Chapter Text
October, 75 ADD
FINNICK’S HANDS WERE ALREADY ON THE LADDER, his boots braced against the rungs, about to haul himself upward. He was seconds from scaling it. Seconds from getting out. From escaping the sewers and the mutts, from clawing his way back into open air. He could hear the others ahead of him, already ascending, their boots clanging against the metal rungs in a desperate scramble for survival. He could feel the urgency in his limbs, in his chest— that primal, feral drive to get out.
But then something strange happened. Something unfamiliar.
A prickling sensation washed over his body. Not fear. Not adrenaline. Something else.
It started at the nape of his neck, sharp and icy, before it rushed down his spine, flooding through his veins like ice water, chilling him bone-deep. It was the kind of visceral instinct that came without warning, the kind that bypassed logic and reason entirely. His fingers stiffened on the ladder’s cold metal rung. His breathing slowed. And his entire body stilled, his chest tightening with a sudden, inexplicable sense of wrongness.
He felt it before he knew why.
Before he even looked back. Before he even realized. And then he did. He glanced over his shoulder, and he saw her.
Ophelia flat on her back, pinned beneath the mutt. Its claws buried in her flesh, holding her down with a force so vicious he could see the blood blooming through her armor, darkening the fabric in thick, spreading patches.
Her eyes were closed. Her eyes were closed. Her eyes were closed.
The world narrowed. His heart stopped beating. The sewer faded. The ladder disappeared.
A sharp, blinding heat sliced through him— white-hot, all-consuming. He didn’t even register the motion of his own body— didn’t feel himself releasing the ladder, didn’t feel his feet hitting the ground— didn’t feel anything at all.
His vision tunneled. The world turned red. The edges blurred. All he could see was her.
His ears were ringing, violently loud and high-pitched, drowning out everything else. Katniss shouting his name, the metal clanging of Gale climbing up the ladder above him, the snarling mutts— it all faded into white noise.
The only thing he could hear was the sound of his own heartbeat. Furious. Thunderous. Roaring in his ears.
And suddenly, he was there, at her side— his fingers already latching onto the back of the mutt’s neck, his grip steel-hard, his knuckles bone-white. He let out a low, guttural snarl, one so feral and ragged he hardly recognized it as his own, and then he wrenched the creature off of her.
He didn’t ease it off. He didn’t pull it back. He ripped it away. With the full, violent force of his entire body, he tore the mutt from her, so fast and so hard that he felt its claws tear free from her flesh, the sound of ripping fabric and wet muscle slicing through the stillness. Her blood smeared his hands, hot and slick, but he barely noticed.
The mutt thrashed violently, but Finnick didn’t flinch. Didn’t hesitate. Didn’t think. Didn’t breathe. He just slammed it down. Hard. Its back hit the stone with a sickening crack, and before it could scramble back up, he was on top of it, his knees crushing its ribcage, his hands brutally unforgiving, fisting the creature’s thick, rubbery flesh. And then he started swinging. Furiously. Relentlessly.
His trident slashed through the air, the blade punching into its throat, again and again, with the ferocity of a man gone mad. It howled and snapped, but he was blind with rage, too far gone to care. His blood pounded violently in his ears, his vision hazed with red, and he just kept swinging.
Again. And again. And again.
By the time the mutt stopped moving, its neck split open, its body a mangled ruin, Finnick was already on his feet, his hands slick with blood, his breath coming in ragged, uneven pants. The others were coming. The mutts, their claws scraping against the stone, their fangs dripping, were charging toward them.
Finnick didn’t think twice. He launched himself at them, his trident flashing, his movements so brutal and efficient they hardly seemed human. He was a storm of violence, a feral, merciless blur, moving so fast and so recklessly he could barely feel the blood splattering his face, the sinew and bone splitting beneath his strikes. By the time he was done, the sewer was littered with bodies, the ground slick with blood, and he was already moving back to her.
He was panting hard, his breath ragged, but his hands were already reaching for her. His fingers, still shaking with fury, were suddenly tender again. Gentle. Desperate. His arms slid under her, lifting her off the ground, cradling her against his chest.
“Hey. Hey, hey, hey—” His voice was hoarse, trembling with frantic urgency, his lips brushing her temple as he clutched her closer. “Open your eyes, Ophelia. Come on. Stay with me.”
Her eyes fluttered weakly, her lashes sticky with blood and sweat. Her breath was thin, shallow, barely there, and he could feel the warmth of her blood seeping through her suit, soaking his hands, slick and hot and constant. Too much. Far too much.
“Shit—” His voice broke, raw and ragged, his throat tightening violently. “No, no, no, you’re fine. You’re fine. You’re gonna be fine.”
He didn’t waste another second.
He just started moving, stumbling toward the ladder with her limp in his arms, gripping the metal rung with one bloodied hand. And then he started climbing, one-handed, his muscles burning, her weight pressing into his chest, but he didn’t slow.
When he reached the top, Gale grabbed her from him just long enough to let him pull himself up before Finnick took her back, clutching her against his chest as they bolted down the Capitol Trade tunnel.
The world was slipping.
It was slow at first— like sand draining through an hourglass, soft and fine and barely noticeable. The pain was still there, a dull, distant throbbing, but it was hazy now, fading around the edges like ink bleeding into paper. She could still feel the warmth of Finnick’s arms around her, the faint rumble of his voice, the way his breath hitched and broke as he whispered to her, but it was distant. Like she was listening through a thick pane of glass, submerged just beneath the surface of the water.
The darkness swelled around her, pressing in at the corners of her vision, and for a moment, just a moment— she let it take her.
The sound of his boots pounding against the slick stone floor barely registered in his ears.
The rhythmic slap of his footsteps— the wet squelch of blood in his soles— the thunder of gunfire exploding behind him— it was all a distant hum, dull and muffled, like he was running underwater.
The only thing he could feel— the only thing he could hear— was the faint, ragged wheeze of Ophelia’s breath against his chest. Or at least, he thought he could still hear it. Could still feel it. He wasn’t sure anymore. Couldn’t be sure.
