𝗟𝗜𝗧𝗧𝗟𝗘 𝗦𝗣𝗔𝗥𝗞 ᐅ 𝙛𝙞𝙣𝙣𝙞𝙘𝙠 𝙤𝙙𝙖𝙞𝙧

𝙊𝙉𝙀

⌌⊱⇱⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊷⊶⊰⌍
You might want to be
careful or you'll turn
out like me.
⌎⊱⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊷⊶⇲⊰⌏

The days following my victory in the 69th Hunger Games had been a blur of people, emotions and occasions, each begging for my attention with such intensity I felt a splitting pain in my head. Today was my big interview with Ceasar Flickerman... I'd have to watch the entirety of the games, watch Helia, Caspian and the Careers die for the second time. My stomach was bubbling with nerves, and my hands shook as I stood backstage, letting the dim lights hide me in whatever shadows I could find.

The sound of the audience's cheers transported me back to the arena — no, I was back in the arena. I could feel the hot air against my cheek, the warm blood pooling in my hands and the four dead bodies surrounding me. Their tattered limbs clawed at me; they begged me for the release of death. The screams and hoots of the crowd rang in my ears in an endless symphony of deliriousness. I blinked, desperately trying to escape. They put me back in. How could they put me back in?

Something firm bashed against me, snapping me out of my trance. "Watch it!" I snapped as steady hands caught my arms.

I looked up to meet the sea-green gaze of Finnick Odair — Caspian's mentor. His soft hair fell artfully over his eyes in delicate, wispy strands as he raised his brows at me. What little light that escaped the over-saturation of the stage hit the back of his head, creating a halo effect around his head, making his tanned skin seem golden.

"Keep the violence in the arena, won't you?" He teased lightly, his deep voice like honey.

And I immediately hated him. Maybe it was the arrogance he radiated. Maybe it was the tone of his voice, or maybe it was simply because I needed something to channel my hatred for the Capitol into. I narrowed my eyes. "I'd hardly consider bumping into you violence."

"You'd be surprised what they consider violence in the Capitol."

"Of course. I almost forgot you were the Capitol Darling."

If he sensed the venom in my tone, he certainly didn't pay attention to it. Instead, he laughed, as though we were having the most delightful conversation in the world, his dimples standing out as he smiled. "Its nothing if not entertaining."

"Are all victors this pompous?"

"Of course they are," he scoffed. "You might want to be careful or you'll turn out like me. And don't worry, I'll pretend I didn't hear your insult considering you're clearly very stressed out right now."

He knew he was irritating me. That's why he was smiling — he got some sort of kick out of frustrating me. Who does that? However, he was proving a very compelling distraction from the terror looming over me in the form of Ceasar Flickerman and the reliving of a glorified massacre.

"I'm not stressed out, you're just irritating."

"Funny, most people say the opposite." He winked playfully.

A pause.

"I'm kidding. God, the games really messed with your humour, didn't they?"

"Yes, that's what tends to happen when you're in a death game with twenty three people who want to kill you."

"Twenty two," he corrected. "That's actually wanted to thank you for—"