him lightly. “After we take it, that is.”

Katniss rolled her eyes, her mouth twitching despite herself. “You two sound way too happy to be at war.”

“We’ve had worse dates,” Finnick said, reaching over to brush a smear of dust from Red’s cheek. “Speak for yourself,” Red muttered, though the laughter in her voice betrayed her. She reached out and booped Katniss’s nose, the motion sudden, playful. “C’mon, Everdeen. Smile before Coin sees your face and thinks morale’s tanking again.” Katniss tried to glare but couldn’t stop herself from laughing, the sound small and startled. “You’re insufferable.”

“Yeah,” Red said, beaming, “but I’m charming, too.”

Before Katniss could respond, a shadow crossed the tent’s entrance. “Gather up.”

The sound of authority—low, even, and commanding—sliced through the chatter like a blade.

Colonel Boggs stepped in, every inch the soldier Thirteen trained him to be: tall, broad-shouldered, movements precise enough to make the air seem sharper. Three others followed behind him, each armed, each radiating the quiet discipline that came with years in uniform. The noise in the tent died instantly. Boots scraped against dirt as soldiers straightened. Finnick’s teasing vanished, replaced with the cool steadiness that Red had seen too many times in the arena. He shifted subtly closer to her, the easy humor from moments ago now locked behind his calm soldier’s expression.

Boggs surveyed them for a long moment, counting, assessing. The air hummed with quiet energy—anticipation, nerves, pride.

“Squad Four-Five-One,” he said finally, his tone clipped, deliberate. “You’re my unit.”

A ripple passed through the tent—one of acknowledgment, not surprise.

He gestured to a woman standing beside him. She was older than most of the squad, with deep-set eyes and a strict ponytail that pulled her expression taut. Her posture was perfect, her stare steady. “Lieutenant Jackson is my second in command,” Boggs continued. “If I fall, she takes charge. If she falls, the next ranking officer steps up. Understood?” Fourteen heads nodded in unison. The smell of dust, oil, and metal filled the air—the familiar scent of the rebellion’s front line. Behind them, the wind from the airfield rattled the tent walls, a constant reminder that beyond these thin sheets of canvas waited a war that wouldn’t pause for anyone’s nerves.

Boggs’s gaze moved across the gathered faces. “Each one of you is elite in some form of combat,” he said.

That was all it took.

Red’s hand drifted without thought toward her belt, fingertips brushing over the hilts of her twin daggers—the twin blades bound by rope that coiled at her hip like a serpent. The motion was instinct, muscle memory. The faint scrape of metal against leather calmed her, a reminder that she wasn’t helpless anymore—that she was a weapon, too.

Boggs’s gravel-edged voice carried easily through the tent, every syllable crisp enough to cut. “We are not a combat unit,” he said. His gaze swept the room, pausing on each face like a drill sergeant taking inventory. “We’ll be following days behind the frontline troops.” A soft murmur passed through the tent, boots shifting, someone’s knuckles cracking. You could feel the bristle of soldiers unused to being told not to fight. Cressida—the Capitol defector with half her head shaved and a camera cradled like a weapon—stepped forward from the shadows of the back row. Even in a war, even in this stripped-down, no-nonsense environment, she looked like she carried a piece of the Capitol’s strange elegance with her.

“You’ll be the on-screen faces of the invasion into the Capitol,” she said. Her voice was steady, practiced—the tone of someone who’d rehearsed lines her whole life. “The Star Squad. It’s been decided you all do best when the masses see you.”

Red blinked, exchanging a quick, wry glance with Katniss.

Cressida’s mouth twitched, like she’d noticed. “You inspire hope,” she continued. “You intimidate the Capitol’s forces. You show them exactly who’s coming.” The words hung heavy for a moment. Then, from near the back, Gale’s voice cut through. “So what—you’re telling us we’re the Capitol’s entertainment again?” Boggs turned slowly toward him. His expression didn’t change, but the temperature in the tent seemed to drop. “You do what you’re directed to do, soldier.”

It wasn’t harsh, not really—but it was final.

Gale’s jaw flexed. He nodded once, quietly, his hand tightening around his bow.

Boggs gave a curt nod of acknowledgment and turned his focus back to the group. “Our instructions are to shoot propaganda footage of the battlefield. You will move through cleared sectors after combat units have advanced. Minimal risk. Maximum visibility.” Someone—maybe Pollux, silent behind the secondary camera—snorted softly, though whether it was amusement or nerves, no one could tell. Boggs kept going, unshaken. “You all were handpicked to intimidate the Capitol’s forces.” His eyes narrowed slightly. “We’re looking at you, Odairs.”

A few heads turned.

The tent shifted—half a beat of silence—and then a ripple of laughter spread through the squad.

Because at that exact moment, Red was upside down.

Literally.

Balanced on her hands, her legs pointed skyward, the hem of her black tactical jacket falling around her ribs. Her boots hovered in a perfect line. Her long braid brushed the dirt, beads and gold clips catching the flickering light from the lanterns above. She wasn’t even paying attention. Across from her, Finnick was crouched low, one knee bent, his trident balanced over his lap. He was running a small, flat stone along one of the electrified tines, focused and calm, the rhythmic shhht, shhht of the sharpening stone almost hypnotic.

It was a soldier’s serenity—a fisherman’s patience turned into habit.

Both of them looked up at the same time when they noticed the sudden silence.

Finnick blinked. Red froze mid-handstand, her braid swaying slightly like a pendulum. Fourteen pairs of eyes were staring. Cressida, camera half-raised, just muttered, “You’ve got to be kidding me.” Boggs exhaled slowly through his nose, a sound dangerously close to a laugh. “Care to join the briefing, Odairs?” Finnick gave a sheepish grin. “Sorry, Colonel. Just… sharpening morale.” That broke the room.

Even Gale cracked a grin, shaking his head as laughter rolled through the squad—short, unexpected, welcome. Red flipped gracefully back onto her feet, dusting her palms off on her thighs. “Sorry,” she said, not sounding sorry at all. “Thought you said intimidate, sir. Gotta keep the blood flowing.”

“Yeah, well,” Boggs said dryly, one eyebrow raised, “try doing it right-side up next time.”

That earned another burst of laughter, lighter this time, easier.

