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And They'd Find Us in A Week - Chapter 15

Pairing: Finnick Odair x Reader Word Count: 17.8k Synopsis: Here! Playlist: Listen up! Tag list: @melancholicmelanin, @yvy1s, @glomp-me, @honethatty12, @swftlore, @hashcakes, @antoheartit, @finnickodaddy, @lilifl0wer, @antoheartit, @kermitcrimess, @persophonekarter, @aawdrea, @obaewankenobis, @xyxlyn, @meandurdaughtergotaspecialthing, @innercreationflower, @kisskittenn, @xngelsau, @honethatty12 , @drunkfrogg, @sundawn1990, @paperncvks, @sat0run4iha, @quietinthebedroom, @ashmem, @holy-minseok, @vai27, @triangleofsadnesss, @blackdxggr A/N: Hey…it's me, I'M ALIVEEEEEEEEE, close to graduating, and I've had a few chapters sitting collecting dust. So I decided, what the hell, y'all have waited long enough. However, there are trigger warnings for this chapter over on AO3. This is darker than you're likely prepared for. Happy black history month Ramadan Mardi Gras lent new year! (The tag list is a little different this time, it's not just ppl who asked to be tagged, but ppl who've imboxed me about the story and patiently waited for this update. If you'd like to be a regular tagger, pls go to my tag list masterlist.)

Past (i) - You

[8] - DISTRICT ELEVEN

You remember the gleam of the sun off their shiny white helmets like something out of a nightmare.

It sticks with you more than how the tears blurred your vision, or the way your mama dug her fingers into your shoulders—anchoring herself to you. Stopping you both from doing something truly foolish.

You remember how your neighbors fell to their knees, screaming and crying at the injustice. Held up by family and friends, the side of shacks, or by nothing but sheer grief as Peacekeepers stormed into homes, dragging out men and women without so much as an explanation.

Why?

Why were they here when it used to be beneath them to travel so much as a foot past the city limits without superiors ordering otherwise? Why were the people you loved, and never prepared to lose, taken to face a judgment that didn't balance out all the good they'd done?

Whips and extra work and reduced rations and, and…

You remember them taking your daddy above all else.

You remember what y’all were doing right before, too. You got a real good memory; everyone always tells you so. You wish you didn't. You wish you didn't get to remember the feeling of warmth and safety and calm blanketing you, just before it was snatched away by the sun gleaming off white armor as they stormed your shack.

You wish you never remembered the way your big, unshakeable daddy became small as they forced him onto his knees. You wish you could remember anything but the shrill shriek your mama made as they slapped cuffs on his wrists.

You’d wish, you'd wish, you'd wish on a thousand dandelions to forget the wet sheen in his eyes as he tried to speak over their voices—voices that drone on about things too big for your small head. The way you cried, the way he refused to. You were one of the many who begged for mercy, for something more powerful than the people who dragged your daddy to the gallows to save him.

You wish you didn't remember how nothing answered you, nothing came and saved your daddy as they tightened the rope around his strong neck. The same neck and shoulders that carried you above the crowds, above the world.

The same ones that thrash and struggle and go still after he finds your eyes in a crowd of hundreds, thousands—your stricken, angry face the last thing he chooses to see.

[8 ½] - DISTRICT ELEVEN

You don’t like school.

It feels like a cage, all those rows of desks and words on the chalkboard that don’t mean anything, not really. What’s the use of learning things when all you’re doing is marking time until they decide you’re ready for the more advanced fields? Or worse, when they decide you’re ready for the Games? It's not like you need to learn anything they wanna teach you anyway, you won't be the mayor one day, won't hold any power that's worth more than the dirt you walk on now.

You didn’t like school much before, but you definitely don’t like it now.

It’s too quiet, too full of eyes that look at you for a little too long. And the teacher, Mr. Burrow, gives you…special attention that you hate, attention that feels prickly, like thorns under your skin. Not the kind of attention that makes you wanna try harder, but the kind that makes you wanna curl up in on yourself like a roly-poly, only coming out when the coast is clear.

He’ll come up behind you while you’re working, hand on your shoulder, voice oily-sweet, murmuring about how brave you must be, how proud your daddy would’ve been if only he’d made better choices. He doesn’t know a damn thing about your daddy. Doesn’t know what he stood for or the way he’d pat your head and tell you that, one day, things would change.

If you ever need anything, any help understanding how your father could be so thoughtless, I’m here for you. You can stay behind after everyone leaves, I'll help you understand why he had to die, he’d say, but you ain’t dumb.

Since they killed your daddy—and there is a difference, he didn’t just die, it didn’t just happen to him one day—you can’t bring yourself to go, not when they talk about him like he was a fool, like he wasn’t worth mourning. Not when they look at you like that. They think you should be grateful to have a seat in the classroom, to have a teacher who knows so much.

The only thing worth going for is Sage.

Now, Sage might actually be something someday. He already is, but you mean in the eyes of the ones in charge.

He’s waiting for you by the bakery, fidgeting in front of the display case. He always has a look about him, like he’s just waiting for someone to tell him he shouldn’t be there, even though he’s got every right to be. Tall as he is, with that mop of light hair and pale skin, he stands out—even more so out on the fields. And he’s always scowling, eyes darting around like he’s just waiting for something bad to happen.

When he spots you, his expression softens, his face lighting up. He shuffles over, looking at you in that serious way he has. “You don’t have to work today, right?” he asks, already knowing the answer.

You shake your head.

“Nope,” you say, hands in your pockets, watching him with a faint smile.

“So…are you coming to school?” he asks, hopeful, as he fiddles with the strap on his worn satchel.

You shake your head.

“No?” he says, his brows creasing with that concern you know too well. “Why not?”

You shrug, already halfway turned toward the open road. “Because,” you say simply.

He makes a face, hurrying to catch up. “Because what?”

“Because I don’t wanna. It’s not like it’s gonna do anything, me going.” You put your hands on your hips, squinting up at the sky. “Besides, I have somewhere way better to go.”

He sighs, biting his lip, already worried. “Well, we’re gonna get in trouble if we skip.”

“No one’s making you come, Sage,” you say with a shrug, turning on your heel to head toward the fields. “But no one’s gonna pay us any mind. Kids go wandering all the time. People only pay attention when it suits them.” You say it like it’s true. You’re mostly right. No one pays unattended kids much attention, not here. Unless, of course, it’s the wrong kind of grown-up with the wrong kind of attention. The kind of grown-up who notices just a little too much, their eyes lingering for too long. But you shake that thought away, and you keep walking, unbothered, letting him trail behind you until he’s half-running to catch up.

He pauses, trying one last time as if you'll change your mind if he says it just right. “But—”

“Come on, Sage.” You grin, rolling your eyes. You've been doing it a lot since you learned how. He hesitates, looking toward the direction of the school building, his lip caught between his teeth. But then he sighs, his shoulders slumping a little, and he hurries after you. It’s always like this—he complains, he worries, but he follows anyway.

You cross the fields, weaving in and out of the rows of crops, waving to workers you know and ones you don’t, Sage following a few steps behind, muttering about how much trouble you’re going to be in, how school’s important. He’s still going on about it when he trips over a tree root and goes sprawling, face down in the dirt with a yelp.

“Ow,” he mumbles, pushing himself up, tears welling in his eyes. “I’m okay… I just…”

You shake your head at the sorry sight he makes sprawled out in the dirt. “Sage, you big crybaby.”

“‘M not crying,” he mutters, his face bright red, but there’s a watery glint in his eyes.

You sigh, crouching beside him, brushing the dirt from his cheeks with one hand. Sage winces, sniffling as he blinks back tears, and you feel a warm, gentle pull toward him, something both annoyed and soft. Then, without thinking much of it, you lean over and kiss his cheek, a quick peck that leaves him wide-eyed and blushing.

“What…what was that for?” he stammers, blinking up at you.

You look away, your ears burning. “My mama always gives me a kiss when I get hurt,” you mumble, wiping your hands on your dress. “And it stopped you from crying, didn’t it?” You grab his wrist before he can respond, tugging him back to his feet. “Now come on.”

“Oh. Okay,” he says softly, his cheeks still pink as he lets you pull him along. He barely gets the words out, too stunned to argue. He’s quiet the rest of the way, barely looking up from his feet, but you catch him sneaking glances at you every few steps.

He stays close, clutching your hand as you lead him along, weaving through the fields, dodging rocks and gnarled roots. You lead him off the path, through a small grove of trees that smell sweet and damp, the kind of place that only you know about. You can’t go to any of your other secret spots because they were all shown to you by…well, it doesn’t matter much now, does it?

The two of you settle down in the grass, the air thick and warm, the leaves casting dappled shadows on your faces. It’s the closest you can get to peace here. You’re both quiet for a while; the only sounds are the rustling of leaves and the occasional bird.

After a long silence, Sage speaks up, his voice low and careful. “‘M sorry ‘bout…your daddy,” he says, his gaze fixed on his hands, fingers picking at the edge of his bag.

You don’t look at him, but you sniffle, rubbing the back of your hand under your nose. You can’t cry now, not after calling Sage a crybaby. The words hang between you, something you don’t know what to do with, and you just nod, keeping your gaze fixed on the far-off horizon as your chest tightens.

When you don't speak, he rushes to fill the silence. You'd feel bad about making him nervous if you could feel anything other than grief.

“Mr. Burrow, he gives you special attention, doesn’t he? Picks on you? I… I know that’s why you don’t like school. I know…that’s why you skip.” He goes quiet again, but then his words are slipping out like he doesn’t want to say them, but can’t hold them in any longer. “He says things. He talks about people. People like your daddy. He…he said those rebels deserved what they got. Said they were dangerous, and all of us are smarter than that, smarter than those foolish people.” He stumbles over the words, voice barely a whisper. “I hate it, too.”

You swallow hard, the anger bubbling up in your chest. You’ve heard Mr. Burrow talk about rebels, about the people who were brave enough to believe in something better. You’ve heard the way he twists their bravery into foolishness, the way he looks down on them. People you knew. People who risked everything so kids like you wouldn’t have to keep their heads down.

Those weren’t just “rebels.” They were people you grew up with, people like your daddy. People who were trying to make life better.

Sage shifts uncomfortably, the nervous energy in him building as he speaks. “I just… I thought maybe that’s why you don’t wanna go.” He swallows, his fingers fidgeting with a loose thread on his shirt. “Why you always skip.”

You take a breath, the air feeling thick in your lungs. “Why’d you come with me, anyway?” you ask, turning the conversation back on him. “You love school and all that learning shit.”

He gasps, his face scrunched up, looking scandalized. “Don’t cuss. What would your mama think if she heard you?”

You scoff, crossing your arms. “Well, she ain’t here, is she? Now answer my question.”

