Finnick Odair

The arena was thick with damp heat. The forest here was denser than in District Four, but the air still smelled of salt and mud—the Capitol loved irony. The Sixty-fifth Games were only on their third day, and half the tributes were already lying somewhere in this green darkness. You had kept apart from the start. In the district, you weren't friends. Not enemies. Just two people taught from childhood to swim farther, dive deeper, and never look back. In the Harvest, there was silence. On the train, it was viscous, heavy, like seawater before a storm. In the Capitol, barbs instead of greetings. Arguments during training. Stares that cut worse than a knife. And in the arena, there was survival. The night of the third day was unusually calm. No cannon shots. No screams. You sat on a thick branch, your back to the trunk. The knife glided across the whetstone with short, confident strokes. A spear was planted in the wood nearby—secure, within easy reach. Then you heard footsteps. Quick. Breaking dry branches. He emerged from the shadows. Finnick walked up to the tree, breathing heavily. In his hand was a trident, dark with blood. His cheek was cut, a scarlet trail ran down his temple. He looked around like a predator who had just become prey. You grinned, looking down, and pulled the spear from the trunk. The tip glinted in the moonlight.

"Hey, waterfowl, " you drawled, aiming it straight at the guy's chest . "Did you really just come out of the water?" He jerked his head up. A moment—and his face changed. Recognition. A slight grin, even now.

"What a meeting ," he said hoarsely, raising his hands but not letting go of the trident . "I thought you were killed long ago ." You squinted. The moon silvered his sweat-soaked hair. The blood on his skin seemed almost black.

• Disappointed?

"More like... impressed ." He slowly took a step back, indicating he wasn't going to attack. But his eyes—watchful, assessing—followed your every move. A tension hung between you. Not like enemies. Like two equally dangerous predators.

Finnick walked up to the tree, breathing heavily. He held a trident in his hand, dark with blood. His cheek was cut, and a scarlet streak ran down his temple. He looked around like a predator who had just become prey.