Finnick leaned toward her, his voice just low enough for only her to hear. “We’re supposed to look like professionals, Mrs. Odair.” She nudged his shoulder, still grinning. “You love me anyway.”

“Unfortunate truth.”

“Lie,” she murmured back, smirking.

Boggs cleared his throat pointedly, and the squad fell quiet again, though smiles lingered on faces that hadn’t seen joy in too long. Cressida was still shaking her head, but even she looked faintly amused as she adjusted her camera, whispering something to Messalla about “saving that footage for the morale reel.”

Red caught the comment, tossed Cressida a wink, and straightened her uniform jacket, which—like Finnick’s—was the newest issue: tactical matte black, reinforced seams, the faint outline of District 13’s insignia at the collar. Hers was fitted for movement—light armor across her chest and knees, extra space for her rope-blades coiled at her side. His was heavier, more structured at the shoulders, with a faint shimmer of metal threading where the trident would rest against his back.

Side by side, they looked every bit the pair they were rumored to be—myth and muscle, sea and flame.

Boggs’s gaze lingered on them for half a second longer than the rest, a flicker of something like amusement or respect crossing his face before he continued.

“Now that I have your attention,” he said, “as I was saying…”

The briefing resumed, the energy shifting back toward tension and duty, but the air was different now—looser, lighter. And Red and Finnick, without even meaning to, had just done exactly what Cressida said they were chosen for. They didn’t just fight. They reminded everyone why the fight mattered. Red leaned slightly toward Finnick as Boggs launched into the next segment of his explanation, her voice a low whisper only he could hear. “We’re supposed to intimidate the Capitol?” He didn’t look at her, just smirked faintly, still sharpening his blade. “I think we just did.”

She smiled, soft and fierce, her thumb brushing over the carved Odair nameplate stitched above his chest.

Her last name now too.

Boggs’s gravel-edged voice carried through the tent, steady and uncompromising. “Even though we’ll be working on abandoned streets; miles from the front line. I can guarantee you, wherever they put us, it will not be safe. This is a war zone. It’s likely that we will encounter active pods, and peacekeepers. You’re considered high value targets to the Capitol. In the event of capture, you will be given a nightlocke pill. A poison that acts immediately.”

He lifted a small box from the table in front of him and handed it to Lieutenant Jackson. “Do the honors,” he said.

The lieutenant carefully began distributing the pills to the squad, her hands deliberate and precise. Each soldier accepted their pill, the weight of it tangible, a sharp reminder of the danger that awaited outside the relative safety of the rebel tents.

Finnick’s eyes never left Red. He watched her as she held the purple pill between her fingers, studying it for a moment before tucking it safely into her pocket, the small, final act of preparation etched into his mind.

“Hopefully you’ve been pre-briefed on the pods,” Boggs continued, his voice as unwavering as ever. “I’ll remind you: they’re on every block. Our unit has been given a holo—a detailed map that shows wherever a known pod is.” He moved his hands with precision, and suddenly, a shimmering hologram of the Capitol rose into the center of the tent. Streets and avenues glowed faintly, clusters of buildings outlined with luminous borders. The pods were marked clearly, their locations highlighted in stark red against the dull white of the ruined cityscape. Finnick traced Red’s gaze as she studied the projected map carefully, noting her posture: alert, poised, already calculating.

The hologram hung in the air, spinning slowly as Boggs allowed everyone a moment to absorb the terrain, the scale of the city, and the threats that waited around each corner. Finnick’s hand brushed against the hilt of his trident unconsciously, fingers tightening around it, even as his eyes remained locked on Red, watching her commit every line and landmark to memory.

Boggs’s finger hovered over the glowing streets of the Capitol projected in midair, tracing lines and intersections as he spoke with measured authority. “These pods can trigger anything from bombs, traps, to mutts. We cannot move without the holo. But there is no guarantee that our database is complete. There may be new pods we’re not aware of. Because we don’t want the—” The single word—gamemakers—cut through the tent like a gunshot. In unison, Red, Katniss, and Finnick flinched, their muscles tightening, their minds conjuring every nightmare, every trial, every whispered warning from years spent surviving the Capitol’s cruelty. For a heartbeat, the world seemed to shrink around the word, the memory of that terrifying, omnipresent surveillance sending shivers down their spines. Even the hum of the overhead lamps felt sharper, more dangerous, as if the very air were acknowledging the threat.

Boggs’s voice, unyielding and oblivious to the flinch, continued, steady and uncompromising: “-to know we have this intel, because they can set it off anytime. Stay within our unit. Even with the holo, it is likely new pods have been set. Whatever they contain, they are meant to kill you.”

The words hung in the air, dense and unrelenting. The tent felt smaller, every soldier aware of the silent tension pressing in from all sides. Red’s fingers grazed the hilt of her vine daggers, brushing the cold metal beneath her gloves, her mind racing with tactical possibilities, escape routes, calculations born of years surviving the impossible. She breathed, slow and measured, but the pulse in her ears was loud, steady, alive with adrenaline. Her eyes darted over the holographic map, scanning every highlighted pod, noting patterns, the distribution of structures, the likely paths she and her unit would have to take.

Katniss’s bow was cradled in her hands like a second skin. Her black-gloved fingers flexed over the grip, a taut readiness in her posture. She didn’t look at Red or Finnick, but the shared understanding between them was palpable. They had all survived this before—somehow, in some capacity—and yet the stakes had never been higher. The Capitol’s games were a shadow over this mission; the pods, the traps, the engineered lethality of every step—they were walking the edge of death, and only together could they hope to survive. Finnick, leaning slightly back on the tent floor, traced the contours of the hologram with a careful, calculating gaze. His trident lay across his lap, the edges gleaming faintly in the flickering holo-light. He could feel the weight of the pill tucked into his pocket, the memory of the squads he had survived alongside, the countless odds stacked against him. And yet, there was Red, breathing softly next to him, fierce and untouchable in the way that only she could be. She was poised, balanced, alive, and he couldn’t help the small, ironic smile that tugged at his lips. He whispered, almost inaudibly, the words meant only for her ears: “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the seventy-sixth Hunger Games.”