His arms were numb, so desensitized from the weight of her body that he could hardly feel her anymore. Her head lolled weakly against his shoulder, her cheek slack, streaked with blood and sewer water, but he could barely register the warmth of her skin. It didn’t even seem real.
His fingers were cramped, locked around her, but he didn’t notice the ache. Didn’t feel the burn in his muscles. Didn’t feel anything at all.
Because his mind— his frantic, unraveling mind— was no longer in his body.
She was already dead. He knew it. He knew it. She was dead in his arms. A corpse, nothing more. And he was still carrying her, like a goddamn fool, clutching her tighter and tighter, as if it would somehow undo it. As if he could pull her back by force.
He couldn’t hear her breathing anymore. But maybe he just couldn’t hear at all. His ears were ringing too loud— that was all. That was all it was. Or maybe he was just imagining the faint, rasping puffs of air against his collarbone. Maybe he was hallucinating the warmth of her body. Maybe the wetness seeping into his shirt wasn’t her blood anymore— maybe it was just sweat. Or maybe— maybe she was already cold. And he was too far gone to tell the difference.
The sharp crack of gunfire continued to tear through the tunnel. The sound sent shrapnel whistling past his head, close enough for him to feel the rush of air against his cheek, but he barely flinched.
The rest of the squad was scrambling ahead, sprinting toward the light at the end of the Transfer tunnel— but Finnick wasn’t thinking about the light. Wasn’t thinking about the exit. Wasn’t thinking about his legs burning or his lungs screaming or the blinding sting of sweat in his eyes. He wasn’t thinking about the Peacekeepers closing in behind them, the rapid-fire spray of bullets zipping past his head, the concrete dust stinging his throat.
He was only thinking of her. The dead weight in his arms and whether she was even still there at all.
She was already dead, wasn’t she?
She had to be.
Because he couldn’t feel her anymore. Couldn’t feel the rise of her chest against his. Couldn’t feel the flutter of her lashes against his throat. Couldn’t feel the tremble of her fingers clutching at his suit. Because she wasn’t clutching anymore. Her arms were limp, her fingers slack, and he wasn’t sure if she was even bleeding anymore. Because her blood was already out of her body. And now— now she was just a vessel of empty skin, spilling over with nothing but stillness.
And what if she was? What if she was dead? Would it matter? Would he let her go either way?
No. No, he wouldn’t. Not ever. Not even if she was cold and heavy and lifeless. He wouldn’t let her go. They would have to rip her from his arms. And even then, he would tear them apart before he let them take her.
“Finnick!”
The sharp snap of Gale’s voice behind him jolted him back into the moment.
“Keep going!” Gale’s boots were pounding close at his back, his voice low and urgent as he called out. “I’ve got you, just keep going!”
Finnick barely registered the words. But he felt the heat of Gale’s body, close behind his own. He could hear the blasts from Gale’s gun, covering his flank, the bullets cutting through the narrow tunnel, the shells clattering against the concrete. And still— Finnick didn’t look back. He just kept running.
By the time they burst through the tunnel, Finnick was panting hard, his legs trembling from the exertion. But he didn’t slow down. Didn’t look at the streetlights spilling over him. Didn’t look at the Capitol streets, stretching out wide and empty.
He only looked at her. Her ashen face, slack against his chest. Her blood-streaked hair, heavy with sewage. Her lips, parted faintly, the color draining from them. And the faint, faintest flutter of her pulse, trembling against his throat.
She was still there. Barely. But she was still there.
“Over there!” Cressida’s voice was sharper than he’d ever heard it. Her arm shot out, pointing toward an old storefront, its windows boarded up, its once-polished door streaked with grime.
Finnick barely registered her voice. He just stumbled forward, still carrying Ophelia, his arms locked, his chest tight, his breath choked and shallow.
Cressida was already banging on the window. What felt like hours was merely seconds before the door flew open, and Squad 451 poured inside, but Finnick didn’t see any of them.
“Shut the door!” Cressida prattled to Katniss. “Shut the door!”
Finnick’s legs shook with the effort of carrying her. Every step down the narrow staircase made his calves scream, made his arms tremble, made his shoulders seize under the weight of her— but he didn’t ease his hold. Didn’t adjust his grip. Didn’t loosen his clenched fingers, even though they were white with strain.
He could feel Gale’s eyes on him. Could feel the heat of his stare from where he walked just behind him. Finnick knew what was coming before he even heard Gale’s voice.
“Hey,” Gale’s voice was low, steady, pitched with careful calmness, but Finnick heard the edge beneath it. The one that was wary of setting him off. “Let me take her.”
Finnick’s jaw locked instantly, his arms stiffening around her.
Gale’s voice was careful, but not cautious enough. “Your arms need a break,” Gale added, tone still even, but firmer. “Just for the stairs.”
For a brief second, Finnick didn’t say anything. Didn’t even turn around. Just kept moving, his boots slamming hard against the steps as he descended— his grip tightened.
“No,” he bit out sharply, his voice cutting through the dark basement stairwell with such immediacy that Gale stiffened behind him. The word came out hard— like a slap— flat and cold and final. The kind of tone that ended a conversation before it started.
Gale didn’t argue. Didn’t push him. Didn’t say a damn word.
Finnick could feel his eyes on his back, could feel Gale’s gritted silence, but he didn’t care. Didn’t give a damn how heavy she was. Didn’t care that his arms were burning or that his knees were buckling. Didn’t care that he was practically shaking from exertion, from the adrenaline crash.
He would carry her. He would carry her every step. Until his arms fell off, he would carry her.
The basement to the shop was dimly lit, cold and stale with dust. The ceiling was low, the walls damp from years of Capitol neglect, the entire space suffocatingly close. It smelled of mildewed fabric and stale perfume, relics of Tigris’s old trade.
Finnick didn’t see any of it. Didn’t register the shelving racks, stuffed with forgotten garments. Didn’t notice the faint light flickering in the corner. Didn’t even hear Cressida and Pollux breathing hard from where they stood nearby, both of them watching him.
