A/N: In which Finnick finds himself in a position that he is not expecting, Sil's masks return with a vengeance, and certain secrets come into the light...

Bear with me while I respond to all these reviews (thank you!)

Aleahyo: I gotta keep you on the edge of your seat somehow, right? This chapter should help with that ;)

liraashryver: Sorry for leaving you on a cliffhanger! Your answers will be found below - well, some of them, anyway. I can't give everything away too easily!

Hunger games fan: You're not alone, I don't have a life outside of fanfics either lol. Hope you enjoy this update and that it was worth the wait!

Guest: Well, one of your questions will be answered in this chapter, though I'm not sure you'll be too happy about it - for now, anyway. And Emma Rigby is kind of perfect...especially the way she portrayed her character in OUATIW. (Is that how they write that? Lol) I'm gonna have to rewatch that show with that in mind. Anyway - thanks for the review!

J: I'm glad you like Sil so much. I love her :) And yeah, Finnick is very oblivious in this story. He kind of needed to be in order for this plot to work in the way I intended it to. But everything will pan out eventually!

Readingbeansprout: Thank you! Sil is one of my favorite OCs. She's so fun to write!

mykk47: Finnick POV is here! How did you know? Lol. There are many more plot twists after the ones in this chapter. It should keep you guessing for a while yet ;)

Dazzyrox: Welllll he'll find out soon. But you'll just have to wait and see how it happens ;D

justabookreader: The wait is over! Hope you enjoy this update! Now we're getting into a new arc of the story which puts Sil into a bit of a tight corner concerning Finnick...but I'll let you read on and find all that out for yourself

Writeme516: Yeah, writer's block is awful isn't it? This is the first really long story that I've finished, and I think it's because I waited before posting it. It allowed me to focus on the writing itself rather than the feedback. In any case, it worked! And...lol, I hope you don't explode too much. ;) Hey, I've gotta keep you in suspense for a while longer! As for tips, I'm not really sure...I've been writing since middle school and my writing style has evolved a lot from where it was in the beginning (you don't want to see that, trust me). I think it helps when Finnick is one of the main characters - who wouldn't like writing for him? ;)

Guest: Thank you! So glad you like the story and Sil's character! I actually wasn't sure how other people would like her when I first started the story. She's definitely got a few different sides to her personality, some of which aren't the most stellar. I've had a lot of fun developing her and the plot itself though!

remifoster1313: I added the fight scene with Brutus after the fact, cause I thought it needed to be there. Glad you liked it! Fight scenes aren't my strong point. Sil is technically District 1, which means she was raised learning how to fight (at least to an extent). I figured it would interesting to showcase a little bit of that. And - separation angst? Read on ;) You may be surprised at the latest plot twist.

Guest: Lol! I hope your head is okay! Thanks for the review - and the laugh

Thanks for all the reviews on the last chapter! I'll be interested to know if any of you expected the plot twist that you're about to read! And - I'm sorry in advance, but it had to happen eventually ya know. I did say I would make them suffer, didn't I?


Chapter Twenty Nine | The cascading lilt of a single fiddle

"But he would not yield to the magic charm of this woman whom he had so deeply loved, and at whose hands his pride had suffered so bitterly. He closed his eyes to shut out the dainty vision of that sweet face, of that snow-white neck and graceful figure, round which the faint rosy light of dawn was just beginning to hover playfully." Emma Orczy, The Scarlet Pimpernel

Contrary to popular belief, Finnick Odair is not exempt from the feelings of hopelessness – he just has the ability to mask it with a smirk and a boyish wink. Most of the time. Needless to say, this is not one of those times. He wakes up in a blank room. His first thought is that it's too white, to a point of blindness. It takes him several minutes to fully adjust to it, and during those few minutes he becomes aware of several other things that contribute to his hopeless feelings.

A bed with starchy, uncomfortable sheets; bolts around his wrists and ankles that prevent him from moving; the subtle beeping sound of a monitor nearby, which increases with tempo each second he realizes where he is. No normal hospital would bolt him to a bed.