He shifts, his cheeks pinkening again as he stares down at his lap. “Well… because you’re my best friend,” he says. He bites his lip, then adds, “And… I like you more than school, so…”

Your eyes go wide, feeling warm all over, like your skin is catching fire from the inside out. Your heart flutters in a way you don’t know what to make of. You stare at him, a little owl-eyed, until you finally say, “Oh… okay then.”

Sage stares at the ground, scuffing the dirt with his shoe. “You’re…you’re not gonna make fun of me?”

You shake your head, trying to keep your face neutral. But there’s a little grin tugging at the corner of your mouth, and before you can stop yourself, you give him a light shove and knock him off balance just enough that he tips sideways, landing in the dirt with a surprised yelp. “Shut up.”

He laughs, and he straightens up, brushing the grass from his clothes and watching you with those wide, earnest eyes, like you’re the only person in the world. And for a moment, you forget about the weight you carry, the hurt that follows you like a shadow. For a moment, it’s just you and Sage, hidden under that big old tree, pretending there’s no such thing as Peacekeepers or rebels or gallows in the square.

Lil’ Oakley.

They’ve called you that for as long as you can remember, and maybe even longer. Probably because of the way you used to follow your daddy around everywhere, two steps behind him or high up on his shoulders, so high you swore you could see the whole district from there.

Your daddy was the sun that shone above you, and you were his pride and joy. He took you everywhere he could if Mama wasn’t there to stop him. She’d just shake her head and laugh when he’d come back with you trailing behind, your shoes caked in mud, your pockets full of bugs, berries, and shiny pebbles.

Your daddy could never tell you no, not really. He told you it was because you looked just like your mama, and he could never tell her no, either. But when you’d ask around—whether you meant to or not—people would always say the same thing: you didn’t look a lick like your mama. You took your daddy’s whole face, every line and angle of it. They’d say that’s another reason they call you Lil’ Oakley, because it’s like he carved you out of himself, down to the dimple in your cheek when you smiled.

“You got her eyes, though,” your daddy would say, tapping the side of your face as if he were making a point no one else could see. “Her stubborn streak, too, if we’re being honest.”

That always made you giggle, and he’d lean close, dropping his voice like he was sharing a secret. “But you got my heart. Don’t let your mama hear it, but I think that’s the best part.”

You didn’t know how much you’d miss hearing him say things like that. You didn’t know how much you’d miss all of him.

Now, you’re not sure what to do with the quiet he left behind. People still call you Lil’ Oakley, but it feels different. Like they’re trying to keep something alive that slipped away the moment he was gone. You wonder if they’ll keep calling you that, now that he’s not here to shade you. How could someone cast such a large shadow and not even be standing anymore? It doesn’t seem possible, but then, so much doesn’t seem possible these days.

You’d ask your daddy about it, like you always did when you had a question too big to hold in your chest. He had a way of answering impossible questions, of making them seem small and manageable, like pieces of a quilt that could be tied together if you were just patient enough. But now, it looks like you’ll have to start figuring out those impossibilities on your own. And that scares you, more than anything.

Because you know, one day people will stop seeing you as Lil’ Oakley. One day, they’ll start coming to you for answers instead of reminding you how much you’re like him. And you don’t know if you’re ready for that, ready to go from the sapling to the big oak tree, to be more than the shadow of someone else.

You haven’t even had time to figure out who you are yet.

For now, though, you tell yourself you’ve still got time. Time to grow, time to learn, time to be the kid your daddy always called his pride and joy. Because he wouldn’t want you to rush it, wouldn’t want you to try to be him too soon. He’d want you to stand tall in your own way, to figure out how to be you first, before you take on the weight of being anything more.

You sit in comfortable silence, the weight of your troubles fading just a little, the warmth of Sage’s presence like a shield against the things that wait outside the trees.

You look to the sun; it's getting close to lunchtime.

"C'mon," you say, tugging Sage’s sleeve. "We can help my mama. She's cooking big tonight."

Sage’s eyes light up, his face breaking into a wide grin. “Is she making gumbo?” he asks, his voice filled with such excitement that you can’t help but laugh.

“Not if we don’t help, she isn’t. Now put some pep in your step!” You say, breaking into a quick stride. He doesn’t need any more convincing. Sage matches you, stumbling a bit but keeping up, his eyes shining.

You hurry back toward your Shacktown, running side by side. The houses grow closer together as you near your little corner of Eleven, winding through the familiar paths between weathered shacks and little gardens where folks try to coax life out of whatever will grow. People call out as you pass, voices warm and familiar.

Mrs. Davis is out on her porch, swaying back and forth in her old rocking chair, waving with a knowing smile as she watches you two skitter by. She’s always there, like a lookout, watching over the town. You wave back, and Sage throws in a polite, “Evenin’, Mrs. Davis!”

A little farther down, Old Man Reeves is out hanging the day’s wash as his sister, Miss Azalea, helps. Her arms are strong and weathered, fingers steady despite the years. He tips his hat, chuckling at the sight of you.

“Ain’t y’all supposed to be in school?” A voice calls from one of the porches. You can’t see who it is, but it doesn’t matter. You and Sage just giggle and run faster, ducking around corners and through backyards as the adults shake their heads with fond smiles.

You pick up the pace, silently prompting Sage to race you, the cool air rushing past as a couple of the littlest kids—too young for school, barefoot and wild—take off after you, their laughter ringing out as they chase you down the path and their small feet kicking up dust. You pretend to run slower for them, letting them think they’re catching up as they squeal with laughter, darting in and out of the tall grass. You turn a corner and see the crooked roof of your home, the familiar sight of clotheslines, and the bright patch of herbs growing by the door.

You burst through the doorway, panting and breathless. “Mama!” you call, and she appears from the little kitchen nook, hands on her hips, shaking her head.

“Now didn’t I tell you to stop runnin’ in and out of my house?”

“Sorry, Mama,” you say, grinning wide, not sounding sorry at all as you catch your breath. Sage follows behind, ducking his head.

He mumbles a sheepish, “Sorry, ma’am,” trying to look serious.

Your mama shakes her head, coming closer to look him over, checking him from his scuffed-up shoes to his freckled nose. She gives Sage a warm smile, her eyes crinkling at the corners. “Sage, how many times I gotta tell you? You can call me Mama, too.”

You roll your eyes as Sage turns bright red, his mouth opening and closing as he stammers, “Y-yes, ma’am—I mean, Mama—uh…”

“Aw, hush now,” she says, chuckling. Then she raises an eyebrow, giving you both a look. “Ain’t y’all supposed to be in school?”

Before Sage can open his mouth and blow your cover, you jump in. “No, Mama, it’s just a catch-up day, and, and we’re already caught up.”

Sage, catching on, nods vigorously. “Uhhh, yeah! We’re…we’re alllll caught up.”

Your mama stares you down, the knowing look on her face making you shift uncomfortably. “Mhm. Well, if y’all are here, then y’all are gonna be workin’. Go on, clean up,” she says, pointing to the door.

“Yes, ma’am!” you both say, and you race back outside, heading for the water pump by the side of the house.

You take turns working it, its cool metal handle sticking in your grip as you pump until a steady stream pours out, cold water splashing over your hands as you scrub away the dirt from the road. Sage nearly splashes you, but you manage to dodge, shooting him a grin as you shake your numb, wet hands in his direction. Sage stumbles again, but you catch his arm, steadying him with a grin as he blushes, mumbling a thanks.

Once you’re clean, you hurry back inside, ready to help. Your mama’s in her element, her sleeves rolled up, stirring the big pot that’s already filling the room with the warm, spicy smell of gumbo, the rich scent curling around you like a hug. She hands you a spoon, nodding toward the vegetables laid out on the counter.

“Peel these,” she says, then gestures to Sage, who stands at attention like he’s taking orders from the president. “And you, go fetch me some more water from the pump. Big pot like this, we’re gonna need all we can get.”

Sage nods, scurrying outside again, and you watch him go, grinning to yourself as you start on the pile of vegetables. The spoon’s a little dull, but you’ve gotten good at working with what you’ve got, slicing each piece just the way you were taught.

After a while, the pot is full and bubbling, steam rising as Mama tastes the broth, closing her eyes with a satisfied sigh. She wipes her hands on her apron, then nods at you. “Why don’t you go on and let everyone know, baby,” she says, her voice softening. “Tell ‘em to come on and eat. We got plenty.”

You don’t need telling twice. You grab Sage’s hand and dart out the door, racing from house to house, calling out to each neighbor as you pass. “Mama says come eat! The gumbo is ready!” Your voice echoes through the streets, and you can see faces start to appear in doorways, hands waving as people call back.

One by one, folks start to emerge, following the sound of your voice. Mrs. Davis is already on her way, her steps slow but steady. Neighbors drift from their homes, the call of a hot meal drawing them together.

They arrive with their own bowls, each bringing something to add to the pot—Miss Azalea arrives with cloth-wrapped okra, Old Man Reeves has a small jar of spices he’s been saving, and the Johnsons bring a little basket of tomatoes from their garden. The little kids from earlier run up to you, grinning wide, their faces smudged with dirt as they hold out a few wild greens they picked along the way. The pot is seasoned with more than just food; it’s filled with bits of everyone’s lives, the little pieces they can spare.

Some of the neighbors are family, blood kin who come with stories of shared ancestors, and others are family in every way that counts, people who’ve helped raise you, who’ve stitched up skinned knees and shared what little they had. A jar of pickled vegetables here, a scrap of salted pork there. They come from every direction.

The food is ready, the smell of your mama’s gumbo thick in the air, and everyone gathers close with bowls in hand. The little ones bounce on their toes, wide-eyed and eager as their mamas and grandmas remind them to wait, to let the grown-ups serve it to them. The older folks sit on creaky chairs or lean against the doorframes of shacks, their tired faces softening as they watch the scene unfold.

Inside, the kitchen fills with laughter and warm greetings, with the clatter of bowls and the rich smell of the gumbo. People find seats on benches, on the floor, anywhere they can fit, and your mama passes back bowls, ladling a serving into each one, her smile bright, her laughter loud. You and Sage squeeze in next to each other, his elbow bumping yours, both of you grinning as you watch the room fill up with warmth and people.

But when the bowls are handed out, and everyone gathers close, their faces lit by the dim glow of lanterns and the setting sun, there’s a pause. A heavy silence settles over the group, thick and expectant. Normally, your daddy would lead them in the blessing. His voice would rise above the crowd, steady and sure, his words weaving everyone together like the baskets he used to make.

But he’s not here anymore, and the weight of that absence hangs heavy in the air, and the space he left behind feels as large as the empty sky above your Shacktown. The silence stretches, and you can see the older folks glancing at one another, unsure of who should speak.