He only saw her. Her limp body, still bleeding in his arms.
Tigris silently pulled a pallet of fabric from a corner of the basement. She didn’t speak— she didn’t need to. Just spread the fabric out over the cold stone floor, her clawed fingers trembling slightly as she laid out the makeshift bedding.
When Finnick reached the bottom of the stairs, he knelt down slowly, his legs shaking violently from the effort. He felt them buckle beneath him, his knees hitting the ground hard, but he barely registered the pain.
He only felt the weight of her body slipping from his arms. Too heavy. Too still.
He laid her down gently, as though she were made of glass, careful not to jostle her shoulders. Her head lolled limply to the side, her hair damp and heavy, tangled with blood and grime. The caramel-blonde strands, once so vibrant, were now darkened and matted, streaked with scarlet and soot.
With shaking hands, Finnick pushed the hair from her face, wiping it back with his bloodied fingers. His hands trembled violently, his breath coming in shuddering pulls.
“Stay with me,” he whispered hoarsely, his voice cracking against the words, barely more than a desperate rasp. His thumb traced the curve of her temple, his fingers smoothing through her hair. “Please, Ophelia.” His voice was fractured, slipping into a broken, pleading murmur. “Please—please, just stay with me.”
His throat was tight, his voice raw and strained, trembling on the edge of hysteria. “You’re still here,” he whispered into her hair, voice barely above a breath, like he was trying to convince himself. “You’re still here.”
But she just lay there, pale and still.
“Let me work,” Cressida’s voice cut through the moment, low and steady, but urgent. She was already kneeling beside them, her fingers moving swiftly as she pulled a small first aid kit from the pack slung over her shoulder. Her hands were shaking, blood streaked beneath her fingernails.
“Finnick,” she said, her voice firm. “Let me help her.”
Finnick didn’t move. His hands just kept moving through Ophelia’s hair, trembling and bloodied, pushing it back, again and again, as though doing so would wake her.
“Finnick,” Cressida said again, more insistent this time. “Please.”
But he was frozen, numb, unable to unclench his fingers from her hair, unable to stop murmuring into her temple.
It wasn’t until Gale’s hand landed heavily on his shoulder that Finnick’s body jerked slightly. The hard pressure of Gale’s palm yanked him out of his stupor.
“Come on,” Gale said, his voice low and firm. “Let her work.”
Finnick’s head snapped toward him, his eyes wild, unfocused, his chest heaving violently with each uneven breath. For a split second, he looked like he was about to fight him, his fingers tightening reflexively in Ophelia’s hair. But Gale’s hand gripped his shoulder tighter, steady and unwavering.
“Come on, man,” Gale murmured, his voice lower, softer now, but no less insistent.
Finnick’s fingers trembled, still curled in Ophelia’s hair. He didn’t look away from her, didn’t take his eyes off her face. Not even as Gale pulled him back, not even as he was hauled away from her.
He stood there, watching, barely breathing, watching Cressida’s hands work quickly. The flash of gauze, the sting of antiseptic, the red bloom of blood against the clean cloth.
Finnick’s breath caught when Ophelia’s body jerked slightly with a soft, startled whimper— a faint, trembling yelp of pain as Cressida pressed into one of the deeper wounds. And just like that, his control snapped.
“Ophelia!” Finnick lunged forward, his voice raw and hoarse, borderline frantic. But Gale’s arms were already around him, holding him back, gripping him tight, preventing him from rushing forward. “Stop!”
“You’re not helping her!” Gale’s voice was hard now, sharp with command, his grip like iron.
But Finnick was barely hearing him, his eyes fixed on her, wide and wild, watching the agony on her face. Watching the way she winced, the way she cried out softly, her features twisted in pain.
“Please,” he choked, still struggling weakly in Gale’s grip. “Just—just stop hurting her.”
Gale’s jaw clenched, but he didn’t let go. Instead, he shoved a damp cloth into Finnick’s hand. “Clean yourself up.”
April, 64 ADD
Ophelia shifted her stance, her sparring sword gripped tight in both hands. The wooden blade was lighter than a real one, but she could still feel the weight of it, the familiar strain in her wrists as she prepared for Cato’s next move. His blonde hair was damp with sweat, strands plastered to his forehead, and his grip on his own sword was unsteady, too loose. He wasn’t fast enough to keep up with her, not yet.
He lunged.
Ophelia sidestepped easily, bringing the flat of her sword down against his with a sharp crack. The force knocked his weapon from his hands, sent it clattering to the floor of the training hall. For a split second, he just stared at it, his breath coming hard, his small chest rising and falling. Then, the realization hit. His face twisted with an almost comical frustration.
“I wasn’t ready!” Cato whined, his voice sharp with indignation. “You cheated!”
Ophelia laughed, twirling her sword between her fingers before tucking it under her arm. “I didn’t cheat, you just suck.”
“I do not!”
“Do too.” She smirked at him, enjoying the way his face turned red. He let out a loud, irritated groan before marching up to her and smacking her arm— not hard, but enough to make a point. She barely flinched, still grinning.
“Stop laughing! You’re being annoying,” he huffed.
“Oh, come on, bubba,” she teased, nudging him with her shoulder. “You’ll get me next time.”
Cato glared up at her. “You’re only saying that because you know I won’t.”
“Exactly.”
Cato let out another dramatic groan and opened his mouth— probably to argue more— but before he could, one of the trainers, a broad-shouldered man with an ever-present scowl, barked across the room. “Hey! You two, back to your age groups. You know the rules.”
Ophelia sighed and turned to Cato, ruffling his hair as she passed. He batted her hand away, still sulking. “Try to keep up with the other tiny tots, okay?” she called over her shoulder.
“Try not to be so full of yourself!” Cato shot back, his voice petulant.
Ophelia just stuck her tongue out at him before jogging away toward the older trainees. The movement felt effortless, like her body was built for this, for the rush of adrenaline, for the feeling of victory humming beneath her skin.
Then the lights went out.