Even as he said it, the weight of the phrase wasn’t lost on him. It wasn’t a joke—it was a promise, a warning, and a reflection of the truth of their existence. The games were no longer a memory; they were a framework, a code embedded into the very air around them, the battles they would face a cruel echo of what the Capitol had always demanded. And still, somehow, they would walk forward. Together.

Red glanced up at him briefly, a flicker of amusement in her eyes despite the tension. The corners of her lips twitched, almost a smirk, as if acknowledging that this was their reality and they would face it like only they could: with precision, with courage, and, most importantly, with each other. Finnick’s gaze lingered on her, warm and steady, the shared heartbeat of confidence passing silently between them.

Katniss, sitting across from them, exhaled slowly, her shoulders relaxing fractionally as she surveyed the hologram once more. Even in the glow of the projected city, she could see the minutiae of the pods, the traps, the lethal constructs of the Capitol’s design. Every red marker, every alert on the map, was a threat—and yet, she trusted the hands of her companions, the experience that had forged them into lethal warriors, into the faces of the rebellion.

Boggs continued speaking, his voice deliberate and constant, though Finnick’s words still hovered between him and Red like a private incantation. The message was clear, the stakes crystal: death could come at any turn, but survival—survival was an art they had perfected through loss, through cunning, through the bond that had never been broken between the ones who had endured the arenas together.

The tent seemed to hold its breath. Each soldier, each fighter, each high-value target, understood the gravity: one wrong step, one miscalculation, and the Capitol would take it. And yet, there was a rhythm to their preparation, a calm amidst the chaos. Red’s fingers flexed over the dagger hilts. Finnick’s trident gleamed in the flickering holo. Katniss’s bow was steady in her lap.

The tent absorbed it, the holographic city spinning in muted light, and for a moment, even the Capitol’s traps, even the threat of pods, seemed to fade into insignificance. It was a private acknowledgment of the war they were stepping into, of the bond they shared, of the life they had fought for and the lives they would continue to protect. The weight of the holo, the pods, the poison pills, the threat of capture, the memory of past games—it all became a backdrop, a canvas upon which Finnick and Red moved with quiet precision. Their eyes met, a silent communication passing without words: they were ready. Not just because they had to be, but because they would not falter in each other’s presence.

And as the glow of the Capitol’s streets rotated in the air above them, and Boggs outlined the remaining parameters, Finnick’s whispered words echoed silently between Red and himself, a cruel jest, a tribute, and a warning all at once.

The moment stretched. The holo spun. The tent held its breath. And the three of them, Red, Finnick, and Katniss, knew exactly what it meant.

Chapter Text

The air was thick with dust, ash, and the faint acrid smell of smoke from fires burning somewhere deeper in the city. The remains of once-grand buildings loomed on either side, skeletal frames clawing at the gray sky. Debris littered the cracked streets: broken windows, splintered doors, and the remnants of a life the Capitol had long abandoned. Somewhere in the distance, a distant explosion shook the ground, a reminder that the war was never far, never quiet.

Boggs led the small squad cautiously, the pod-detecting device in his hands humming faintly. The device had a sharp, metallic presence—like a heartbeat syncing with the tension in the group. Every footstep on the rubble-strewn street sounded like a gunshot in their ears, every shifted piece of metal or broken glass a potential threat. Finnick stayed close to Red, his Trident held loosely but ready, his arm coiled firmly around her waist. She moved beside him, black uniform blending with the shadows of the ruined streets, her fingers brushing against the twin daggers coiled with vines on her hips. Even in this chaos, she moved like a dancer, trained, precise—but every so often, her gaze darted to him, a silent reassurance that he was still there.

Cressida hovered at the back of the group, camera poised and recording. She didn’t speak, but her presence made the squad hyper-aware of the image they were projecting, even in the middle of danger. Katniss stayed crouched, bow in hand, her eyes scanning the gaps between buildings, noting the subtle changes in the terrain, the whispers of wind that might hint at an ambush—or worse, a pod. “Got a pod,” Boggs announced suddenly, his voice low but sharp, cutting through the thick, tense silence. The device in his hands beeped aggressively, red lights flashing like an angry eye.

Finnick froze mid-step, feeling the weight of Red at his side. Instantly, his arm tightened around her waist. “Stay close,” he muttered quietly, his jaw set, muscles coiling. The Trident in his other hand felt alive, a familiar extension of his body, humming with the threat of power at his fingertips. Red instinctively leaned slightly against him, her eyes scanning the shadows between the ruins. Boggs crouched lower, gesturing to the spaces between two partially collapsed buildings. “Shoot an arrow between those two buildings,” he instructed Katniss. The voice was calm, methodical, but underneath there was the urgency of someone who had seen what these pods could do. Every second wasted could cost them.

Katniss shifted, drawing the bowstring back with a practiced ease, arrow aimed with deadly precision. She didn’t speak. The city around them was quiet in comparison, holding its breath. The ruined structures seemed to lean closer, as if the shadows themselves were waiting for her to act.

Finnick’s eyes never left the building line. He shifted slightly so Red could tuck closer against him, shielding her with the solid weight of his body while still keeping his grip loose enough for her to move if she needed. Her hands brushed against his chest lightly, almost a silent apology for not being more still. He didn’t mind; every instinct told him to protect her, and every fiber of his being knew this moment would pass faster than they wished. Katniss exhaled softly, letting the tension in her shoulders align with the motion of the arrow. Her eyes tracked the gap, following the narrow path where the arrow would fly. Time seemed to slow—the subtle whistle of wind, the slight bend in the arrow’s shaft, the echo of distant bombing—all stretched into a long, taut line of focus.

The moment she released, the arrow hissed through the air, a streak of precision slicing through the gray haze. It struck exactly where Boggs had indicated. For an instant, nothing happened, the silence of anticipation almost unbearable. Then, with a sudden roar, the blow torches ignited, erupting in violent orange flames between the two buildings. The fire licked the skeletal frames of the ruins, casting long shadows across the group, dancing over the grit on the streets and the determination etched on their faces. Red exhaled sharply, a mixture of relief and adrenaline, leaning further into Finnick as the heat brushed against them. His hand on her waist tightened instinctively, not from fear but from instinctual protection, and he leaned his head slightly toward hers, murmuring something under his breath she couldn’t quite catch but that anchored her in the chaos.