He tears his eyes open despite the way the bright room makes them water. The heart monitor beside the bed is frantic now, pulsing rapidly through the silence. He struggles to breathe and finds it oddly difficult. The panic rising up within him is turning against him.

He counts backwards in his mind, desperate for some of the calmness that he normally possesses. He is Finnick Odair, survivor of two Hunger Games and renowned Victor. He will not die from a panic attack after he's survived so much.

Of course, there are so many other ways to die in the Capitol.

"He's awake," a quiet voice sounds somewhere to the blurry left. Finnick turns his head in the direction but can't find it in him to keep his eyes open. They close, blink rapidly before opening once more. As much as he wants to succumb to the safety of sleep, he knows that it won't kept him from harm.

"…Call him," another voice murmurs, so quietly that Finnick can't quite catch the first part of the sentence. Yet he knows, deep in his gut, who they are referring to. Who else would they inform?

He struggles against his binds and gasps for breath, trying uselessly to loosen the ties. But even as he does, he knows there is no point. Even if he can get out of the binds, he is still stuck in the Capitol – a festering snake pit of which there is no escape. None, at least, that he could find in his condition.

"Should I sedate him while we wait?" one of the voices wonders. It's so clinical, cold, as if he is pondering something completely mundane. Finnick isn't sure he appreciates it.

"Mm…perhaps that would be for the best," the other man responds. The voices are louder now, but Finnick is too far gone to see when they approach his bed and administer the sedative. He is suddenly not seeing the hospital at all. Instead he sees the arena coming down around him and the woman lying beside his prone figure in the jungle dirt, screaming something unintelligible that sounds vaguely like his name.

As he drifts back into blackness, her screams follow him into the swirling night.


He wakes up again with a jolt.

Hours, minutes – he's not sure how long he's been out, but when he opens his eyes, Finnick wishes he'd stayed under for longer. The sight he's met with isn't entirely pleasant, but then again, President Snow never is.

The President is obviously waiting for him, because he's sitting comfortably beside the hospital bed with a book in his hand, as if he's here to visit an old friend. Finnick very much doubts that friendship is on Snow's mind, though, especially when he snaps the book shut with more force than is necessary and stares at him with soulless black eyes.

"You're finally awake. I was getting impatient. I have a country to run, you know," Snow says, a little too casually.

Finnick tries to push himself up onto his elbows and cringes when a wave of pain hits his body hard.

"Oh, don't get up on my account," Snow tells him, settling his book in his lap with a thoughtful expression. He blinks at his Victor. His property. Finnick swallows tightly.

This isn't exactly the kind of situation he thought he'd find himself in. He had hoped, perhaps foolishly, that he'd be in District 13 by now. Something must have gone wrong. Something must have –

"Sil," he mumbles, his throat parched and dry. His voice sounds unused and hoarse and he cringes again at the mere sound of it, but he can't spare the energy to worry about his current lack of charm. He's too busy wondering where Sil is, if she's okay – and what happened to her, anyway? Now that he's more aware of his surroundings than he'd been before, he realizes that he is alone in this room save for his current captor. There is no sign of the flippant, strangely clever blonde Victor who has been an unexpected variable in his life the last few months.

Snow chuckles and Finnick turns to him with a tight throat.

"There's no need to worry about Mrs. Odair. She is quite alright. Had a sparkling recovery. I do believe she might be the luckiest person I know," the President muses, and Finnick struggles to puzzle out a fresh wave of confusion. It takes him a minute to figure out that Snow is indeed talking about Sil. Mrs. Odair. They are supposedly married now in the eyes of the Capitol – a fact that Finnick has rather forgotten in his current state.

Snow sighs idly and tilts his head back. "It really is a hindrance that you tied yourself to that girl, Finnick. It produces quite a few problems. I warned you that I would have the final say in your relationship, did I not? I do wish you had listened to me."

A blast of panic shoots through Finnick and he croaks, "What did you do to her?" The demand in his voice makes Snow turn his eyes back to the Victor with a raised brow.