Her feet stopped moving. The world shifted, tilted beneath her. One moment, she was in the training hall, the air thick with the scent of sweat and sawdust. The next, everything was black.
The ground was damp beneath her boots.
The air was thick, wet, suffocating.
The smell hit her first— rot, decay, something far too pungent to be normal. It seeped into her lungs, made her stomach lurch. The familiar scent of the training hall was gone, replaced by something twisted, something vile.
Slowly, she turned.
The sewers stretched before her, endless and dark. Shadows twisted in the corners, the water glistening with a sickly sheen beneath the dim, flickering light of a broken fixture. She could hear it— the wet shuffle of something moving. Claws scraping against concrete. The faint echo of breath, raspy and wrong.
Not again.
She swallowed hard, forcing her body to stay still, to stay calm, but her hands trembled at her sides.
Was she dying?
The thought came unbidden, but it lodged itself deep, sinking into her bones. Was this it? Was this the last fight she would ever have? Was this her final Games? Not with a sword, not with her fists, but in her own mind.
Her own body betraying her. Her own mind dragging her back to the place she swore she would never return to.
Could she stop it? Could she fight it? Was there anything left to fight at all?
She felt the pressure in her chest build, felt her breath grow shallower, felt her knees weaken as the weight of it pressed down—
Then, a voice. Distant. Distant, but sharp, cutting through the thick, drowning haze in her mind.
“Ophelia!”
Her name. Spoken with urgency, with something raw. She knew that voice. She knew it like she knew how to breathe, like she knew the feeling of a blade in her hand.
But she couldn’t remember who it belonged to. She tried. Tried to grasp at it, to pull it forward from the fog, to piece it together—
But everything was slipping.
October, 75 ADD
His hands burned from the scrubbing.
The coarse fabric of the damp cloth felt abrasive against his skin, rougher than it should have, but Finnick kept scrubbing, kept wiping, kept rubbing at his hands with frantic insistence. The blood had long since begun to fade, the crimson smears giving way to faint rust-colored stains, and still, he scrubbed. Harder. Faster. Desperate, like he could erase the entire night if he just kept wiping hard enough.
The cloth was already soaked through, the fabric stiff with blood. Her blood. Her blood, sticky and tacky in the fibers, thick beneath his fingernails, caught in the creases of his knuckles.
He wiped again, harder this time, feeling the sting as he rubbed raw skin over raw skin. The ache was distant, secondary. Unimportant.
But the blood wouldn’t fully come off. No matter how fiercely he rubbed. No matter how hard he pressed the cloth into his palms. It remained, faint and stubborn, clinging to the creases of his skin.
He stared down at his hands. Still stained. Marked.
And his breath hitched.
It was still hers. Her blood, still on him. Still in the cracks of his skin. Still on his nails, his knuckles, the creases of his fingers.
And the thought came so swiftly, so suddenly, that it felt like being gutted from the inside out.
What if this was all he had left of her?
The thought was so sharp, so cutting, that it made his knees lock, his breath stick in his throat, his chest pull tight. He stared down at his hands, at the traces of her, and suddenly he didn’t know what he was trying to do anymore. Didn’t know if he was scrubbing her away or desperately clinging to the last piece of her.
Because what would be worse?
Would it be worse to keep her remains on him? To let the stains settle into his skin, to carry her blood on his hands until the day he died, just to have some piece of her left? To preserve it, like some grotesque, fleeting remnant of her?
Or would it be worse to wash it all away? To wipe her from his skin. To erase every last trace of her. To let her slip away completely— because he had been too slow. Because he hadn’t saved her in time.
His hands stilled. His grip on the cloth slackened.
And he just stared. Stared at the blood clinging to his cuticles, at the smudges darkening the creases of his palms, at the flecks beneath his nails. And he couldn’t breathe.
“I made it up,” Katniss said suddenly from where she sat near the foot of the stairs. Her voice was flat, hollow, but clear, cutting through the heavy stillness. “All of it.”
Finnick’s hands stilled completely. He didn’t turn around, didn’t look at her. Just stood there, his back to her, frozen in place, his chest heaving unevenly as she kept speaking.
“There is no special mission from Coin,” she went on, her voice breaking slightly. “There’s only my plan.”
Finnick’s fingers twitched, his hands clenching into fists around the blood-soaked cloth. His knuckles burned from the friction, but he barely felt it.
“Everyone that’s dead is dead because of me.”
The words hit him like a blow. Hard and blunt, cold and merciless, each one dropped into the air like a stone. His fingers tightened around the rag, wringing the fabric, twisting it violently between his fists, his jaw locking until his teeth ground together.
“I lied.”
Her voice was barely more than a rasp, but the confession sliced through him like a blade. He didn’t turn to look at her. Couldn’t. Didn’t know if he would break down or tear the place apart if he did.
For a brief moment, everything blurred.
Her voice faded into nothing but a distant hum, the sounds around him muffling to a low, droning buzz. His chest tightened, his vision dimmed, and suddenly, all he could see— all he could focus on— was the blood on his hands.
His breathing slowed, but it wasn’t calm. It was heavy. Hitching. Stuttering shallowly in his chest.
He stared at his fingers, at the smudges of her blood, and the room felt smaller. Closer. His ears rang faintly, his pulse pounding hard in his throat.
Her voice was still going, still admitting the truth, but he couldn’t register the words anymore. Couldn’t absorb them. Could only stare at the bloodied fabric in his hands. The stains on his skin.
Slowly, his body sank to the floor, his knees hitting the cold stone, but he barely felt it. He just sat there, folded over, hunched forward, his elbows braced on his thighs, still staring at his hands.
The blood was still there, faint and smudged, clinging to the skin beneath his nails, darkening the creases of his fingers. He couldn’t look away. Couldn’t stop staring. Couldn’t stop seeing her face, pale and unmoving.
His chest seized painfully. A slow, stilted, uneven breath stuttered out of him, shaking harder than it should have.
And for one, horrible second, he wondered— if she died… would he ever be able to wash her away? Or would he be doomed to carry her with him, always? Would he be stained with her forever?