For a moment, no one moves. No one speaks. Sage is sitting next to you, looking like he might faint if anyone even thinks of asking him to do it. His shoulders are hunched, his cheeks pale, and his hands fiddle nervously with the hem of his shirt, his eyes darting to the ground like he’s hoping it’ll swallow him up.

Then your mama glances at you. Her gaze is the saddest you've ever seen it, and she nods once, giving you permission for something you didn’t even know to ask for. “Go ahead, baby,” she says softly, her voice gentle but firm enough that it feels like it’s already decided.

You blink, your throat tightening as you push yourself to your feet. The eyes of the entire Shacktown are on you now, and it’s terrifying. Your breath catches.

Can you do this?

You’re eight years old. You’re not your daddy. You don’t know if you can fill the space he left behind, and for a moment, you think about sitting right back down. But one of the older women smiles and says, “Look at lil’ Oakley,” full of warmth and pride, it keeps you standing.

“Go on, now,” another voice adds a rough but kind encouragement.

Your legs are shaking, but you clasp your hands together like you’ve seen your daddy do a hundred times and close your eyes.

The words don’t come right away, and they don’t come easy. You try to draw on the many speeches you remember your daddy giving. Your chest feels tight, and your heart is beating so fast it might burst. But then, you take a deep breath and start, your voice small.

“We…we give thanks,” you begin, the words tentative but growing stronger as you speak. “For the hands that made this food. For the soil that grew it and the water that fed it. For the ones who gave so everyone could have enough.”

You pause, swallowing hard as the next words catch in your throat. “And…for the ones we’ve lost. We hope they’ve found the Harvester, and that their spirit is full.” Your voice wavers, and your hands start to tremble as the weight of your daddy’s absence presses down on you. “And we’ll…we’ll keep them with us, always.”

Your voice breaks, and your throat tightens so much you can’t say anything else. Tears sting your eyes, and for a moment, you think you’ll really have to sit down, that you’ve ruined the whole thing. But then someone calls out, their voice warm and sure:

“You got it, baby.”

“Take your time, lil’ Oakley.”

“C’mon now, he’s right here with ya.”

And for a moment, it feels like he is. Like your daddy’s there, his strong hand on your shoulder, steadying you, guiding you the way he always used to. You breathe in deeply, the air filling your lungs, and somehow, you find the strength to continue. “And we give thanks for each other. For the chance to sit here together and share what we have. That’s enough—more than enough.”

When you finish, there’s a moment of silence, and then a ripple of approval runs through the group. Their voices are like the rustling of leaves in a breeze.

“That was good, lil’ Oakley,” someone says, their voice thick with pride.

“Sounded just like him,” another adds, their face crinkling with a smile, and there’s a chorus of agreement, heads nodding, smiles spreading.

“Looks like we’ve got another leader on our hands,” one of the older men says, and there’s a ripple of laughter, full and genuine, that makes your cheeks burn.

You sit back down, feeling hands patting your back, squeezing your shoulders, each one grounding you. Not filling the space your daddy left behind, but making it a little less lonely. Sage nudges you gently with his elbow, leaning close enough that you can hear his whisper over the hum of voices.

“You did a real good job,” he says softly and earnestly, his cheeks pink as he looks at you.

You blink fast, your vision goes blurry, and you quickly swipe the back of your hand under your eyes before anyone can see. “Thanks,” you mumble, your voice a little rough, but you manage a small smile that lingers as you both turn to your bowls and dig in.

The moment passes, the crowd digging into their bowls, the gumbo a comfort that spreads through your chest as the sounds of laughter and conversation rise around you.

For a little while, it feels like everything’s okay again, like your daddy’s still here, sitting beside you, watching over the people he loved. Or even just his spirit, sitting among the neighbors, alive in their smiles, their laughter, their shared stories. And even though the ache in your chest doesn’t disappear, it feels just a little lighter.

The gumbo pot sits at the center of it all, the steam rising in fragrant curls as everyone takes turns ladling a bowl. Your mama moves among them, passing out bowls and offering seconds, her face glowing with pride. Sage volunteers to help ladle out seconds, his face red from the warmth of the pot, a bright smile spreading across his face as he hands back bowls to the neighbors.

You hadn’t known it then, but this would be one of the last meals you’d share with him.

Not long after, Sage was adopted by Mr. and Mrs. Pitstone, the bakers who’d taken him under their wing. It should have been a good thing—a kind family, a roof over his head, food every night. But it wasn’t the same. He wasn’t the same. They took him out of the fields, so you didn’t see him working beside you anymore, didn’t hear him humming off-key songs or tripping over his own feet as he tried to keep up with you in the rows.

And at school, he wasn’t in your class anymore. You skipped as often as you could get away with, anyway, but on the days you went, he’d be sitting with the older kids, his face hidden behind books and notebooks, his eyes downcast. He never looked your way, and you learned to ignore the ache in your chest that flared every time you saw him in his clean clothes, his hands soft, no longer calloused from labor.

You were angry, then. Angry that they’d taken him away, that he didn’t even try to stay in touch, didn’t try to keep up the way he used to. They took your daddy from you, and then, as if that hadn’t been enough, they took Sage too. It didn’t feel fair—not that anything ever felt fair in Eleven.

Now, you avoid the bakery whenever you can. You walk the long way around, take side streets just to keep from seeing him through the window, his tall, gangly frame moving behind the counter, his hands gentle as he kneads dough.

You wonder if he misses it—misses the long days with you in the fields, your mama’s gumbo, the nights spent aching from work but laughing all the same. You wonder if he misses you, if he ever thinks back on those days and wishes, even for a moment, that he could come back.

Present (I) - You

THE CAPITOL

You feel weightless.

No.

Not weightless.

You don't feel anything, anything at all.

You can't feel your fingers or your toes.

Not your hands or feet.

Arms or legs, your torso—your side.

It burns. You can certainly feel that. You can feel nothing but that for what seems like years. A tender pain every time you breathe and a sizzling one every time you don't.

It occurs to you sometime later, or maybe no time at all, that you can't see.

Where are your eyes?

It's pitch black. Not like the lights are off, but like your eyes are closed despite it feeling as if they’re wide open.

Are you dead?

You don't remember dying.

You would remember dying, wouldn’t you?

You don't remember anything or anyone coming for you. No Death, no Harvester.

You lose consciousness between one breath and the next.

When you come to, it's to blurry figures dancing around your head. They swim in and out of your focus. White coats, white lights, rough hands. You open your mouth to say something, to ask a question, maybe? You’ll never know because they slip the mask over your nose and mouth before you can.

Your ears are full of cotton; whatever words they’re speaking above you are muffled. They’re hardly words at all. You feel the cool metallic glide of scissors sliding from your vagina to the divot where your collar bones meet, cutting off your clothes. Hands lift your limbs. Your left hand and right foot in tandem. Something soft and wet drags against your skin, working in slow, methodical circles from your fingers and toes. The back of your hand and the front of your foot. Shin, calves, and forearms. Front and back of your knee, biceps. Thigh and shoulder. Another pair of hands moves your head this way and that, cleaning your face as the slow scrubbing circles your neck and moves down to your breast. It’s the first time you truly feel the hands hidden under the rubber gloves. Thoroughly feeling your left breast, thumb pressing underneath and then on top. Moving the fat and muscle around, stretching the skin. Squeezing and releasing and squeezing again. Checking or…just feeling? The thumb rubbing against the edge of your nipple feels inhumane, something wearing human hands.

There are more muffled words before the hand is replaced by warm and wet. A mouth? No, whatever they’re using to clean you.

The entire process is repeated with your right breast. It distracts you enough to almost forget about the hands working below your waist. Hips to crotch to vagina and back again, working their way down your other leg. They get to your stomach, and you flinch full bodily.

Soft and lukewarm becomes coarse and icy hot. Your side—your wounds. Your vision is still blurry, but you can still see them holding you down long after you feel hands cuffing your wrists and ankles. That doesn't stop you from trying to kick and punch as they dig further into your side. It feels like they're being rough just to spite you.

“...told you… Should've tied…bitch down.”

“And I…no need… Now…turn…over.”

The world spins as you're tilted, and you groan when your weight is put on your side. You wheeze once you're pushed onto your front. The rest of your clothes must’ve been cut off because the warm and wet is scrubbed down your back all the way to your butt. Someone spreads your thighs, and someone else cleans the rest of the injury. Tears spring to your eyes. You can barely breathe in this position.

“Hurts…” you rasp. “Too…hurts.” You try to get their attention, putting all your minimal energy into flapping your hand. Someone grabs it using the vantage point to stab you in the elbow with something. Whatever they're pumping into you burns nearly as much as your wounds.

“Should we…of her wounds?”

“No… Won't…there for long.”

You've never been exposed to these kinds of Capitols before. Cold, sterile. Treated, not like a victor, but as a task to get done. The fire in your veins cools into a smolder, lulling you to sleep. A state of stagnation.

-

You jerk awake. Blessedly, you can see fully. And what you see is blindingly white and glossy. You're propped up by the gurney you're on. Your fingers grab at nothing, suspended in the air because…

When you jolt, the railings you're handcuffed to stop you from going far. You're in a gown as white as the walls around you. There’s an IV drip on your right, held in the crook of your elbow with tape. You only know that someone's in the room when they speak.

“Calm, calm.”

You zero in on her, a short woman standing at the front of your bed. Your heart monitor picks up as you take jagged breaths through the oxygen mask strapped to your nose and mouth.

“Calm down. You're safe now.” She soothes, raising her hand as she approaches you, only working to make you more anxious the closer she gets. She begins to pet your hair. “This is all just a precaution, you understand. Until President Snow can determine your loyalties.”

Loyalties? What does that mean for the others? For Finnick?

You're a little foggy, a little blurry around the edges, but gather enough strength to look up, stare into her glittering Capitol eyes, and say, “...where are the others?”

You cough around the last word, but refuse the straw she tries to press to your mouth. She shakes her head disappointedly at you, and this—this is the type of Capitol you're used to. Preppy and intrusive with your space because she thinks she's owed it.

“Where is Finnick?”

“Oh, you poor, poor thing.” She places a hand over her heart. “You don't know, how could you possibly? The arena was attacked by terrorists. It was just horrible.” She sighs, petting your hair as you stare up at her in confused horror. It feels like she's comforting herself more than you.

You know Katniss escaped, though you aren't sure how. You saw it briefly, her being lifted in the air, before you finally succumbed to blood loss. There are no other victors in the room with you, but it doesn't mean they aren't here too. Finnick may be a room over, right next to you, strapped to his gurney just like you are. Who else? You'd wish this on no one, especially not Finnick, but for you to be here, he must be here too. That's the only outcome that makes sense.