"What did I do? Why Finnick, I didn't do anything. She's right back to her parties and fashion shows – see for yourself." He gestures to the flashing screen of a television that Finnick had not seen before. It sits in an unassuming little corner of the room and it's muted. It takes Finnick more energy than he wants to admit to lift his head enough to see it properly, but when he does he's caught between two contradicting emotions.

Relief to see that Sil is alive and healthy, and aggravation to see that she is being broadcasted in the middle of a ritzy party, laughing as if she has no troubles and isn't even a little worried about him. She's certainly made an easy transition back into Capitol society, he thinks with a frown.

"Is this a live feed?" Finnick finds himself asking before he can rein the question in. He suddenly feels like he has to know.

Snow shrugs and buffs his fingernails against his pristine suit. "Yes. It's some post-Games Gala or some such thing. She insisted on hosting it." He waves his hand and admits, "I didn't see a problem with the idea. After that rebellious little stunt in the arena, the Capitol needs some relief. And besides, it helps that she collects names for me. Very useful."

Finnick turns back to the President with a confused expression. Sil collects names? Whatever for? The questions must be apparent on his face, because Snow raises both eyebrows in subdued surprise that is made false by the cruel amusement which edges around his smile.

"Didn't she tell you? She's been helping me root out rebels in the Capitol for years now. There's no one better suited to listen in on gossip. And, of course, she's been quite helpful in picking out potential clients interested in buying nights with you. But listen to me, droning on about Silver when we should be talking about you and your rebellious activities." Snow smiles like a snake and Finnick can't breathe.

Sil has been rooting out rebels for President Snow. Sil has led countless people to their deaths. Sil has handpicked clients for him to service. Has this been going on throughout the time they've been in their fake relationship? Has she been lying to him from the very beginning? The heart monitor begins to beep wildly and Snow sighs again, this time in annoyance.

"Really, Finnick, I'm surprised you didn't know all this. You did supposedly marry the woman, after all. I thought you knew what you got yourself into by tying yourself to a Cornelius."

He speaks as if he knows every family secret that the Cornelius's have ever tried to cover up. Finnick feels a little faint.

"What do you mean?" he asks, breathless with panic and crushing disappointment that feels rather like heartbreak.

Snow purses his mouth. His impatience is tempered with a glee that comes from Finnick's clueless eyes.

"The Cornelius's have always been traitorous revolutionaries. Silver's mother was caught trying to rescue a group of rebels who were hiding out in District 1. We were lucky that we were one step ahead of her. There's no knowing how much Silver remembers of her mother's rebellious habits, but I wouldn't underestimate her if I were you, Mr. Odair. After all, Silver has been going behind your back for years now, using you for her own gains."

Snow pauses and then laughs. "You didn't really think she meant it, did you? When she told you she loved you in the arena? How could she when she's played a hand in setting you up with all those women? No – she was protecting herself, as all Cornelius's do when they're backed into a corner."

Finnick stares listlessly at the ceiling, absorbing Snow's words. They don't add up, somehow, but in his desperation, Finnick can't figure out why. It's easier to just believe even though he knows he shouldn't trust a word Snow says.

"Now. Shall we talk about other things?" Snow slowly asks, steepling his fingers beneath his chin and blinking down at Finnick with those soulless eyes. "You may recall that I asked you for a favor several months ago. Have you lived up to it?"

The favor that he's speaking of is surely regarding the Sterling Nightingale. Snow had asked him to hunt the spy down; to find out, once and for all, who the man was. Yet, perhaps it is because of the recent events of the Quarter Quell, but Finnick has had no other opportunities to live up to this favor that Snow had asked of him. It must show in his eyes, because Snow frowns and leans back, staring at Finnick hard.

"I hardly think it's such a great feat, considering your connections to the vast network of clients you service," Snow says, and Finnick cringes at the phrase of the words. Something about the turn of them sounds inhuman, as if Finnick is only a robot meant to fulfill one purpose and one purpose only.

Snow raises an eyebrow at Finnick and casually reminds him, "I should tell you that we've collected someone from District 4, just in case you need further motivation."

Finnick freezes at this. It feels like frigid water has been pumped through his veins.