His hands were still covered in her, and for the first time in his life, he didn’t know if he should wash her off or press his hands to his chest and hold on for dear life.
Because he didn’t know which would be worse. He didn’t know if he would survive either one.
Ophelia stared down the dark tunnel, her vision blurring at the edges, her limbs feeling weightless and detached. She tried to make sense of it— how she was supposed to get out, how she had even ended up here. But this wasn’t a sewer. It wasn’t the arena. It was something else entirely, something more treacherous. This was her mind fighting against her, dragging her deeper into a place even the Gamemakers could never create. And somehow, it was harder than any arena they had ever curated.
Then, a voice echoed from behind her. Teasing. Familiar.
"You look like hell."
Ophelia turned sharply, her breath catching in her throat. Cato stood there, exactly as she remembered him— not mutilated, not torn apart by mutts, not gasping out his last breaths in agony. He looked whole, strong, like he had before he left for the arena. His usual smirk tugged at the corner of his lips, but his eyes were unreadable.
She choked back a sob and clamped a hand over her mouth. "Oh, shit. I really am dead."
Cato snorted. "Not yet."
She stared at him, unable to speak. He tilted his head, studying her, then his expression shifted—more serious now, something almost accusing in the way he looked at her.
"Was that the plan all along?" he asked.
Her throat tightened. She still couldn’t find her voice. But Cato wasn’t finished.
"Why’d you volunteer for the Quarter Quell if you didn’t have a death wish?" His voice wasn’t harsh, but there was something sharp underneath it, something cutting. "I know you didn’t go in for fun. You think I don’t know you?"
Ophelia flinched. He was right. Maybe she had wanted to die— maybe, at some point, she had been waiting for something, someone, to finally finish the job.
Cato stepped forward, closing the distance between them, and for the first time, she noticed the bite marks, the missing chunks of flesh. Her stomach twisted. He was still whole, still himself, but the evidence of his death clung to him, seeping through the cracks like blood through gauze.
"I thought you were stronger than that," he said, shaking his head. "Guess I was wrong."
Ophelia swallowed hard, her hands curling into fists.
"You’re a coward," Cato continued. "Not even fighting. Just letting it happen." His blue eyes narrowed, his voice a low rasp. "What made you so weak?"
Her breath hitched. "I am not weak."
Cato just stared at her. His eyes darkened, and then, without warning, they burst—black blood spilling down his face like ink. His mouth moved again, but the words came out distorted, gurgled, as if he were drowning in his own blood.
"Then why are you still lying to yourself?"
Something inside Ophelia shattered.
She turned and ran. Ran from Cato, from his words, from the truth clawing its way out of her chest. But no matter how fast she ran, she couldn’t outrun the feeling creeping over her, curling around her like cold fingers, dragging her back toward the darkness.
Was this what death was? A reckoning? A mirror forcing her to face every ghost she had buried, every truth she had ignored? She didn’t know. She didn't want to know. She wasn’t ready to find out.
Finnick was still sitting on the floor, his back hunched against the wall, his elbows braced on his bent knees, and his hands— his bloodstained hands— resting limply between them.
He hadn’t moved in what felt like hours, though he knew it had only been minutes. His fingers were still stained faintly red, the creases of his knuckles still dark with blood, despite the repeated scrubbing. It clung to him. Like it belonged there. Like it had seeped into his skin.
His eyes remained fixed on his hands, unfocused, his vision dimmed at the edges. The sound of Katniss’s confession was still a dull echo in his ears, her words having settled into the frayed edges of his mind. He felt strangely distant, almost untethered, as though his body were in the room, but his mind was somewhere else. Somewhere farther away. Somewhere he could breathe. Somewhere she was safe.
But he wasn’t there. He was here, and he was staring at his hands, at her blood still clinging to him. He didn’t even realize Cressida had crossed the room until she knelt in front of him. Her voice was low, a touch hoarse from exertion, but gentle when she spoke.
“Finnick.”
He didn’t look up. Didn’t move. Just kept staring at his hands, his pulse thudding hollowly in his ears.
Cressida reached out, her fingers light on his wrist, urging him to lift his head. “Hey,” she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper. “She’s okay.”
That made him blink. Slowly, dazedly, he lifted his head and stared at her, unsure if he had even heard her right.
Cressida’s eyes softened, understanding the fractured confusion in his expression, and she gave a small nod. “She’s okay,” she repeated firmly, as though it would ground him, force him to believe it. “Her wounds are stitched up. She’s not…” She paused. “She’s alive.”
Finnick didn’t speak. Couldn’t. For a long moment, he just stared at her, still trying to process the words, trying to convince himself they were real. That he hadn’t imagined them. That she was really, truly alive.
His legs felt stiff and wooden as he slowly pushed himself off the floor, his movements jerky, almost sluggish. He didn’t even register Cressida moving aside to give him space. His eyes were already locked on the far side of the room.
On her.
Ophelia lay on her side on the makeshift pallet, pale fabric bunched beneath her, her face turned away from the room.
Her skin was paler than it had already been, as though the blood had been drained from her completely. The caramel-blonde hair he knew so well, usually soft and gleaming in the light, was now matted and darkened with sweat and blood, plastered to her temples and neck. The bandage covering her shoulders were already seeping through, the white fabric stained with splotches of red, and her breathing was faint— shallow and uneven. But she was breathing.
Finnick dropped down beside her without thinking, his knees hitting the stone floor hard enough to bruise, but he didn’t feel it. Didn’t care. He barely even realized he was moving until he was already leaning over her, one hand bracing the side of her face, the other brushing back the damp strands of hair clinging to her cheek.
His fingers shook as he stroked her face, slowly and tremulously, as though she might slip away again if he wasn’t careful.
“You’re okay,” he whispered shakily, his voice fractured, barely coherent. “You’re okay. You’re okay. You’re okay.”
His fingers traced over her hairline, featherlight, before slowly trailing down, brushing over her temple, her cheekbone, her jaw— just memorizing her. Committing her face to memory, like he was terrified it might be the last time, like he might forget how she felt if he didn’t keep touching her.
