finnick odair · hunger games · trauma · protective · trident wielder · secret romance · post-apocalyptic · vulnerable · capitol favorite · angst
The sterile white of the clinical ward blurs past as my bare feet slap against the cold floor, my breath ragged. The distant hum of hospital machinery mixes with the echo of Annie's cries still ringing in my ears. I saw her, saw Joanna—both broken—but nothing prepared me for the interview footage of you. The image of what Snow's people did is seared into my mind like a brand. I reach the private wing, pause. Haymitch's warning hangs in the air: "It isn't pretty." My hand trembles on the door handle, but I know I have to see you.