This nurse is being nice to you. So you must not have been branded as a traitor. What does that mean for the revolution? For Finnick?

Finnick, Finnick, Finnick.

She pouts. “President Snow was able to rescue a few of you before the rebels were able to get to you, thank goodness.” You don't understand. What does—how… Rescue? Then…then Snow, he must’ve handpicked a handful of you to keep alive and…and executed the others? Branded them as rebels, and that's the end of it?

“No,” you shake your head in jerky motions. Because that would mean… “No, no, no—Where is he? Where's Finnick?” You demand, tears filling your eyes again, but no hands are pressing into your tender spots. You feel cut open, burned to your atoms. You stare ahead at nothing, your blood is cotton, your bones have dissolved, your muscles are paper, and your mind and body are separated as you begin to float away.

The nurse beside you is talking; you know this because of the muffled noise trying to make its way into your ear canal. Something she says, though, the sounds become letters become words become sentences in your mind long after she’s said it. Almost as if someone snapped in front of you, you come to.

You blin,k and you’re seeing behind your eyes again, back in your body. You turn your head to her slowly, dry and cracked lips falling open as you ask, “...what?”

The nurse frowns dramatically. “The rebels, they escaped. Katniss, Finnick, and the little twitchy one, I believe. It's hard to accept that they would betray us in such a way—I completely understand how you must be feeling, sincerely. I never thought it possible for them to be so cruel. Sweet Katniss. And we’ve known Finnick since he was a boy. To use you and poor Peeta like that,” she clicks her tongue. “Well, I guess there truly are no limits those beasts won't go to—”

What? Finnick. Finnick made it out? How? Your relief is battling with your confusion. He's safe. You don't know how, but he’s safe and alive, and Snow can't hurt him. You laugh, melting into the bed.

“Oh dear.” She puts her hand on your forehead. “Perhaps there's something wrong with your head? No matter. Dr. Steele will take care of you. After your procedure, of course.”

That gets your attention.

“Procedure?” You ask. “What kind?”

She doesn’t answer your question, only smiles as the doors slide open, and a stern-looking man with closely cropped neon green hair stalks in. She smiles and smiles and smiles as your gurney is lowered and detached, hovering out the door.

You float down the hallway, followed closely by the man. You try to glean as much as you can from your surroundings, but it’s practically nothing. Nothing but shiny white walls and big white doors. You’re approaching a fork, two different hallways, when one of the doors you pass opens up. You crane your head back to catch a glimpse of what comes out. You see another gurney, another burly guard-nurse following behind it. You hear her before you see her, cursing up a storm, but her handlers don’t even acknowledge her.

“Johanna!” you yell, straining against your restraints. “Johanna!” The insults stop for a moment, and you know she’s heard you.

“They snatched you u,p too?” Johanna calls after you before breaking out into laughter. She laughs and laughs and laughs. So much so that even after they take her down the left hall and you the right, you can still hear it.

“...where are they taking her?” You ask, uncertain if you really wanna know.

“That’s none of your concern.” He says and leaves it at that. You’re left to focus on your breathing as you continue on in silence, with nothing to break up the quiet other than footsteps and the sound of your audible panting. You’re teetering on the edge of a panic attack when he finally speaks again. Leaning closer to you, he whispers for your ears only.

“You were always my favorite victor. It’s an honor to meet you.”

-

Before you knew what the procedure was, you hoped they wouldn’t put you to sleep again. What if you didn’t wake up? What if, while you were gone, something else became theirs? Your body. Your mind. Theirs to admire. Theirs to touch. Theirs to—

That was before.

They were kind enough to numb the areas, you guess. Slathering an orange paste all over you. Not that you could truly tell with how they had you strapped down. Then they stuck you with needles, deep into the muscle. And, with pain like that, you’d have taken your chances with being put to sleep. It doesn’t last for long, the numbing. They shaved off your calluses, feet and hands still raw and pink. It hurts to move your fingers and toes; you imagine it’ll hurt to stand.

They went too deep; you tried to tell them it was too deep. But it was like you spoke a different language, tied down as you were. A pig squealing at the butchers that the knife is too sharp. A full-body polish, they had called it. The scars on your side may as well have never existed. You’re brand new. You don’t even know whose body you’re in anymore. It’s more theirs than yours anyway. Maybe it always was.

“This one's a toughy, huh?” The doctor had said as his fingers dug into your side, baring his permanently dyed gums in a laugh. First, down at you and then, with his colleagues around the room. A bright and nauseating green-pink gradient.

They transfer you to a room, but to call it a room may be too generous. You don't remember the trip, not how long it took or what they said to you—if they said anything at all. It’s hard to say if you were even conscious for it.

You do remember being unhooked and lifted off the gurney, being placed on the cot, and them leaving out the door without another word.

You shift, trying to find a way to sit up without pulling something or breaking in half. The burning in your side tugs at you, but you can’t even escape into the numbness anymore. You blink hard, trying to gather enough strength to stay conscious.

Then the door opens.

The nurse—the one from before with the overly bright eyes and the way-too-soft hands—steps back into the room. She looks down at you for a moment, standing still in the doorway as if giving you a chance to get yourself together, but you’re too sore, too broken to do anything but look up at her, eyes wild and clouded.

“You’re going to have to stand now,” she says flatly, the words cutting through the haze of pain and exhaustion.

You don’t respond. You can’t. You’re not sure if it’s out of sheer defiance or because you’re so tired that your muscles are already starting to lock into place.

The nurse sighs, a sound that mixes pity with annoyance. Her fingers find your wrist, jerking you up by the force of her grip. The moment your feet touch the cold, unforgiving floor, you know you’re not going to make it.

But you have no choice.

Barefoot. Your skin’s raw, your soles already stinging from the rough treatment, and the ground beneath you seems to mock you. You try to ignore it—try to ignore the burn of the cold metal on your skin, but the sharp ache doesn’t let you forget. The sharpness of your pain flares again as she drags you forward. You stumble, almost tipping into her.

"Come on, now," she says, her voice a little more insistent this time. "We haven’t got all day."

You don’t have the strength to argue. You don’t have the will to fight back.

With every step, the weight of the silence grows heavier, like a thick fog trying to drown you. You can’t even hear the sound of your own feet dragging against the ground anymore, just the harsh pull of your breath and the constant ache that gnaws at you. Each hall you pass feels endless, the harsh fluorescent lights overhead blinding, as if they’re intentionally stripping you of any hope you might have had left.

There's no point in trying to memorize the path; it all looks the same. And your brain can't be bothered to focus on any words you pass.

The only way you're getting out of here is in a body bag.

The walls are sterile and perfect. Nothing here feels real. The polished floors stretch out before you, gleaming under the fluorescent lights like a twisted, gleaming path leading you toward your fate. The facility is quiet, almost too quiet, except for the rhythmic sound of the nurse’s heels and your uneven steps behind her. You chance a glance back and expect to see bloody footprints behind you, but what you see back there is the same as what you see before you.

Nothing.

You wonder, briefly, if she’s enjoying this—dragging you through these halls. You wonder if it’s deliberate, the way her fingers press into your arm, like she’s guiding you, or perhaps controlling you, making sure you don’t stumble or fall.

“You’re going to see the President now,” she says, as if it’s supposed to be some sort of comfort. “He’ll want to speak with you.”

You can barely hear her over the pounding in your head, but you know what she means. President Coriolanus Snow. You have a few questions of your own, chief among them is why you aren't dead yet.

He has to know he won't get any information out of you, doesn't he? You hardly know anything worth telling to begin with; your knowledge begins and ends with the arena. He'll surely kill you after he finds out how useless you are to him in that regard.

Why did he separate you and Finnick by lying? He could've done so from behind the scenes, and it would've been heartbreaking, but inevitable. This feels intentional. He gained something by doing so, but you just can't figure out what.

The hallway stretches on and on, and with every step, it gets colder. The scent of the sterile air burns your nose, mixing with the staleness of sweat that coats your skin. Your throat is dry, and your mouth is full of cotton. All you want is to be done with it—to get to where you’re supposed to be. But the dread you feel thickens, turning your stomach to ice.

Your thoughts are fractured, unable to hold onto anything for long, but one name rises over everything else: Finnick.

His face keeps appearing in your mind. Him in the arena, teary-eyed and broken down. Him begging you to stay hidden, him beautiful and alive. Maybe it's because you’re so used to him being there, always just within reach. Maybe because he’s the only thing that hasn’t felt wrong, that hasn’t tried to hurt you. You don’t even know where he is now. If he made it to Thirteen. If he’s safe.

Then, you realize why your mind keeps looping back to Finnick. You're scared.

The nurse’s hand presses against your back, now pushing you forward more urgently. “Keep moving. It won’t be much longer.”

It’s all you can do to keep your feet moving. The thought of stopping, of sitting down again, is too tempting—but there’s no way you can give in. Not now. She won't let you. You reach a door. A thick, solid door, gleaming like the rest of the facility, heavy with the weight of whatever comes next.

“Inside,” the nurse orders, pressing a button, prompting the door open.

You hesitate for only a moment before you step in. The room is larger and colder than you expected. The air smells like metal, like sterile hands and unspoken threats. Like greenery and faint, wet sweetness. Roses painted in blood. You can feel your pulse quicken as you take another step into the room. White and grey, roses in every corner.

And there he is. President Snow. Sitting behind a desk, his expression almost cordial, watching you with an intensity that makes the air feel even heavier.

You want to speak, but your mouth is dry, and no words come.

You are scared. You don’t want to be, you were expecting to never see him again—and if you did, it would be as he's executed. Neither of those things came true, and you're scared. Shouldn't you feel empowered knowing you disobeyed him? Knowing that there's a whole operation dedicating its time and power to taking him down—and you were a part of it?

No. No, it makes you terrified. That and the subconscious response he's trained your body to have around him. You're a creature of instinct now. Prey backed into a corner.

“Ah, there you are,” Snow says, his voice as smooth as ice and twice as cold. He looks you over, cataloging you from your lowered head to where the medical gown stops at the middle of your thighs—thighs pressed together to stave off the cold—before stopping at the unsteady rocking of your feet. “You must be terribly sore. Please, take a seat.”

You would like to deny him. You want to deny him, a small act of rebellion. But the pain in your feet makes it hard to focus. Shifting your weight from heel to toe, you search for some relief, some part of your feet that doesn’t ache. You find none. Rocking unsteadily from the soles to the outer edges, every inch feels the sting of their relentless polishing.

Besides, you know a command when you hear one. He’s not offering, but even if he were, you’re still too tired to do anything other than move towards the chair. You keep your back straight and your eyes focused on the floor as you hobble over to the only chair that sat in front of his desk. For a moment, you can pretend this is like any other meeting you've had with him. Sit, listen, collect, be pet if he's in a particular mood, and then the sweet relief of finding Finnick wherever he's waiting for you.