And when he reached for her hand, he didn’t clasp it. He pressed his fingers lightly against her wrist, seeking out the faint, fluttering pulse beneath her skin. The reassurance that she was still here. Still alive.
For the next hour, he didn’t move. He just sat there, barely breathing, his fingers pressed to her wrist, his thumb lightly stroking over her skin, counting every faint, fragile beat of her pulse. Over and over. As though tracking it could keep her from slipping away.
And as he sat there, watching her sleep unevenly, his mind turned inward. And he thought.
Why? Why had he fought it for so long?
The thought came with a violent, self-loathing clarity, sharp and cutting, and he hated himself for it. Hated himself for being so afraid, for being so compliant, for being so willing to sacrifice what he wanted for the sake of keeping the peace.
He should have fought it. Should have fought the propo. Should have refused it. Should have screamed and raged and bled before he let them shackle him to Annie Cresta for a propaganda stunt. Because it had been fake. Every second of it. A fabricated marriage for an audience, and he had let it ruin everything. And now it was too late. So late that it might not even matter anymore. She was so close to dying tonight— so close— and it shouldn’t have taken that for him to wake the hell up.
And he knew, God, he knew, that he would never forgive himself if he had lost her. If he had let her die never knowing, never knowing that she had never been second. That she had never been anything less.
He was still sitting there, staring at her, so lost in it all, that he didn’t notice Katniss until she was standing beside him.
She was silent, lingering just at his side, unspeaking. But he could feel her there. “I’m sorry,” she said softly. Her voice was barely above a whisper, hoarse and strained, and aching with remorse.
Finnick didn’t look at her. He just stared at Ophelia’s face, at the slow, weak rise and fall of her chest.
Katniss was silent for a moment, then spoke again. “Get some rest.”
Ophelia ran, her breath ragged, her vision swimming as she forced herself forward through the darkness of the sewer. Her boots splashed through shallow pools of stagnant water, the sound bouncing off the tunnel walls in erratic echoes. Her lungs burned, but she kept running, kept pushing forward because to stop— to slow down— meant surrendering to whatever force had dragged her here.
Her foot caught on something unseen in the gloom, and suddenly she was weightless, tumbling forward. She crashed onto the wet ground, her knees striking hard against the cold stone. The impact sent a brutal shockwave of pain through her, radiating from the deep punctures in her shoulders where the mutt had torn into her.
The pain was unbearable. Ophelia sucked in a breath, but it came out as a strangled sob, her fingers clawing into the damp filth beneath her as she hunched forward. She wasn’t sure if she was gasping for air or simply trying to hold herself together.
Was this what it meant to fight for her life? Or was she already gone, simply thrashing against the inevitable?
Footsteps echoed behind her. Slow. Measured. The sound of someone who knew they didn’t need to rush.
Her heart stuttered.
Cato.
No. That wasn’t right. Cato was dead. She had mourned him, had buried him in her mind a thousand times over. There hadn’t been a body that was left to bury after the mutts had finished with him. But still— his footsteps, his presence, they pressed against her, growing closer.
A sharp, searing pain bloomed at the base of her neck, as if cold fingers had wrapped around her spine and squeezed. She flinched violently, her entire body locking up.
Cato was death.
He had come for her at last.
Ophelia squeezed her eyes shut, her body trembling as she hunched lower. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. Maybe she could stop fighting. Maybe she could let go and this nightmare would end. She was so tired. The weight of her pain, the exhaustion in her bones, the endless fight— it was all too much.
Then she heard it.
"You're okay. You're okay. You’re okay. You're okay."
The voice wasn’t Cato’s. It wasn’t cruel or teasing. It wasn’t twisted with mockery or the bitter sting of old memories.
It was Finnick.
The warmth of his voice curled around her, something solid and real amidst the spiraling abyss of her mind. It reached her even here, in this place between the living and the dead, and for a brief moment, she thought—maybe this was death trying to be kind. Maybe it was letting her go gently, whispering comfort as it pulled her under.
Then she felt it. A touch, warm and grounding, pressing against her cheek. Not cold like Cato’s presence. Not suffocating like death’s grasp.
Real. Alive.
Finnick was here. And Finnick wasn’t letting go.
Her breath hitched. Her fingers twitched. The numbness in her limbs flickered and cracked, and she clung to that single thread of warmth like a lifeline. He wanted her alive. He wasn’t giving up on her. She couldn’t give up either.
A deep, gasping breath tore from her throat, and she surged forward, scrambling up from the sewer floor. Her legs threatened to buckle beneath her, but she forced them to move, to propel her forward, away from the phantom footsteps trailing her.
“You're okay,” she whispered to herself, her voice hoarse and desperate. "You're okay."
He hadn’t moved in nearly an hour. Hadn’t even blinked properly. Just sat there, unmoving, watching the faint, fragile rise and fall of her chest as she slept.
Her breathing was slow, still uneven, her lips parted faintly, slightly pale, but she was breathing. And that was the only thing keeping him anchored to the ground, keeping him from slipping away entirely.
Because even though she was still, even though her skin was ashen, and her face was still pale and clammy, she was here. She was alive. And he knew he should have been relieved. He knew he should have felt comforted by the simple, steady rhythm of her breaths, by the faint flutter of her lashes every now and then, or by the small shifts of her fingers whenever her body stirred faintly in her sleep.
But instead, he just sat there, feeling raw and frayed, like his body hadn’t quite registered that it was over. His nerves were still humming, still coiled tight, his legs twitching faintly with restless energy. His chest was still tight, his breath still short, every exhale shaking slightly when it left him.
And he knew why. Because he was still afraid. Because he still hadn’t let himself believe it. Because the image of her on the ground, pinned beneath the mutt, its claws ripping into her, was still seared into the backs of his eyes.
And every time he blinked, he saw her there again. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw her staring blankly up at him, saw the unfocused, glassy haze in her eyes, and had to swallow against the taste of bile in the back of his throat just to keep breathing.
So he just sat there, his eyes locked on her face, unmoving, unable to look away, terrified that if he did, he might turn back and find her cold. Still. Gone.