Boggs crouched lower, eyes scanning the area, the pod detector still in his hands, ears attuned to the faintest change in the air. “Good,” he said, voice clipped. “Move carefully. That was just one. Don’t get complacent.”

Katniss lowered her bow but didn’t relax. Her eyes flitted to the next possible vantage points, checking angles between buildings, noting potential hazards. Even as the flames roared between the broken structures, she moved like a shadow herself, silent, controlled, deadly. Red shifted slightly, her fingers tightening around the vine-wrapped daggers at her hips. The air still smelled faintly of smoke, acrid and sharp, but she could feel the energy of the city under her feet, the pulse of danger mingling with adrenaline. Finnick noticed, adjusting his stance so she could move freely, even as he stayed close enough to intervene instantly.

The fire from the blow torches danced, throwing their faces into alternating light and shadow. Katniss whispered under her breath, a signal to the others, and Red followed the hand gesture immediately, crouching lower, keeping her movements small but precise. Every instinct screamed that the Capitol’s traps were patient predators, waiting for the slightest misstep. Cressida’s camera caught every flicker of movement, the arc of the arrow, the sudden blaze, the taut focus in Finnick’s eyes as he shielded Red. But in the midst of the danger, there was a rhythm, a synchronicity that only came from years of training and survival. Red, Finnick, Katniss—they were attuned to each other in ways words could never capture.

Finnick adjusted the Trident in his grip, the electricity humming faintly, the metal feeling almost warm against his palm. He glanced down at Red briefly, noting the fierce, bright focus in her eyes even as she breathed heavily from the exertion of crouching, of anticipation. She was alive, so alive, and every ounce of him wanted to make sure it stayed that way.

Katniss shifted slightly to cover the left flank, arrow poised for any movement, her gloved fingers tightening around the shaft. Red mirrored her stance slightly, hands ready on her daggers, even as Finnick’s Trident remained the silent, deadly threat behind them. Boggs’ device continued its low hum, the occasional spike in tone warning of nearby pods or traps, but for now, the group stayed in tense stillness, absorbing the aftermath of the controlled blaze they had just orchestrated.

The flames licked higher, shadows twisting across broken walls, yet the trio remained unmoving, silent in their efficiency. Even in the midst of a city half-buried in ruins, they had an almost eerie calm, a rhythm born of experience, trust, and survival. Each knew their role, each watched for the other, each ready to act if the danger shifted even a fraction. Finnick shifted his weight slightly, giving Red room to adjust her daggers and move quietly. He whispered softly, a thread of comfort amidst chaos, and she caught it, nodding once, her lips barely moving. Katniss, noticing, allowed herself a brief flicker of a smile before turning back to the ruins ahead.

The fires between the buildings crackled, sparks flying up into the gray sky, and the wind shifted just enough to carry the smoke in waves over the ruined streets. It was a small reminder of the destruction all around them, but also of the control they could exert in this chaotic environment. One arrow, one perfectly timed detonation, and a pod neutralized without loss of life—small victories in the larger war.

For a brief second, the squad allowed themselves a heartbeat of silence, the sound of flames, distant gunfire, and their own controlled breathing filling the space between the buildings. Finnick’s grip on Red’s waist loosened slightly, enough for her to adjust, but never enough to let her forget he was there. She mirrored him in trust, confidence radiating even through the exhaustion of crouched vigilance. Boggs finally gestured forward, signaling that the path ahead was clear—for now. The flames had served their purpose, revealing both the dangers and the way forward. Katniss kept her bow raised, ready for anything that might emerge from the skeletal ruins, while Red mirrored the readiness, daggers poised, her eyes flicking between the shadows. Finnick kept his arm lightly around her, Trident at the ready, a silent guardian in the middle of destruction.

For that fleeting, tense moment, the ruins of the Capitol felt almost alive—watching, waiting, but yielding to the skill and synchronicity of the rebels moving through it. The controlled fire cast their shadows across shattered streets, a tableau of resistance, precision, and survival.

And as the last embers of the blow torch flames flickered, the squad readied themselves, knowing that the next move could be the one that decided whether they survived this patch of the city or not.

They’d been walking for hours before Boggs finally called for a break. The squad ducked under what used to be a broad awning — the remains of some Capitol café, the marble cracked and the lettering above burned beyond recognition. Dust filtered through the light that managed to sneak past the ceiling’s gaps, turning the air to gold. The street outside was empty, silent except for the wind moving through the ruins. It was the first time in hours any of them had sat down without the weight of immediate danger pressing on their spines. Red slid down against a fallen pillar, exhaling. Her knees ached, and the long march had left a dull pulse in her calves, but she wasn’t about to admit it out loud. The others found their own corners, checking equipment or nursing bruises. Boggs and Jackson talked in low voices, Cressida set down her camera for once, and Katniss leaned against a wall, eyes far away.

Finnick sat beside Red, his shoulder brushing hers as he set the Trident across his lap. The weapon gleamed even in the dull light, its metallic edges reflecting slivers of firelight from the small lantern they’d lit between them. Red’s rope-daggers sat beside her boots, still dusted from the Capitol’s streets, the blades dulled from the last few pods they’d triggered.

Finnick tilted his head toward her, lips twitching. “You know, Mrs. Odair,” he said softly, “you’re losing your edge.”

Red smirked without looking up. “Excuse me?” she said, feigning offense as she picked up one of her daggers. “I’ll have you know I hit the last pod before you even had your Trident out.”

“That’s what you think,” Finnick murmured, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “Really, I was just waiting to see if you’d remember to duck this time.”

Red gasped, mock affronted, before smacking his shoulder lightly. “You’re lucky we’re married, or I’d stab you for that.”

Finnick chuckled, a low sound that rolled out of him and settled deep in her chest. “Ah, see, the perks of matrimony — reduced likelihood of impalement.” She bit the inside of her cheek, trying not to smile as she started sharpening one of her daggers on a small whetstone. The scrape of metal filled the silence, rhythmic, soothing. The world outside the broken roof was chaos, but here, for just a little while, it felt almost safe. Finnick watched her hands move, the sure, practiced glide of blade against stone, the faint curve of concentration on her lips. “You know,” he said, leaning back on his palms, “I could get used to this.”

Red arched a brow. “Sharpening knives in the ruins of a city at war?”