But it's a short-lived fantasy. You're not supposed to hurt before the meeting. Any physical pain you feel should be contained to a time and a room number on a piece of paper.

You are scared. You're terrified. So much so that you're shaking with it. Or is that the exhaustion? The pain?

As you near the chair, though, you stop. He’s watching you, and his gaze makes your stomach drop. You don’t know why you hesitate now, but you can’t stop your mind from racing. This room. This situation. Everything about it feels wrong.

He stops you. Not with words or even by raising his hand. It's his eyes.

Not there, they seem to say.

Instead, his eyes slowly glide to an area on the floor, you're reminded of the glide of the scissors they used to cut you out of your clothes. You blink. Following his gaze down, down, down—there—to the rug and the pillow that sits atop it.

You almost think you’ve misunderstood. Why would he want you to sit on the floor? He can't possibly… It can’t possibly be that he wants your mouth, can it? You swallow, but your body moves without you, which is what it's used to doing in rooms like this with men like him.

Luckily, or unluckily, for you, the pillow feels like silk against your raw skin. It's incredibly plush, so soft and gentle on your skin. The first soft touch you've felt since you woke up.

“There,” Snow says. “Doesn’t that feel better?”

You can’t look at him. Can’t even look at the chair he sits in. You roll your tongue around your mouth, feeling the indent of your molars and then your incisors, back and forth.

You nod.

He watches you for a beat, a small, satisfied smile curling the corners of his lips.

And then he speaks again.

“I’m sure you’re quite baffled by your being here.” He prompts you to speak, to ask a question instead of just telling you himself. A tactic, surely. To limit the information he gives you.

You ask the one thing that’s eluded you since you woke up here.

“Why aren't I dead?”

Snow’s lips curl faintly. Not into a smile this time, but not a frown either.

“Straight to the point. Have I ever mentioned that being an exemplary quality of yours?”

“I don't know. Sir,” you correct yourself, risking a glance up at him to gauge his reaction, his being pleased with you shouldn't be such a relief.

“If you're asking why you didn't meet a grizzly end in the arena, rebels attacked right as Miss Everdeen overpowered the shields. But that's not what you're referring to. Is it?”

Your eyes return to your hands sitting limply on your lap, but a gloved finger curled under your chin pulls your gaze back to where he wants it. Back to where he'll always want it.

“Is it.”

Not a question, but he wants to hear the truth from your lips anyway. Your jaw clenches, teeth grinding, and throat tightening. There's a pressure behind your eyes, under your chin, deep in your throat. You blink back what feels suspiciously like tears. Your lips tremble, and you sink a canine into the bottom one.

“No, sir,” you say with blood in your mouth, and he smiles down at you with blood in his.

He leans back. “You are alive because I want you to be. Despite being a traitor of the state, despite the betrayal,” you flinch, “I saved you after they left you for a slow, agonizing death. Because I am merciful.” Rubber rubs against rubber as he laces his fingers together. “I like to think I know you quite well, better than most, even. You're far from stupid. You're quite intelligent, even. Useful. You'll continue to be useful, won't you, my dear.”

Your head begins to nod without any input from you, but your eyes catch on his handkerchief. Blue, the color of the sea, mixed with green. Sea glass playing background to a simple white rose.

“You lied.” You say instead, and it's just as damning.

The way his brows raise is almost imperceptible, easy to miss if you weren't watching for it.

“You told me,” you say, relearning in real time how to speak above a murmur again, “you told me you'd allow us to stay together if I stayed on my best behavior. And you told Finnick the exact opposite. That…that you'd kill one of us. Kill me. You lied,” you say, each word landing like a blow you’re too weak to deliver otherwise.

It's the most you've spoken since you woke up, and the silence you sit in afterwards is daunting. Your throat aches, but you don't clear it for fear that it'll remind him that you're alive when you shouldn't be.

For a moment, Snow says nothing. His head tilts, the gesture almost indulgent, like he’s humoring a child mid-tantrum. And then he chuckles, and it cuts through the fragile illusion of your rebellion.

“Oh, dove,” his voice is soft and low, a mockery of tenderness as his fingers toy idly with the white rose pinned to his lapel. “Is that what he told you?”

You blink up at him, disoriented. He clicks his tongue, a sound that makes your stomach twist, shaking his head as though you’ve disappointed him.

“I recall having a much different conversation with Mr. Odair,” he continues, his gloved hands resting calmly on the desk before him. He’s at ease, completely unhurried, as though there isn’t a single thing you could say or do that might rattle him.

Your pulse stumbles. “No,” you manage, but your voice falters.

“Oh, yes,” he continues, his words are slow and deliberate, each one a weighted stone dropping into deep, still water. His pale eyes gleam with something you can’t name, and would never want to. “He told you exactly what you wanted to hear, didn’t he? What you needed to hear to let him slither back into your good graces. Along with other places, I’m sure.”

The insinuation feels like a slap, leaving a hot flush of shame rising to your cheeks and ears. You try to tell yourself not to react, not to give him the satisfaction, but your breath hitches anyway. His words are needles, sharp and precise, sewing doubt into the seams of your mind. You don’t bother correcting him, but he doesn’t stop. Your silence only emboldens him.

“Look at the mess caused by Miss Everdeen and Mr. Mellark,” he muses, his tone cool and clinical now. “And they were from the same district. Imagine the chaos, the anarchy, if I allowed you and Mr. Odair to continue as you were. Together, you’d have been...dangerous.” His gaze sharpens, piercing through you. “Now they all know what I’ve always known. You, poor, innocent you, were tricked. Used.”

Your head shakes, a reflex more than a decision. It’s small, halting, but it’s all you can manage. You were wrong. His words are poison, not needles, and they seep into the cracks of your mind, twisting the truth into something unrecognizable.

“No,” you whisper, but it’s a breath, a wisp of sound.

That’s not right. That doesn’t align with what you know to be true. The truth you can feel in your bones.

No. No, that’s not true. Finnick is not like that. Finnick, your Finnick, wouldn’t lie to you. Not like this.

You know Finnick. You know him like the back of your hand, like the constellations you used to trace in the night sky. He’s your North Star, the steady, unyielding constant in a world that’s always trying to tear you apart. He’s one of the only truths you know.

“You’re wrong,” are the words you decide on rather than asking what his version of events is. You can’t let him know there’s even a doubt in your mind. Your words hang heavy in the air, trembling with conviction. Snow doesn’t speak right away, but the curve of his lips tightens, his amusement thinning into something colder.

The hair on the back of your neck stands up. Danger.

“Oh?” His brow arches. “Is that so?”

“No,” you say, the only word you seem to know. “That’s not—that’s not him. That’s you.” You force your eyes to meet Snow’s, and you don’t look away. “That’s not my Finnick.”

Snow doesn’t respond immediately. Instead, his gloved hand reaches out, brushing along your hair in a gesture that might seem soothing or kind. It isn’t. All you can think about is the animals you’ve seen in Eleven, being shushed and stroked as they’re lined up for slaughter. You think, suddenly and desperately, of Rue, and you wonder if this is how she felt in those final moments when you tried to shield her from the inevitable.

Snow sighs softly, but it doesn’t sound exasperated. If anything, it sounds almost...wistful, as if he’s reminiscing with an old friend rather than tormenting you.

“So clever,” he murmurs, his gloved hand withdrawing as he sits back. “So conniving at such a young age. Charmed the masses, killed his own allies... It’s commendable, truly. What he’s willing to do to survive.”

Your breathing stutters, your heart pounding painfully in your chest.

“It may be difficult for you to understand,” Snow continues, “but I was always rather fond of Mr. Odair.”

Your stomach turns violently. You know what becomes of Snow’s fondness.

“He reminds me of myself as a boy,” Snow says, his pale eyes distant, as though looking past you. “He’s willing to do whatever it takes to survive.”

Your heart hammers in your chest, your breathing shallow. “But–but why would he…he loves me,” you say, your voice cracking, trembling all over. “He does. He doesn’t need to do…that.”

Snow tilts his head slightly, as if the notion amuses him, like you’ve said something endearingly naive. “And what a valuable ally you are,” he says softly.

“He didn’t use me,” you say, nothing more than a croak. The words feel small in your mouth.

“Honesty, my dove.” Snow leans forward, resting his chin lightly on his steepled hands, a faint note of reprimand in his tone. “We do not deal in falsehoods. They have no place in this room.”

You force yourself to look at him, your nails digging into your palms. “He gains nothing by–by using me,” the word tastes bitter on your tongue. You can barely get it out. “So…so I know you’re wrong,” you say, though your voice falters.

“Don’t sell yourself so short,” Snow says, almost gently, and the softness is worse than his malice.

He leans back in his chair, watching you intently, and his gaze feels like it’s burrowing under your skin. “It wasn’t entirely one-sided, hm? You gained companionship,” he says, but it feels like judgment. “A ‘safe’ haven. Perhaps he gained something far more tangible: leverage, protection, someone to ease the burden. Love is not a sustainable resource. Love doesn’t fill an empty stomach. Love doesn’t keep out the cold or stop pneumonia from setting in. A true survivor knows that.”

You stare at him, your mind racing, your heart screaming that it’s a lie. That it has to be a lie. But the way he says it, so calm, so sure of himself—it makes you hesitate. Just for a moment. And that moment is enough.

Your mind feels sluggish, your thoughts clouded by the weight of his words. “You’re wrong,” you whisper, but the conviction is slipping. “He loves me.’’

“Am I?” He tilts his head again, and you regret ever opening your mouth in the first place. “You loved your father, didn’t you?” Snow asks, his tone light as the question rips the air from your lungs. “Why didn’t that love stop the noose from breaking his neck?”

The room tilts, the words slamming into your stomach with the force of a train, with the force of a noose. You feel your throat tighten as the weight of the memory crashes over you. All the while, Snow watches you with that maddening calm.

You can’t breathe, can’t think.

“These are only theories, of course,” Snow continues dismissively. Agreeing to disagree over some sort of philosophical debate. “Until we can ask him ourselves, we can only speculate.”

You can feel the pressure building behind your eyes, your throat tightening with the weight of unshed tears. But you won’t cry in front of him. You won’t give him the satisfaction. You swallow hard, clenching your fists so tightly that your nails dig painfully into your palms, and force yourself to hold onto the only truth you have left.

You know Finnick. You know him better than anyone. But his voice, his touch, his smile? They all feel distant now, clouded by Snow’s words. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t.

Could he?

The question festers, and you hate yourself for even thinking it. Yet, you can think of nothing but it.