His throat ached from holding back tears.
He hadn’t even realized he was clenching his jaw, his teeth gritted so hard that the muscles in his temples throbbed faintly from the tension.
The knuckles of his hands were bloodless, his fingers dug so tightly into his knees that they ached. But he didn’t loosen his grip. Didn’t breathe any deeper.
Just kept staring at her.
Waiting.
Her eyes fluttered.
Finnick’s whole body snapped to attention, his back stiffening sharply, his arms tensing faintly as he leaned forward slightly. His breath caught in his throat, his chest tightening sharply, and for half a second, he thought he had imagined it.
She stirred slightly, her brow faintly knitting, her breath catching faintly in her throat. And then her eyes slowly blinked open.
Everything collapsed. Every inch of fear, every second of horror, every moment of soul-wrenching anguish that had been caged so tightly inside of him— it all came slamming to the surface at once.
His chest caved inward sharply, his throat tightened, and a ragged breath stuttered from his lungs before he even realized he had exhaled at all. His arms went limp, his hands trembling slightly, and his whole body just sagged faintly forward, like his limbs had suddenly given out, like his bones had lost their strength.
She was awake. She was here. And he was falling apart.
Her eyes were still bleary, faintly unfocused, and hazy with drowsy confusion as she stared groggily up at him, her brow furrowed slightly, blinking slowly as though still disoriented. Her lips parted slightly, and she made a faint sound, hoarse and dry, but before she could speak, Finnick did.
The words ripped from him before he could stop them. Raw and shaking. Blurting out without any thought, as though they had been bursting at the seams, as though his throat could no longer hold them back.
“I love you.”
His voice cracked faintly over the words, thick and raw with emotion, his chest tightening sharply around them. His eyes stung and blurred slightly with moisture. But he didn’t care. Didn’t try to stop it.
Her eyes widened slightly, the faintest hint of shock flashing in her tired expression, but before she could respond, Finnick spoke again.
“I love you.” The words came out barely louder than a whisper this time, his voice ragged and trembling, and his fingers shook slightly as he pushed her hair back from her face. His hands were still trembling, still soaked with the rawness of everything, but he kept brushing it back, his hands smoothing down her hair, over and over.
“I love you,” he repeated again, his voice faltering slightly, barely more than a breath, his fingers trembling faintly as he caressed her face, tucking a damp strand of hair behind her ear. “I love you, I love you—” His voice was breaking now, cracking on every breath, and his eyes stung hotly.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered hoarsely, his voice shaking and uneven, barely more than a rasp, his breath hitching faintly. His fingers trembled slightly as he brushed her hair back again, cradling her face in his palm. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, again and again, his breath shaking, voice barely above a whisper.
“I’m sorry I didn’t say it sooner,” he choked out, his voice faintly breaking. “I’m sorry I—” His voice caught, his throat clenching, his breath stuttering faintly against her temple. “I’m sorry I— pretended I didn’t. I’m sorry I let you think—”
His breath hitched sharply, his chest tightening, and he pressed his lips to her forehead, his voice shaking against her skin. “I should’ve fought for you,” he whispered hoarsely. “I should’ve fought for us.”
He exhaled raggedly, his voice trembling, his lips still pressed to her temple, and he slowly inhaled through his nose, his breath shaking faintly.
And then he whispered softly, hoarsely, voice barely a breath. “When this is over, I’ll follow you. To District 2. Or wherever you want. Or— I’ll bring you home to 4.” His voice cracked slightly over the last word, his chest tightening sharply. “We can—” His voice caught again, his throat tightening sharply. “We can start over,” he whispered, softly, pleadingly. “We can— get married. Really married.” His eyes stung as he breathed the words against her skin. “We can have a family. Or we can just— run away. Live by the sea. Just us. Whatever you want. I’ll do whatever you want. I swear. Just—just let me have you. Please.”
Ophelia’s eyes slowly blinked, still half-lidded with sleep, her lashes faintly fluttering. And then, softly, barely more than a breath, she whispered groggily, her voice slurred faintly with exhaustion.
“I wanna go with you.”
Finnick’s chest caved. His eyes squeezed shut, and his breath broke.
And then she blinked slowly again, her eyes barely open, and softly added, “You made it sound really nice. Better than the mountains.” Her voice was faint, barely more than a breath, but it shattered him.
Finnick didn’t realize he was crying until he felt it. Until he felt the warm, unsteady tremble of a tear spill from the corner of his eye, slipping down his cheek in a slow, silent trail, catching on the curve of his jaw before sinking into Ophelia’s tangled hair beneath him.
It happened without warning— no shudder, no sharp inhale, just a sudden, overwhelming weight in his chest that made his throat clench tight, made his ribs press inward, made the air in his lungs feel thin and strangled.
And then the next tear fell. And the next. And then Finnick was breaking apart.
His shoulders tensed and curled inward, his entire body folding over her as the first silent sob shuddered through his chest, pressed so tightly against her that he could feel the way his own body shook with the force of it.
He pressed his lips to her forehead, as if the sheer force of it could anchor him, could keep him from completely falling apart, but it did nothing. Because it was too much. Because it had all been too much.
His fingers curled tighter around her limp hand, squeezing it against his own as he exhaled shakily, the sound barely more than a fractured breath, more tear than air.
“No, don’t cry.” Her voice was barely there, so soft and hoarse, more air than sound, but it reached him.
Finnick inhaled sharply, another tremor running through him as he pressed his lips even harder to her forehead, like he could hide the way his face crumpled, like he could keep her from feeling the way he shook.
Her hand, still weak in his, tightened just slightly, the effort so faint, so fragile, but he felt it. And then, another whisper, “Why are you crying?”
Finnick exhaled, and the sound that left him was almost a whimper, a sharp, shattered thing that cracked open something deep and raw inside him. He shook his head against her, barely pulling back, his lips brushing across her temple in the faintest movement. Then, finally, a whisper. “I’m sorry.”