He shrugged, a half-grin curling his mouth. “You. Me. The sound of impending doom in the distance. Romantic, isn’t it?” he snorted, shaking her head. “You’re impossible.” He reached over and brushed a bit of dust from her sleeve, fingers grazing her arm. “And you love me for it.”

“I tolerate you,” she teased, but her voice softened. They fell into a comfortable quiet after that, the kind that only existed between two people who’d survived too much together to need words. The scrape of metal, the occasional murmur of conversation from the rest of the squad, and the faint hum of wind outside filled the silence. Finnick leaned forward after a moment, resting his elbows on his knees. “You still thinking about home?”

Red blinked, glancing at him. “Home?”

“District Seven,” he said. “The trees. The air. The sound of your brothers yelling every time you climbed higher than them.”

She smiled faintly. “Always. It feels like another life sometimes.” She set the knife down, gazing at her reflection in the blade’s clean edge. “It’s strange — I used to think the forest was the only place I’d ever feel safe. Then the Games happened. Then the rebellion. Then you.”

Finnick’s hand found hers quietly, their fingers tangling together, calluses meeting calluses. “You still feel safe with me?” Red looked up at him, a small, soft smile curling her lips. “Always.” His thumb brushed the inside of her wrist. “Good. Because I intend to keep it that way.” Across the space, Katniss glanced at them and smiled faintly before turning back to check her bowstring. Boggs pretended not to notice the quiet affection, though even he seemed less tense for a moment.

Red leaned her head lightly against Finnick’s shoulder, closing her eyes. “Do you ever think about after?” she murmured.

He tilted his head. “After the war?”

“Mhm.” He was quiet for a long moment. The air buzzed faintly with the sound of electricity from his Trident as he adjusted the mechanism, testing its charge. “Sometimes,” he said finally. “I think about the sea. Teaching you how to dive properly this time instead of you flailing around like a terrified seal.” She lifted her head and swatted his arm, laughing softly. “I did not flail. The waves were just enormous!”

“Uh-huh.” He smirked. “Enormous. That’s what we’re calling ankle-high tide now.”

She rolled her eyes, but the memory of that day — their one week of freedom on the coast, the salt on their skin, the way he’d held her underwater until she could breathe through the fear — warmed her. “You’d be bored if I wasn’t dramatic.”

“True.” He grinned, then bent forward, pressing a quick kiss to the crown of her head. The noise outside cracked for a moment — a distant explosion, too far to shake their shelter but close enough to remind them where they were. Red didn’t flinch. Neither did he. They’d grown used to it — the sound of a world coming apart at the seams, and their love holding tight anyway. Finnick’s fingers brushed over her wedding ring absently, thumb tracing the band. It caught the dim light, a small glint of gold against the black of their uniforms. “Still weird seeing this on you,” he said softly. Red smiled, lifting her hand to look at it. “I like it. Makes me look official.”

“You were always official. I just made it permanent.”

She snorted. “You sound like my mother.”

“Remind me to thank Mira for teaching you to be terrifying,” Finnick teased. “She’ll be thrilled,” Red said dryly. “You can tell her yourself — assuming she doesn’t hit you with a spatula for letting me come here.” He laughed quietly, the sound a low hum against the ruined stone walls. “Worth it.” Red tilted her head, studying him for a long moment — the curve of his jaw, the weariness beneath his grin, the faint smudge of dirt across his cheek. “You look tired,” she said softly.

“I look married,” he corrected, eyes glinting. “It’s a good look on me, though, right?”

She rolled her eyes, trying not to smile. “You’re insufferable.”

He caught her chin gently with his fingers, turning her face toward him. “You love me anyway.”

“I really do,” she whispered.

Their foreheads rested together for a heartbeat, and the noise of the war outside faded to nothing. For that one fragile moment, there was no Capitol, no rebellion, no death waiting behind every corner — just them. Just warmth. Just the quiet strength of two people who had fought too hard to lose each other now. Finnick finally leaned back, breaking the silence. “You sharpen my trident next?” Red smirked. “You’re scared I’ll make them too sharp and accidentally cut you again?”

He held up his hand, showing a faint scar on his knuckle. “I still have evidence, Mrs. Odair.”

“That was your fault,” she argued immediately. “You distracted me!”

“I was flirting.”

“Exactly!”

He grinned, leaning closer, voice dropping. “Worked, didn’t it?” Her cheeks flushed faintly, but she refused to look away. “You’re lucky we’re in the middle of a war zone, or I’d kiss you just to shut you up.” Finnick’s eyes softened. “You can do that anyway.” Red huffed out a small laugh and leaned in, brushing her lips against his — quick, light, but grounding. The taste of dust and warmth and him filled her senses, and when she pulled away, he was smiling again, all tired edges and quiet joy.

They sat there for a long time, side by side, working in easy silence. The rhythmic scrape of whetstone on metal echoed faintly off the walls, blending with the murmurs of the rest of the squad. Every so often, Finnick reached out to correct her grip, and she’d roll her eyes and tell him she’d been doing this longer than he’d been alive. Every so often, she’d catch him staring and he’d pretend to be adjusting his Trident again.

Outside, the faintest echo of falling rubble reminded them time was moving. But under that broken roof, in the middle of a war, Red and Finnick carved out a small, perfect piece of peace. 

------

It wasn’t the distant rumble of bombs or the crack of rifles—Red knew those noises too well by now. This was different. Lower. Mechanical. Her head tilted just slightly. There it was again: a faint vibration through the cracked street, the soft hum of an engine struggling against broken asphalt. Her body reacted before her mind did. One heartbeat she was walking, the next she was crouched low, daggers already in her hands, the edges catching the dim light.

“Got something?” Finnick whispered, instantly alert beside her.

Red’s eyes narrowed. “Vehicle,” she breathed, voice low enough that only he and Boggs could hear. Her pupils darted toward the east, where the gutted avenue opened into the ruins of a once-grand boulevard. “Coming fast.”

Boggs raised his head, scanning the hazy distance. Nothing yet. No sound but the restless wind. “Are you sure?” Jackson asked quietly, hand tightening on her rifle. “Positive.” Red’s voice was sharp, absolute. Her hearing had saved them more than once; no one doubted her now. The group fanned out automatically, taking cover behind whatever fragments of marble and concrete they could find. Katniss moved toward the front, already nocking an arrow, her expression hard.