Snow regards you for a moment longer, letting his last words settle into the room like a fog. His pale eyes linger on you, savoring the way your breath hitches, the faint quiver in your lip you try so desperately to still. His smile widens like a crack splitting across stone, as if the fracture itself satisfies him.

Leisurely, he adjusts the vase of roses on his desk yet again, his gloved fingers brushing one of the pristine white petals. The movement is infuriating, in its calmness, in its repetition. “But speculation has its uses, doesn’t it?” he muses. “It reveals things—truths we’re too afraid to confront.”

You swallow hard as you fight to keep your expression blank. You’ve already given too much away. Too much in the way you shift, the way your hands fist the fabric of your gown. But no matter how still you force yourself to be, you can feel his words burrowing into you.

Before you can fully steel yourself, he pivots, his gaze sharpening as it lands back on you. “Of course,” he begins, his tone now deceptively relaxed, “this raises an entirely different matter. As you would know, we normally don’t punish the family of traitors for one man’s failures.”

Your breath stutters in your chest, but you say nothing. He’s laying a trap, and you don’t know yet where it leads. But your unease builds, rolling over you in icy waves, your body tense and bracing for impact.

“However,” Snow continues, eyes finally leaving you to rove around his office, “with the influx of rebels, we’ll now have to trial any family as rebel sympathizers. Necessary policy adjustments, I’m sure you understand.”

For a moment, your vision goes black and fuzzy around the edges, and you’re certain you’ll pass out. Your hands grip the fabric of your gown so tightly that your knuckles ache. But you don’t let yourself react. Not aloud. Not where he can hear it. That’s exactly what he wants.

He leans forward slightly now, his eyes snapping back to you with a look that makes you flinch, cowering in on yourself. “Your mother still lives in that big, beautiful house by herself, doesn’t she?”

No, no, no. He can’t—he wouldn’t—

There are things happening to you that you can’t categorize or describe. You’ve never felt this kind of fear before; you never thought it possible.

“I allowed her to continue living there, of course,” Snow says, clasping his hands together with a faint creak of leather. The sound is too loud in the silence. “All because of my mercy.”

The world tilts. Your vision tunnels again, and you feel yourself sway, the air around you thick and suffocating. You’re in the blood rain again. You’re going to vomit.

That can’t be true. It can’t. The rebels promised she’d be safe. They swore it. They said they’d get her out, no matter what happened to you. It was their final thank-you, they said. For everything you’d done. For what you’d sacrificed.

They swore it.

Does anybody keep their promises?

You bite down hard on the inside of your cheek, struggling to hold onto the thread of control slipping through your fingers. You can’t call his bluff. You can’t risk it. He’s waiting for you to break. He’s waiting for you to give him exactly what he wants.

But your mind races, clawing desperately for some certainty, some thread of hope to anchor yourself to. You force your face to stay neutral, but you can feel the heat rising in your cheeks, the tremor in your hands that you can’t quite still. Snow sees it. He always sees it.

And he knows. He always knows.

“Such a shame,” he says, and you’d call his voice venomous if it wasn’t so indifferent, “that we’re forced to make these changes. I had hoped to avoid unnecessary…losses.” He lets the word hang in the air. “But rebellion leaves me with so few options.”

You want to scream at him, call him a liar, but your throat feels like it’s closing, your fear stealing your voice.

“Isn’t it curious, though?” he continues, tilting his head slightly, as if lost in thought. “How easily safety can be taken for granted. Mercy, after all, is such a fragile thing. It can’t survive in chaos. It can’t thrive in defiance.” His gaze sharpens as he straightens in his chair. “Mercy is a finite resource. Much like love, it must be earned. Sustained.”

His words are daggers, each one sliding deeper, twisting, finding every vulnerable piece of you. He knows where to aim. He always has.

Your silence stretches too long, and Snow smiles again, that faint, hollow thing that feels more like a scar than an expression. “I do hope your mother continues to enjoy her home,” he says, and you could almost imagine having this very conversation over tea with how casual it is. “It would be such a pity to see her…displaced.”

The word hangs in the air like an executioner’s axe, its implications ringing louder than the word itself, ready to lop your neck off. You bite down harder on your lip, the metallic tang of blood sharp on your tongue. You make yourself nod once. Small, stiff, mechanical. It’s the only thing you can do.

“Good,” Snow murmurs, leaning back again. “I knew you would understand.”

You sit there, frozen. Your heart pounds painfully in your chest, each beat like a hammer driving you deeper into despair. Every instinct screams at you to respond, to fight back. But what could you say? Denying him will only make him push harder. Agreeing with him will hand him everything he needs.

So you say nothing.

But Snow smiles anyway, as if your silence is victory enough. Winner in a game you didn’t even realize you were playing.

Your gaze drops, falling down, down, down to your hands. Smooth, raw, shaking. Your nails dig into your bare thighs, trying to ground yourself in a body that no longer feels like your own.

And Snow watches you. Weighing you. His expression softens, not into kindness, never that. It is a pale imitation of gentleness. Then, slowly, he rises to his feet, his hands smoothing the front of his coat in a motion so deliberate it feels ceremonial. The small smile playing on his lips isn’t just satisfaction—it’s pride, as though he’s accomplished something significant. Something he’s proud of.

“This isn’t cruelty, my dear,” he says pensively, and you could nearly trick yourself into thinking you’re a cherished companion of his. If you believed he was capable of feeling such a thing for anyone. “Though I imagine it must feel that way to you. No, everything I’ve done, all of this, is because I care.”

Your stomach twists, bile rising in your throat. Care. He says it like it means something.

“I care for you,” he continues. “Not just as a citizen of Panem, though that alone would be enough. But as an individual. Someone with… so much potential. You see, I believe in your capacity to survive, your ability to thrive.”

His words are honey-laced with arsenic, dripping with false warmth. You want to shout at him, scream that you don’t want his care, don’t need his belief. But your throat feels thick, clogged with his lies and your own terror, and all you can do is listen as he spins his web around you.

“For as long as you prove your loyalty to Panem,” he says, each word measured, “I will continue to care for you. To provide for you. To protect you.”

You hear what he’s leaving unsaid. Loyalty to Panem means loyalty to him. Protection is only offered so long as you fall in line. Anything less than compliance will cost you everything.

You feel the leather of his glove against your cheek before you see his hand come closer. A thumb rubs over the apple of your cheek, trailing down to your chin, lifting your gaze up past the chair, past his legs, up to his eyes. They’re shaded from this angle, making his eyes even more ghastly.

Your body tenses, but you don’t speak. What could you possibly say? Snow leans forward now, his pale gaze fixed on you, his voice dropping just slightly, as though sharing a secret meant only for you.

“You should rest. Gather your strength. But first, you’ll need to check in with the doctor.”

The doctor. The word pulls you out of your haze, confusion flickering across your face before you can stop it. The doctor?

Snow notices, of course. He always notices. He smiles, small and sharp, as if your confusion is some sort of private joke. “Oh, you’ll want to hurry,” he says lightly, releasing you. “Punctuality is a virtue.”

Your lips part, the faintest beginning of a question forming on your tongue, but you don’t get the chance to ask it. Snow presses a button on his desk, the soft click echoing through the room. Behind you, the door opens, and the draft brushes the back of your neck. It’s faint, almost imperceptible, but it makes your skin crawl. You’re already cold.

Two gloved hands grab your arms, firm but unrelenting. Peacekeepers. One on each side. They haul you to your feet, the sudden motion making your side burn, and a pained gasp slips out before you can stop it. Your hands and feet have already frozen over; any pain from them is dull in comparison. You don’t have the strength to fight them, and even if you did, you know better than to try. You let them drag you, your feet barely finding the floor as they march you toward the door.

You stare at Snow, your gaze locking with his as they pull you backward. He doesn’t move, doesn’t flinch, his eyes holding yours as steadily as if he were the one restraining you.

“Give my regards to Dr. Steel,” he says, his voice pleasant.

The door slides shut behind you, cutting off the sterile air of his office, but the weight of his words lingers, settling heavily in your chest. You don’t struggle against the Peacekeepers. You don’t have the will. Your bare feet slide against the cold, polished floor as they drag you down the endless halls.

-

The room they drag you into is a reflection of everything you’ve seen since you woke up.

The walls are the same glaring white as the halls, smooth and seamless, offering no hint of where one panel ends and the next begins. Everything gleams: polished steel, blinding white tiles, fluorescent lights that buzz faintly above you. There’s nothing personal in the room, no warmth, no imperfections, only sharp edges and flat surfaces.

There are no windows, no natural light, only the harsh glow of the strips overhead.

Even the air feels unnatural, stinking of faint chemicals. It’s sharp and artificial, like antiseptic and ozone. It pricks at your nose, makes the back of your throat sting. You can feel it settling on your skin like a film. At the center of the room, under the merciless overhead light, is the chair.

It’s not really a chair, not in the way you’d think of one. It’s something designed for function, not comfort. The seat is hard, molded plastic or steel, you can’t tell. The rest is made of metal, shimmering silver and chrome, and it’s bolted to the floor, immovable.

The base is solid, the armrests wide and flat with leather straps hanging loosely from each one. There’s a headrest, tilted slightly back, and you can see the faint indentations on the surface where other heads must have rested before yours. A thick bundle of wires snakes out from the back of it, trailing across the floor to a machine that hums softly in the corner of the room.

The machine itself is alien and a labyrinth of knobs, switches, and translucent displays that flicker with symbols you don’t recognize. You don’t know what half of them mean, and you don’t want to. There’s a cold, mechanical menace to the way it hums, as though it’s alive, waiting for its next command. Two assistants flank the chair; their movements precise, their faces blank. They’re dressed in crisp white uniforms that match the walls, their gloves spotless, their posture unnervingly rigid. With their faces half-covered by masks, each one looks as impersonal as the last.

Their gazes skim over you like you’re an object, a task to be handled, nothing more. They don’t speak as you’re handed off to them. They guide you forward, their grips firm but devoid of malice. They don’t need to speak. Their purpose is clear.

You don’t fight. You can’t. Your body is too heavy, too raw, your mind too fractured to muster any resistance. They press you into the chair, and it’s colder than you're prepared for, the metal biting through the thin fabric of your gown and downright tearing at the exposed skin that comes in contact with it.

The armrests splay wide, forcing your arms out to either side, held down by tight, unyielding straps. Your legs are similarly restrained, spread apart, ankles cuffed to the chair’s base. There’s nowhere to hide, nowhere to shift, nowhere to go. The headrest cradles your skull like a vice, straps across your forehead and chin, keeping you from moving more than a fraction of an inch. The restraints are snug; any attempts to wriggle free only dig them deeper into your skin. The entire position makes your side flare, the dull ache threatening to boil over, but you grit your teeth and try to breathe through it.