The words barely made it out before another sob cut through his breath, his shoulders hitching violently as he squeezed his eyes shut, forcing another sharp inhale through his teeth.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered again, his voice thick and uneven, cracking around the edges as he pressed his forehead to hers, the warmth of her skin against his own almost enough to make his entire chest collapse inward.
“I thought—” His voice choked, a sob cutting him off, and his fingers clutched at her hand, his thumb dragging desperately across her knuckles. “I thought you were dying in my arms.” Another inhale, another sharp tremor through his frame. “I thought I’d been too late.”
The words left him on another broken sob, his forehead still pressed against hers, his breathing still ragged and uneven, and God, he had never felt this shattered before.
Never felt this helpless. Never felt this completely undone by someone else’s existence.
And Ophelia— his Ophelia— just lay there beneath him, breathing slow and uneven, her body still weak, but her fingers still wrapped in his, her warmth still pressed against him.
Alive. She was alive.
Ophelia shifted. Just slightly, just enough, until her lips brushed against his temple, until her breath fanned softly against his skin. Then, in a whisper, so soft that it almost didn’t reach him, “Lay down with me.”
Finnick didn’t move. Just stayed there, still pressed so close, still clutching her hand, still so afraid that if he pulled away, she’d fade away like a fever dream.
Carefully, hesitantly, he shifted onto the pallet beside her, his limbs uncooperative, too tense, too shaken, like his body still hadn’t caught up to the fact that she was okay.
He settled onto his side, still facing her, the rough blankets unforgiving beneath them, but none of that mattered. All that mattered was that she was here, that she was breathing, that she was close enough to touch.
His hand, still trembling, slid to her chest, pressing flat over her heart.
There. There it was. That faint, steady rhythm. Her heartbeat.
His fingers spread over the fabric of her shirt, feeling the slow thump beneath, feeling the rise and fall of her chest, feeling the undeniable evidence of her existence beneath his touch.
Ophelia shifted again, just slightly, her breath brushing against his lips, and it was only then that he realized that they were so close. So painfully, devastatingly close.
He could feel the heat of her breath on his skin. Could feel the slow, uneven exhales, the way her lips were just inches from his own.
And yet, he didn’t move away. Couldn’t. Because he was still terrified. Terrified that if he did, if he put any more distance between them, she would slip away again, and this time, he wouldn’t be able to get her back. So he stayed.
“I forgot to say I love you back.”
The words were soft, barely above a breath, almost uncertain, like she was only just remembering it now, only just realizing what she had forgotten. She was silent for a moment after that, then— her lips parted slightly, and she added, softer this time: “This is the part where I do, right?”
For a moment— just a moment— he was completely still, his entire body frozen, his hand still pressed against her chest, feeling the slow, deliberate thrum of her heart against his palm. And he could feel it— the weight of her words, the deliberate softness of them, the quiet, unwavering honesty in them.
And suddenly, Finnick was staring at her like he had never seen her before. Like the weight of everything had finally caught up to him, crashing over him with a force he couldn’t fight anymore. His chest tightened, something warm and unraveling curling through his ribs, through his throat, through every inch of him that had been aching for this for far too long.
And without thinking—without hesitation—his thumb twitched slightly, his fingers curling slightly against her chest, his breath shaking faintly as he exhaled. “Yeah.” A beat. Then— softer, “This is the part where you do.”
And so softly, it could’ve been lost beneath the sound of his own breathing, she whispered: “I love you, Finnick.”
His eyes fluttered closed instantly. Not because he was too afraid to look at her, not because he was trying to shut it out, but because something crashed through him at the sound of it— something deep, something warm, something that made his throat tighten and his chest ache in the best and worst way all at once.
His forehead pressed against hers automatically, his breath catching slightly before releasing in a slow, measured exhale, his body finally unclenching, finally sinking into the warmth of her presence like it was the only thing keeping him from unraveling.
They stayed like that for a while.
Neither of them spoke. Neither of them moved. Just breathing, just existing in the same space, pressed close enough that every inhale, every exhale, every shift and pulse and rhythm of their bodies could be felt between them.
It was only when his eyes started to droop— his body giving in, betraying him, the exhaustion from hours and hours of running, fighting, searching, breaking down finally catching up to him— that Ophelia stirred slightly beneath him, her voice barely a breath as she whispered, “You’re tired.”
Finnick’s eyes flickered open sluggishly, his lips parting slightly, his fingers twitching against her ribs. “I don’t want to sleep,” he murmured, voice low, gravelly from exhaustion.
Ophelia was silent for a moment. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Finnick stared at her at that. Really stared at her. Because she said it like it was the easiest thing in the world. Like it wasn’t a promise she couldn’t keep. Like she wasn’t already bruised and broken beneath his hands, barely holding herself together, barely breathing when he found her.
But still— he felt it. Felt the solid, steady proof of her existence beneath his palm, the slow, strong rhythm of her heart against his fingers. And suddenly, it was all he could focus on.
Without thinking, his hand pressed tighter against her chest, his fingers curling slightly against the fabric of her shirt, like he needed to anchor himself to her, like he needed to feel every last thump, thump, thump of her heartbeat to believe she was still here.
Ophelia noticed. And she let a small, exhausted smile tug at the corner of her lips before murmuring, “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were trying to cop a feel.”
Finnick blinked at that, his eyes flickering slightly, a tired sort of surprise crossing his face. Before he could stop himself, before he could force it back down, his lips twitched slightly. Just barely.
Ophelia’s small, breathy laugh broke through the stillness, soft and lighthearted despite everything, her fingers twitching slightly beneath his. “Wouldn’t stop you if you did,” she added, her voice carrying that quiet, teasing lilt, something warm and playful and so completely her that it nearly undid him right there.
Finnick gave her a look. Half-exasperated, half-unbelieving, something dry and exhausted and utterly unsurprised. He didn’t say anything. Just exhaled, slow and deep, before shifting closer to her, closing the small, flickering space that had still been between them.
And suddenly, there was nothing left. No more distance. No more space. No more hiding behind the weight of everything that had kept them apart for so long. Just this. Just them.