Red stayed low, heartbeat steady, breath shallow. The sound was closer now—tires crunching over debris, the low whine of gears.

“Is it Peacekeepers?” she whispered, her voice a barely audible thread directed toward Boggs.

He shook his head slowly, eyes narrowing as he finally saw the glint of metal through the dust. “No,” he murmured. “That’s one of ours.” Red blinked, momentarily thrown. “One of—?” But then she saw it too: the faded emblem of the Mockingjay painted on the side panel, half-scratched away by shrapnel. The engine sputtered once, then steadied as it rolled closer. Katniss didn’t lower her bow. “Could be stolen.”

“Could be bait,” Jackson added grimly.

Boggs lifted the holo device in one hand, scanning. No signal. No pods. Still—his jaw tightened. “Stay ready.” The vehicle groaned to a halt a few yards ahead, the noise echoing off the empty buildings. The air smelled faintly of oil and smoke. No one moved. Cressida kept her camera low but on, her lens trembling slightly as she filmed through the shadows. Red shifted her grip on her daggers. Her breath was slow, controlled, though every muscle in her body screamed for movement. She could hear the soft hiss of the cooling engine, the faint scrape of metal as the door latch clicked.

Then it opened.

The first footstep hit the ground—heavy boots, familiar stride.

Red’s heart lurched.

A figure emerged from the dust, tall, thin, shoulders squared. The light caught a pale face, too pale, almost ghostly under the grime. His blond hair was tangled. His hands were bare, trembling slightly at his sides. For a second no one breathed. Finnick’s hand went to Red’s shoulder instinctively, his Trident raised just enough to catch the air. Katniss took a step forward, her bowstring tightening.

Her throat went dry.

It was Peeta.

The silence was crushing. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.

He looked thinner than she remembered. His uniform hung loose on his frame, as if he’d been carved down to bone. There was something wild behind his eyes—something that wasn’t quite gone but wasn’t whole either. Katniss’s arrow didn’t lower. “Don’t shoot,” Boggs warned under his breath, holding out one hand. The others stayed frozen, waiting for any sign of movement.

Peeta’s gaze flicked across them all before settling on Katniss. His lips parted, but no sound came. He just stared, chest heaving slightly, like he was seeing a ghost.

Red’s grip on her daggers loosened a fraction. She glanced at Finnick, confusion furrowing her brow. “How—” she started.

He shook his head. “No idea.”

Cressida stepped forward cautiously, her voice careful. “He’s with us. He came from Command.” Boggs’s jaw worked. “He wasn’t supposed to be anywhere near this unit.” Peeta took a tentative step closer, his boots crunching over glass. Katniss still hadn’t moved, though Red could see the tremor in her fingers on the bowstring. He looked wrecked—eyes bloodshot, expression dazed. But underneath it, there was still something familiar.

"Hi, Peeta."

The silence after Finnick spoke seemed to echo through the entire street.
Even the dust hanging in the air looked like it didn’t dare move. Peeta didn’t answer. He only stood there, blinking like the light hurt his eyes. The soft, unfocused muttering at the edge of his breath didn’t sound like words—more like the remnants of them, syllables half-lost to static. Boggs’s voice was the first to break through.
“Keep eyes on him,” he ordered sharply, stepping aside to speak into his comms. “I need confirmation from Command. Now.”

He turned away, his boots crunching over glass and gravel as he moved toward the edge of the ruined street. The rest of the squad remained still, caught between shock and suspicion.

Lieutenant Jackson was the one who finally exhaled. She had the look of someone who’d seen too many strange things in this war, but even this made her brow furrow. She opened one of the supply packs, rifled through it until she pulled out a small set of matte black restraints.

“Coin didn’t send a damn briefing about this,” she muttered. Then louder, toward Red: “Odair.”

Red looked up. Jackson held out the cuffs. “Put these on him. Just precaution.” Red froze for a moment, staring at the glint of metal in Jackson’s hand. She could feel the weight of them before she even touched them—cold, impersonal, a symbol of everything Peeta had already endured.

“He’s… Peeta,” she said quietly. “He’s not—”

“Until Command says otherwise, we’re treating him as unstable,” Jackson cut her off, voice flat, professional. “That’s an order.” Red swallowed, her throat suddenly dry. She wanted to argue, to say that this was wrong, that it felt cruel to restrain someone who already looked so broken. But the look on Boggs’s face as he spoke into his headset told her this wasn’t up for debate.

Finnick placed a hand lightly on her back. “Hey,” he said softly, voice pitched just for her. “You don’t have to like it. Just… make it quick.”

Red exhaled shakily. “I know.”

She took the cuffs. They were heavier than they looked. When she stepped forward, Peeta’s eyes flicked toward her for a brief, lucid second. Then his gaze went unfocused again. He mumbled something she couldn’t quite catch—a jumble of broken words, fragments of something familiar. Her heart twisted. Finnick followed beside her, his Trident lowered but still ready. Every step closer felt like walking through ghosts—through the memory of Peeta smiling in District 13, laughing quietly with Katniss in the mess hall before everything went wrong.

Now, he just looked hollow.

“Peeta,” she said softly, stopping a few feet away. Her voice trembled despite her best efforts to keep it steady. “It’s Red. You remember me?” His eyes snapped to hers for half a heartbeat. Confusion flickered there—recognition trying to surface through the fog. “Red?” he murmured, his voice rough, almost childlike. Then he blinked rapidly and looked away, jaw tightening as if the name hurt. “Red… Odair…” He stumbled over the last word, half-whispered like he didn’t understand it.

Red’s breath hitched. She hadn’t realized how strange her name sounded like that until he said it.

Behind her, Katniss shifted, still silent, still holding her bow low but ready. Red could feel the tension radiating from her like static.

Finnick leaned close to Red’s ear, whispering, “Easy. Keep your voice low.”

“I know,” she breathed. She stepped closer. Peeta didn’t move, but his lips kept moving, muttering in broken rhythms—words she couldn’t make out, words that made her chest ache just to hear.

“Hey,” she said softly, crouching a little so they were eye-level. “You’re alright. We’re not going to hurt you, Peeta. We just… need to be careful, okay?”