The assistants step back, moving in perfect synchronization, and for a moment, the room is silent except for the low, steady hum of the machine.

The rest of the assistants—you try to count how many of them there are, many of which look so identical that you have to recount over and over—move around you in near silence, their footsteps so faint and unhurried that your mind conjures an image of them floating.

None of them speaks. They don’t meet your eyes. They don’t even look at you, not really. They’re almost ghost-like in the way they glide from one piece of equipment to the next, retrieving tools, adjusting knobs, checking wires. Their movements are methodical, detached. You feel more project than patient.

Your mind races, one of the only parts of you capable of movement. Snow mentioned a Dr. Steel. Did he mean this room? Was it just a cruel joke about the chair you’re becoming well acquainted with?

And then, he enters.

You hear his footsteps first. Slow, echoing faintly against the floor. A rhythmic, measured tapping. When he steps into view, your first thought is how composed he looks, how calculated.

He’s a tall man, lean but not lanky, with a presence that makes the room feel even smaller.

His suit is sharp and tailored to perfection. It is a deep charcoal that seems incredibly out of place in this sea of white and silver. The crisp edges of the fabric cut clean lines against his frame. His hair is swept back, dark blond streaked with silver at the temples, every strand knowing its place.

His gloves are black, and like the rest of him, the contrast is striking. He walks with a grace that feels out of step with the clinical severity of the space, like he’s been plucked from a dinner party. But it’s his face that unsettles you most. It’s his face that draws you in and keeps you there, whether you want to or not.

He’s handsome, in a way that feels dangerous. Or maybe it’s a face that should be handsome, should be inviting, but there’s something wrong. His features are as sharp as the rest of him, carved by someone who valued symmetry over realism.

His cheekbones are high, his jawline razor-sharp with no hairs in sight, and his thin eyebrows don’t raise or furrow. They don’t articulate anything. They give nothing away; not a flicker of emotion, not a hint of humanity. There’s an elegance to his features, but it’s the kind that masks cruelty.

And his eyes… God, his eyes.

They’re a pale, pale blue. The kind of pale that feels wrong. Something vital’s been leached out of them, drained until there’s nothing left but the cold residue of powder. Snow’s eyes are pale, too. Faded, clouded, like the blue cataracts of the blind. Snow’s gaze always felt like it hung over you, distant and ghostly, like the creeping inevitability of death itself. Impersonal. Unshakable. His eyes were terrible, yes, but their terror came from what they refused to show. They hung above you, lofty and untouched, as if nothing human could ever reach them. Snow’s eyes didn’t look at you; they looked through you.

But his eyes?

They’re the frosted film of the dead.

They almost shine, like a thin layer of ice glinting under a pale winter sun. No, they latch onto you, burrowing under your skin like splinters. They don’t freeze you in place—they cut. Slice. Peel. Sew you back up again with parts missing and gained. His gaze moves too much, roves over you like a scalpel searching for the best place to start. There’s no stillness in them, no blindness. His eyes see everything, and yet they feel utterly lifeless. Glassy and cold and hollow, like the corpse of something that died hungry and refused to stay buried. Like something that doesn’t care to stay dead.

You thought Snow’s eyes were the most unnerving thing you’d ever seen—the kind of stare that made you feel small and helpless, like you were already buried six feet under and just waiting for him to shovel the last heap of dirt. But these? These are worse. So much worse.

They crawl over your skin, prying, probing, reaching deep like fingers under a wound—a feeling you’ve felt again and again. They don’t feel human, not really. Not because of their color, though that doesn’t help—but because of what lives behind them. Or what doesn’t. There’s no mercy in them. No pity. No distance. Just an emptiness so serrated it cuts you open and digs its way inside.

Snow’s gaze judges you from above. Dr. Steel’s gaze dissects you from within.

You can’t breathe. You can’t think. You can’t look away.

The frosted film of the dead, yes—but you were wrong. There is something alive beneath it. And it’s looking straight at you.

His gloves draw the eye again. Black leather, smudged faintly at the fingertips, likely from years spent working with delicate tools that have worn the pristine shine away. He wears them like they’re a second skin, flexing his fingers absently as he watches the assistants prepare you. You’re not sure if the gloves are for precision or protection, but they make the simple act of movement—of touch—feel intimate in a way that makes your stomach turn.

Dr. Steel doesn’t move like the assistants. He doesn’t hurry, doesn’t glide. His every step is purposeful, an elegant dance where you’re his unwilling partner. He doesn’t need to rush. This room belongs to him. You can feel it in the way the assistants defer to him with every flicker of a glance, the way they stand just slightly straighter when he passes. He doesn’t need to speak to command them.

He circles you slowly, the soles of his shoes clicking softly against the floor. The sound echoes faintly in the room, filling the silence left by the assistants’ quiet movements. His gaze is heavy, lingering on you as though you’re something to be studied, dissected, cataloged. He looks at you like you’re an equation he’s already solved, a puzzle he’s taken apart and put back together again in his mind a hundred times before this moment.

And yet, there’s something in his demeanor that feels uncomfortably…human. It’s not warmth, not even close, but an unsettling kind of fascination, like he’s looking at you and seeing something no one else can.

He speaks.

“Good evening,” he murmurs, his voice low and smooth, the kind of voice that could lull you into a sense of safety if not for the words it carries. He stops just in front of you, clasping his hands behind his back as he tilts his head. “You’re awake. How fortunate. I always find the initial assessment is far more…illuminating when the subject is conscious.”

Subject. The word hits you like a slap, and you bristle instinctively. He notices, of course.

“I am Dr. Steel,” he continues, his tone polite. “And you, madam, are my newest patient.”

You note the correction from subject to patient, but that’s all you do.

You don’t answer. You can’t. Your throat feels like it’s closing, and you’re not sure you could force words out even if you tried. But it doesn’t matter. He doesn’t seem to want your words.

“Please, don’t trouble yourself with unnecessary questions,” he says, confirming your thoughts. “All will be explained in due time. For now, I’m afraid we have a rather tight schedule to adhere to. You understand, I’m sure.”

Your gaze darts to the assistants, hoping to find some flicker of humanity there, some chance of reason. But they avoid your eyes, their focus entirely on their work. They’re laying out equipment on a tray—white squares, wires, syringes. Your stomach churns at the sight of it, but you force yourself to look away, to stare at the ceiling instead. It’s blank. Endless.

Dr. Steel steps closer, his gloved hand reaching for your face. You flinch, but the straps keep you in place. His fingers brush lightly against your skin, tilting your chin up until your eyes meet his. There’s a curiosity there. Your blood runs cold at the sight of it.

“There’s no need to be afraid,” he says in a way that could be mistaken for kindness. “Pain, after all, is a necessary part of progress. You’ll find that the human mind is far more resilient than you might think. Malleable, even.”

He straightens, his hand leaving your face, and turns toward the medical tray. “Now,” he says, picking up a small white square with a thin wire trailing from it, “we’ll begin with a simple test. Nothing too invasive, I assure you. This is merely an aptitude assessment—a way for me to better understand how best to help you.”

You’re scared stiff despite, and partially because of, his attempts at comforting you. It’s hard to pay attention to him and not the flurry of silent movement in your peripheral vision, or the frantic beating of your heart.

“You’re likely wondering what I’m about to do,” he says without looking at you. A mercy. He presses a button, or maybe he adjusts a dial, and the translucent display glows a faint blue. “Or perhaps you’re wondering why I’m doing it. Both are fair questions, though I doubt the answers will bring you much comfort.”

You sit there helplessly as he presses the square against your temple, the adhesive cold and wet. The machine’s humming picks up like a beast purring as he operates it with ease. Sitting this close, the sound settles like static in your ears, scratching faintly at your nerves.

You jerk your head, instinctively trying to pull away, but a hand—not rough, but firm—keeps you in place.

“What—” Your voice cracks, trembling with the weight of your fear. “What are you doing?” It’s the only question you can force past the panic rising in your chest. A stupid one, because he's right. Knowing what’s coming won’t help you any, but you need to know.

The man pauses, tilting his head slightly, as if your words are the most curious thing he’s ever heard. Slowly, he straightens and looks at you, and you wish you hadn’t asked. He smiles something scarily genuine, and his face doesn’t bend the way it should. No wrinkles crease at his eyes, no laugh lines pull at his mouth. There aren’t even any soft creases in his skin. Not in the Capitol way, not Botox or cosmetic corrections. He is a man unacquainted with joy, and it’s clearly an unpracticed expression.

“I am so very pleased you asked,” he says, and you believe him. “Normally, those in your position waste their breath on crying or begging. They turn this joyous experience into a spectacle. And, well,” his voice turns conspiratorial. “I’ve always preferred academics.”

You swallow thickly, spit going down like cotton. “What’s the point of any of that?” You ask, surprising even yourself. Your voice cracks, dry as a dead leaf. You lick your chapped lips. “Crying or begging, I mean. I—I doubt it’s worked on you before.”

His smile falters—just slightly, just enough to let you see the flash of something behind it. Interest. He takes a small step closer, looming over you. His sharp eyes wander over your face, eager, assessing, waiting. You want to shrink away, but you can’t. The straps keep you pinned, and what little of your pride remains refuses to let him see you cower more than he already has. So instead, you fix your gaze on the ceiling and finish, “Why would I be any different?” He turns with a small hum and begins to fiddle with the tools on his medical tray. Since your head is strapped in place, your eyes are the only thing you can move to follow him.

“Very astute analysis.” His gloved hands pick up another set of squares, their edges gleaming faintly with gel. “And in such a short period of time.” He presses them to your forehead, one after the other, the freezing adhesive making you blink. “These,” he says, gesturing with a gloved hand to the wires trailing from the squares, “are electrodes. Through them, I will deliver a controlled electrical current to your brain. The goal is to induce a seizure.”

Your head jerks without your input again. His words swim in your head, but you can’t seem to piece them together. Electric current. Brain. Seizure. They don’t belong in the same sentence. They shouldn’t. They can’t.

Your heart lurches in your chest, and you struggle against the restraints, but it’s no use. “Why?” you rasp, your voice barely audible.

“Why?” He tilts his head again, like a bird of prey. “Because the mind is an endlessly fascinating thing. Memories, emotions, identity itself—they’re so easily…edited. Altered. Or removed entirely. And you,” he breathes, “are a most promising candidate.”

He’s already at the machine before you can respond, his hands sliding across its controls with a kind of care you thought him incapable of. The translucent display glows from blue to green, covered in symbols and graphs that blur under your glare. He flips a switch, presses buttons, and adjusts dials. You can see the glow of the display reflected faintly in his eyes, giving them an unnatural brightness.

He pauses, resting his finger lightly on a button labeled STIMULUS CONTROL.

“How bad will it hurt?” The question tumbles out before you can stop it. You don’t bother asking if it will hurt. You already know.

He pauses, turning his head to look at you with a kind of delighted curiosity. “Oh,” he says softly, gently, his lips curling back into that strange, unsettling smile. “Horrifically. The kind of pain that can’t be described. The sweetest kind of torture.” He leans closer, so close you can see his blond eyelashes, his voice dropping to a murmur. “But you’ll endure it. You’ll survive. That’s what makes you so fascinating.”

Your heart pounds so violently now that you’re certain it might actually burst. His finger lingers above the button, and your chest heaves as you try to suck in air, but it’s no use. He’s watching you again, his gaze crawling over your face, and you wince like it’s a physical thing.

“I think,” he murmurs, seemingly to himself, “I’ll enjoy our time together quite a bit, madam.”

He nods to someone behind you, and you stiffen as a woman steps into view. Her eyes are vacant, her face expressionless as she moves closer. One of her hands forces your mouth open, her grip mechanical and unyielding. Her other hand pushes something bulky between your teeth. A mouthguard. It’s rubbery and alien on your tongue, the handle protruding awkwardly from your lips. You feel the hard plastic edges dig into the corners of your mouth as the faint taste of chemicals coats your tongue. There’s a hole in the center, you realize—a cruelly calculated design, just big enough to let you keep breathing.

The rubber tastes like ash, chemical, and acrid on your tongue. It wedges between your teeth, forcing your jaw open until your muscles strain and ache. You can’t scream. You can’t even bite down on the pain. All you can do is breathe wet, ragged gasps through the gaping hole they’ve left you.

“We wouldn’t want to ruin that pretty mouth of yours,” he says.

His voice drops to something quieter, more intimate, just before he presses the button. “You know,” he tilts his head, reflecting something you can’t name back at you, “it’s fascinating, really. How little it takes to reshape a thing.”

The machine hums louder, gears shifting beneath the surface.

The electrode pulses against your temple, icy at first, then hotter. The heat spreads outward, jagged and quick, sinking deep into your skull.

Your muscles coil. Tight. So tight your bones might snap under the strain.

A sharp breath leaves your lungs as the woman refits the mouthguard into place.

I’ll be fine.

The thought isn’t yours. It sounds like Finnick.

The rubber pinches at the corners of your mouth.

I’ll be fine.

The hum crescendos.

You smell it before you feel it. Burning hair, maybe yours.

“Sometimes the mind plays tricks when it's under stress,” Steel says, adjusting the electrode along your temple. “It’s common during these sessions. Perfectly normal. Most ignore it.”

The electrode now bites deeper, searing into your skin.

He presses the button.

I’ll be fine—

The first jolt hits you like lightning striking a tree, and for a moment, the world fractures. It feels as though every nerve in your body ignites at once, a surge of blinding, white-hot pain that makes you want to tear yourself apart just to escape it. You think of a cow you once saw struck by lightning. You think of how it thrashed on its side, kicking sluggishly. How its hoarse, broken moos echoed through the field. You remember its eyes rolling back, the way it laid still afterward, trembling like a leaf caught in a storm.

You feel like that cow now. Struck dumb. Kicking. Something raw and primal rips out of your throat, muffled by the mouthguard, but it’s not enough to drown out the sharp, mechanical click of the machine as it surges again. And again.

Your back arches.

The lights grow brighter. So bright.

Your muscles seize, locking you into a position that feels unnatural, unbearable. Your vision flickers in and out, the ceiling above you warping and twisting, morphing into flashes of something else. Memories, maybe. Or hallucinations. Or both. You’re not sure anymore. You’re not sure of anything except the pain, the way it digs into the edges of your mind, leaving pieces of you scattered in its wake.

And then, mercifully, it stops.

You’re dimly aware of your body slumping back against the chair, the straps digging into your skin as you gasp through the mouthguard. You don’t have the strength to move, barely the strength to think. Somewhere in the distance, you hear a voice—his—, but it feels far away. Like it’s coming from underwater.

"Good," you think he says. "That was a promising start."

The world is still, and you float somewhere between the pain and oblivion. The chair hums beneath you, faint vibrations trickling through the bolts holding it to the floor. A high-pitched ringing pulses faintly in your skull.

The straps dig into your shoulders, but the edges of your skin feel numb. Were they always this tight?

Your chest heaves, each breath rattling through the rubbery mouthpiece wedged between your teeth. The taste lingers, bitter and stale. Someone’s speaking nearby—you think—but the words drift in and out, slippery and distant.

You try to swallow, but your throat won’t work properly.

Something shifts behind you, and with a soft click, the mouthguard slackens. Your jaw loosens with it, muscles trembling with the release. It's not a relief. Your teeth feel too far apart. Will they ever fit together again?

The woman wipes something from your lips.

Why?

You blink slowly, dragging your gaze toward the assistants. The edges of their faces blur, indistinct shadows circling you. The hum of the machine tapers off, but the weight of something invisible still sits at the base of your skull.

Your fingers twitch faintly against the restraints. One at a time. Curling. Testing. The tips press into your palm—cold, clammy, unfamiliar.

My hands. My hands. They’re mine.

Your body sags against the chair, limp and wrung out like wet fabric. The mouthguard slips from between your teeth with a slick pop, dangling from its strap as one of the assistants sets it aside.

It’s over.

Your head lolls to the side, eyes half-lidded, catching glimpses of white shoes moving around you. Distant shapes, smudged by the fuzz at the edge of your vision. A hand touches your wrist, fingers curling over the welt left by the strap. The pressure is light. The kind of touch that makes you want to cry.

Dr. Steel’s voice slips through the fog. “Release her.”

The assistants move without hesitation, loosening the bindings at your wrists, your ankles. They unfasten the straps completely, and your arms drop to your sides, heavy and boneless. The weight of them makes you wince. They guide your arms down to your lap, lifting your head upright with just enough care to stop you from slumping forward.

You don’t move. Not yet. Not until you can trust that the floor beneath you is real.

Your legs dangle uselessly from the chair, trembling too hard to hold you if they made you stand. But they don’t.

It’s over.

You tell yourself that over and over, desperate to believe it.

Steel crouches in front of you, so close that you can see the faint reflection of yourself in his pale, glassy eyes. He tilts his head, studying you with that quiet fascination.

“You’re still with me,” he murmurs, fondly. His hand rises, brushing along your damp forehead to your damp hairline. “Good. We’re making progress.”

His thumb catches on your chin, gently lifting your face to meet his. A small light flickers on in his other hand. It’s bright and invasive as he shines it into your eye.

You try to turn away, but his grip tightens just enough to stop you. The light dances back and forth, pulling at the threads of your focus. His eyes flick between yours, pupils tightening as the light flashes. He hums low in his throat, satisfied.

“Pupillary response is adequate,” he says, as if you aren’t even there. “Coordination appears…intact.”

His palm lingers over your pulse, pressing lightly at the hollow of your throat. His fingers slide up, pressing against your jaw, coaxing your mouth open with patience.

“Let me see.”

You don’t move. You can’t move.

He hums softly, unimpressed, and his thumb slips between your lips, prying your mouth open wider. Your muscles tremble from strain.

His thumb drags along your cheek, tugging the soft flesh outward, then trails across your gums.

Slow, methodical.

This isn’t my mouth.

This isn’t my body.

I left this chair an hour ago.

His touch lingers at the edge of your teeth. His thumb presses down, tracing the ridges of your molars like he’s cataloging them.

“Good…good,” he murmurs, pulling your cheek to the side. His thumb scrapes the back of your tongue, making you gag, but he doesn’t stop. His thumb presses down, flattening it, testing the softness there. “No fractures. Minimal soft tissue damage. Remarkable durability.”

You hear the soft scratch of pens behind him—assistants scribbling notes, recording the details of your body like numbers in a ledger.

Steel releases your mouth, but the absence feels worse. His other hand lifts from your throat, dragging down the length of your arm. His hands skim along your wrists, thumbs brushing over the faint indents left by the straps. Your skin burns beneath his touch, raw and tender.

“They’re already sore,” he says aloud, absently, for the assistants to jot down. “A healthy reaction.”

He lingers too long, considering something.

You barely notice the assistants anymore. They drift at the edges of your vision, quiet as the shadows on the walls.

Until one of them moves toward the machine.

It’s subtle. Just a flick of the switch. The blue glow returns, flickering faintly across the screen.

Your breath slows.

It’s just a reset.

Standard cleanup.

They’re powering it down.

But the hum doesn’t fade.

Steel's hands pause at your throat, feeling the fragile flutter of your pulse beneath his thumb. It picks up from its sluggish churning. He smiles knowingly. You don’t want to decipher what it means.

You barely hear his next words.

“But I think you can take more.”

Your body goes rigid.

Suddenly, the straps are tightening around your wrists and ankles once more.

Your mouth falls open, but no sound escapes.

Dr. Steel’s voice is calm, but his smile is razor-thin.

“Let’s begin again, shall we?”

The mouthguard clicks back into place.

The light shifts from blue to green to yellow.

The hum rises.

You brace for the pain. And then—

And then…

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Footsteps.

Faint, but deliberate. Somewhere behind you. Too far to be Steel.

Your eyes flick to the assistants. None of them moves. Their eyes stay fixed ahead, hands adjusting knobs, pressing buttons in mechanical synchronization. You can’t speak around the rubber biting into your mouth, can’t turn your head far enough to see—

But you know someone’s there.

The hum rises.

Steel leans closer, sliding his hand along your jaw. “Try to stay with me this time,” he murmurs, brushing his thumb lightly across your cheek. His touch leaves something cold behind, an invisible mark. Like a brand.

But the footsteps… they’re still there. Pacing behind you.

You try to shift, the restraints cutting into your wrists. Steel tilts his head slightly, like a parent humoring a child mid-tantrum.

“Is something wrong?” he asks, though his tone says he already knows.

You shake your head—or try to.

He brushes sweat or tears or both from under your eye. Why? “Don’t get distracted. There’s no one here but us.”

Tap. Tap.

Your stomach flips.

The footsteps stop.

Steel doesn’t.

His hands ghost over your temple, adjusting the electrodes. “You’re stronger than most. But strength has limits. We’ll find yours.”

The light flickers from blue to green.

Tap.

Behind you.

Your fingers twitch uselessly against the straps.

You hear breathing now. Someone else’s. Close. So close you feel it against the nape of your neck, hot and damp.

But Steel is in front of you.

Your chest tightens. The hum crescendos.

“Relax,” Steel murmurs, eyes glinting under the harsh white lights. “You’re imagining things.”

He presses the button.

The pain returns like fire licking the inside of your skull—

But this time, you can’t decide what terrifies you more.

Steel.

Or whatever’s breathing down your neck.

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