His breathing was uneven, like he was fighting against a panic only he could see. “They— they said—” he stammered, then stopped abruptly, pressing the heel of his hand to his temple as if trying to hold something in.

Red froze. She wanted so badly to reach out, to take his hand, to tell him that he was safe now—but she didn’t know if that was true. Finnick crouched beside her, his presence steady and grounding. “You’re doing fine,” he murmured. “Just keep talking to him.” She nodded, her eyes never leaving Peeta’s face. “Peeta,” she said gently, “I need to put these on you.” She lifted the cuffs just slightly so he could see them. “It’s just for precaution, hun. You understand?”

The old nickname slipped out without her meaning to. It had been something she said to everyone she cared about—something light, comforting—but now it sounded like a prayer.

Peeta’s gaze drifted down to the cuffs. His breathing hitched again. For a moment, she thought he might fight—might lash out like he had in the Capitol’s footage—but instead, he just went still. His shoulders dropped.

He looked exhausted. Red’s hand shook slightly as she reached for him. She hated this—hated the feel of the cold metal against her skin, hated the idea that she was about to lock her friend into something that symbolized control, fear, restraint. Peeta didn’t resist. He held out one hand, trembling, palm up. Something inside her cracked. “Thank you,” she whispered, voice breaking around the words.

She fastened the first cuff around his wrist, the click echoing far too loudly in the silent street.

Finnick stayed beside her, his free hand ghosting over her back in quiet reassurance, his eyes never leaving Peeta’s face.

When she reached for his other wrist, Peeta murmured something again—too quiet to understand—but it sounded almost like an apology.

Red’s throat tightened.

She closed the second cuff with another soft click. And that was it. Peeta Mellark—her friend, the boy who had once risked everything for Katniss, the baker with kind eyes and steady hands—was now sitting in the middle of a ruined street, wrists bound like a prisoner. Red’s heart hurt in a way she couldn’t quite name. “Peeta, this is for precaution, hun,” she said softly, her voice trembling, the same tone she used when trying to soothe a frightened child. The metal gleamed faintly under the fractured sunlight filtering through the ruins.

Her fingers lingered on the cuffs for a moment too long before she finally let go.

Red didn’t let go of Peeta’s arm even after the cuffs were locked. She couldn’t. Something in her wouldn’t let her. He looked so lost. Like the air itself felt foreign to him. Like every breath was a decision. So she slipped her arm gently around his, guiding him as if he were half asleep, murmuring under her breath — the soft, senseless things mothers used to whisper to calm frightened children.

“It’s alright, hun. Just one step at a time, yeah? There you go. You’re safe. You’re safe.”

Her voice was low, rhythmic, steady in a way she wasn’t sure she believed herself. Peeta’s movements were mechanical, jerky. Sometimes he stumbled, and she’d squeeze his arm lightly, grounding him back in the moment. His fingers twitched, once, as if wanting to grab hers, but he didn’t.

Katniss hadn’t said a word since he arrived. Her face was tight, pale. The kind of pale that came from panic disguised as composure. She kept her eyes forward, jaw clenched, the bow still slung over her shoulder like she didn’t trust herself to lower her guard.

Finnick walked slightly ahead of Red, his Trident in hand but lowered. Every few steps he’d glance back — not at Peeta, but at her — checking, measuring, silently asking if she was okay.

She’d always liked that about him. That even in the middle of chaos, he could find her.

“Doing alright, Wolfie?” he murmured quietly once, over his shoulder. Red exhaled a small breath of something like a laugh. “Yeah,” she whispered. “Just… feels wrong, that’s all.”

He gave her a small, sad smile, one that said he understood too well. Then he turned back toward the front, scanning the cracked buildings as they moved. The group moved slowly — careful, deliberate. Every step echoed softly against the concrete and the distant thunder of war that rolled above them. They passed shattered windows and graffiti scrawled by rebel hands: THE ODDS WERE NEVER IN OUR FAVOR.

Red kept whispering. “You’re okay, Peeta. We’re not in there anymore, remember? You’re free. You’re with us. Just breathe.”

He breathed — shallow, uneven, but he listened.

Cressida trailed a few feet back, her camera still rolling. Red could feel the faint hum of it, the soft mechanical click every time the lens refocused. The Capitol would see all of this eventually. See Peeta in cuffs, see Red’s arm around him, see Finnick watching her with that mixture of pride and sorrow. Coin would call it propaganda. Red just hoped someone watching would call it mercy.

The narrow corridor of the ruined street opened into a broader stretch — the same one they’d passed through before. The broken skyline of the Capitol loomed above, jagged and gray. Smoke drifted lazily across the air like fog.

Boggs held up a hand, signaling them to stop. The squad froze automatically.

He scanned the pod detector again. No beeps this time. “Clear,” he said, voice low. “Let’s get back under cover.”

The building they had used before — the half-collapsed shell with its roof still miraculously intact — stood just ahead. A few of the soldiers pushed aside the loose sheet of metal covering the entrance, and the group filed in one by one.

Inside, it was dim. The air smelled faintly of smoke and oil. Someone had managed to drag in a few old crates to sit on.

Red guided Peeta in slowly, her hand still light but firm on his arm. He kept muttering softly — names, maybe, or fragments of sentences that made no sense.

When one of the soldiers reached to help, Peeta flinched so violently that Red instinctively stepped between them. “Hey,” she said softly, holding his face between her hands for a second. “Look at me. You’re fine, Peeta. No one’s going to touch you unless I say so, alright?” He blinked, focusing on her for half a second before his gaze drifted again. But his shoulders loosened. Just a little.

Finnick crouched beside them, setting his Trident gently against the wall. “You’ve got him,” he said quietly.

Red nodded, brushing a strand of hair back from her face. “He’s just… gone somewhere else right now.”

Finnick’s expression softened. “Aren’t we all,” he murmured.

The others settled around the space, murmuring in low voices, checking their weapons, reloading, cleaning. The rhythm of preparation. The language of exhaustion. Katniss sat near the far wall, her eyes flicking toward Peeta but never holding. Her hand hovered over her bowstring even though her arrows were sheathed. She looked like she wanted to say something — a dozen somethings — but didn’t know which one could come out without breaking her.

Red kept her voice low and steady, a tether in the quiet. “It’s just us, Peeta. Me and Finn. Katniss is here too, but we’re all on your side, okay?”

He mumbled something again — real or not real, maybe, or snow’s watching — she couldn’t tell. But she nodded anyway, answering as if she’d understood.

“Not real,” she whispered back. “You’re with us. That’s what’s real.”

Finnick watched her with that same quiet ache, the kind that lived in the space between love and admiration. She was still in her black uniform, her daggers at her hips, hair pinned up in messy twists that caught the dim light — and somehow, even in this ruin, she looked like hope personified. He didn’t say anything, just brushed his thumb over his wedding ring absently, then looked away.

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The world had gone quiet in that strange way it did just before midnight. The air outside the crumbling roof was heavy with dust, the distant thunder of shelling a far-off heartbeat in the ruins of the Capitol. But here, in this narrow skeleton of a building, everything was still. The rest of Squad 451 slept in a loose circle on the dirt floor—Jackson slumped against a broken wall, Gale curled beside his rifle, Cressida and Pollux using their packs as pillows. Only three figures stayed awake: Red, Finnick, and Peeta. Red sat cross-legged on the ground, the hem of her black uniform jacket pushed up over her knees, her boots kicked off somewhere near the door. Her long red hair—usually braided back for fighting—spilled across her shoulders like a sheet of molten copper in the flickering lantern light.

Finnick knelt behind her, trident set aside within arm’s reach. His sleeves were rolled to his elbows, his expression soft in a way few people ever saw. Beside him, Peeta sat cross-legged too, watching his hands as Finnick slowly showed him what to do.

“Here,” Finnick murmured, lifting a small lock of Red’s hair between his fingers. “Split it into three sections. No—yeah, that’s it. Like that. Then cross the right one over the middle. Good. Now the left.” Peeta’s brow furrowed in concentration. “It’s like… weaving bread.”

Red laughed quietly from in front of them, voice husky from exhaustion. “Of course you’d say that.”

“Hey, I’m good at bread,” Peeta whispered, almost smiling.

Finnick chuckled under his breath. “And I’m good at knots. Between us, she’s in safe hands.”

“Mm, safe,” Red teased, leaning back slightly as if testing them. “You both better not tie me to the floor on accident.”

Finnick grinned. “No promises, Mrs. Odair.”

The title still made her chest flutter, even now. She reached over her shoulder to lightly smack his knee. “Don’t make me demote you to private, Odair.”

“Oh, she’s threatening rank now,” he said, feigning scandal. “This marriage is getting tyrannical.”

Peeta’s hands paused in Red’s hair. He was smiling faintly now—small, but real. The first one since he’d arrived.

Red caught it in her peripheral vision and softened. “See? That’s better. It looks good on you, Peeta.”

He blinked, looking down again. “I… haven’t smiled in a while.”

Finnick’s voice lowered, quieter, gentler. “It suits you.” They worked in silence for a few minutes, the sound of their breathing and the soft rustle of hair filling the space. Outside, a breeze moved through what was left of the building, carrying the smell of smoke and iron. But here, under the roof, it felt almost peaceful—almost like before. “Your hair’s really soft,” Peeta said suddenly, sounding almost embarrassed by the realization.

Red laughed softly. “Don’t tell anyone. I’ve got a reputation to keep.”

“Too late,” Finnick murmured, a grin tugging at his lips. “I’ve been married to the secret weapon of District Thirteen for a week. If I start talking about your conditioner, the mystique’s gone.”

She tilted her head back just enough to look up at him, eyes bright despite the fatigue. “You’d still do it, though.” He shrugged. “Depends how much Cressida would pay me for the story.” Peeta snorted a quiet laugh. The sound made both of them freeze for a heartbeat—then smile at the same time, relief flickering through the air like a match spark. Red reached back to squeeze his hand gently. “You’re doing great, Peeta.”

He looked at the braid he’d made so far—it was uneven, a little messy, but surprisingly neat for a first try. “It’s… kind of calming,” he admitted softly.

Finnick nodded. “That’s the point. You don’t have to think about anything else when you’re doing it.”

For a moment, there was peace—true peace. The kind that existed between breaths.

Outside, the wind carried faint echoes of bombs, but inside, Red’s hair gleamed warm in the lantern glow, and the two men beside her worked quietly, patient and careful. “Alright, baker boy,” Finnick said after a few minutes, leaning forward. “Now twist the end like this, then tie it off with—wait, I’ll show you.” Red felt his fingers graze her neck, light as a whisper, as he secured the braid. Goosebumps rose down her spine. “You two make a good team,” she murmured. Peeta smiled again, smaller this time but steadier. “We could start a salon in the Capitol when this is over.”

Finnick huffed a soft laugh. “Sure. ‘Odair & Mellark: Bread and Braids.’”

That made Red laugh quietly, the sound breaking into a soft snort she immediately covered with her hand. “That’s awful.”

“That’s branding,” Finnick said, smug. “You handle the marketing.”

She twisted around enough to look at both of them, the corners of her eyes crinkled in warmth. “You two are ridiculous.”

“Thank you,” Finnick said smoothly.

Peeta chuckled again, head shaking. “You guys are… good together.” The air stilled for a beat. Red smiled gently. “We try to be.” Finnick looked down at her, eyes soft but shadowed. “We have to be.” Peeta’s gaze flicked between them—between the way Finnick’s hand rested against her shoulder, and how her fingers brushed his wrist in return—and for the first time, he didn’t seem pained by the closeness. Just… comforted. “You really love each other,” he said quietly.

Red’s voice was soft, almost tender. “Yeah. We really do.”

They didn’t say anything else after that. They didn’t need to.

The world outside kept burning, but for this one quiet hour, it didn’t matter. Red’s hair was braided neatly down her back, Peeta’s hands were steady, and Finnick Odair—hero of the sea, soldier of the rebellion—was smiling again. When the watch ended and the lantern burned low, Peeta leaned against the wall, half-asleep but peaceful for the first time in days. Finnick wrapped an arm around Red’s shoulders, pulling her close, and murmured, “Not bad for a night on duty, huh?”

She smiled into his chest. “Best one we’ve had yet.”