"Don't hurt Annie," he whispers, looking up at Snow with impassioned eyes – pleading for the first time in his life. The humiliation hardly adds up to the amount of fear that he feels though. Annie is his best friend. He would do anything to protect her. Anything.

His desperation floods his expression. Snow purses his lips, eyes gleaming with malice. "I have no desire to hurt her," he placates, lifting his hands as if he's at the end of his rope and doesn't know what to do. With a shrug, Snow says, "Find the Sterling Nightingale, and I will return Annie to District 4 unharmed. Do we have an agreement?"

Finnick swallows tightly and nods. Pressed into a corner as he is, there is no other response to such a demand.


Sil is not used to such deplorable living conditions.

She'd complained plenty, but the moment she was deemed 'well enough', she was moved from the hospital to her own apartment, where she'd been given a schedule written up by Snow's personal secretary. The details of it are arduous and painstaking, but she must admit that attending parties one after another and visiting the occasional hotel room is preferable to the torture waiting for her after hours.

Her life is its own brand of torture, really, but there's nothing quite like being led by Peacekeepers to the underbelly of the President's Mansion.

They haven't gotten anything out of her yet. She's quite sure that Snow doesn't even believe they will. She's Silver Lamprey Cornelius after all – brainless, inadequate. She's spent the last seven years building up the image of being the silliest girl in Panem. Why would they suspect her of being a rebel?

It doesn't stop the torture from coming, only lessens it to some degree. She still has her uses and must be kept in decent physical shape, so her personal brand of torture is fear-based, but equally as dreadful. At least tonight she doesn't have to worry about that. She's got quite a lot of other concerns to occupy her time.

"Mrs. Odair, what a spectacular gown you're wearing! I see you've made another trip to Gigi's for their winter fashion releases!"

"We all think it was so romantic of you to get married so suddenly! Finnick must be so relieved that you both made it out alive!"

"Silver, do tell us more about the arena – it makes me shiver just to think of it!"

Sil simpers at her crowd of spectators and waves her hand. "Gracious!" she trills loudly, tilting her head back as if she's had one too many drinks and is high on life. (She only wishes.) "You're all so impatient! I'm sitting for an interview with Caesar tomorrow – you'll just have to wait until then, my loves."

Her admirers groan in tandem like small children being denied a toy. Sil laughs and winks cheerfully, but inside she'd like nothing more than to roll her eyes. What is it with their obsession about her personal life? And why do they insist upon calling her Mrs. Odair? It drives her crazy.

The first time she heard it she hadn't heard properly, and thought that Finnick had magically appeared in the room. It had taken her a deplorable amount of time to realize that they'd been talking to her, not Finnick. They do all think she's a married woman now – something that she forgets more often than not because it's technically all a lie.

Sil smiles daintily and makes a quick escape, making a beeline to the drink table. She's always careful not to imbibe too much at these functions but tonight isn't like any other party. Everything is different now.

Finnick, as far as she knows, is still in the hospital. It's been a week since the Games and her less than stellar return to Panem's upper class society, and she hasn't heard a single thing about him save for one careful interview from President Snow.

He'd mentioned how the remaining Victors are recuperating and being questioned for criminal activity. He said that they would be released shortly if they were deemed 'fit for society' – but Sil is the only one who has apparently met that mark, probably because Snow needs her now more than ever to sniff out suspected rebels. It's almost amusing how she happens to be the biggest one of them all. It most likely would be if Sil isn't still partially suspected herself, merely for being a Victor.

Her worries about Finnick and the others are only a small part of her struggles these past few days. She's had to even more careful than usual. She's watched constantly, even in her apartment, and hasn't visited Mr. Dorsey's shop since before the Games. It's too risky for her to get in the middle of operations when all eyes are on her, and so she's had to leave it to Dorsey and Tommy and a handful of other Capitolite rebels to take on the mantle of the Nightingale. One good thing about this is that it directs attention away from her. One bad thing is that it makes her go crazy without being able to help.

"Mrs. Odair, you look absolutely ravishing tonight," a man says to her left as Sil is pouring herself a bright neon pink shot. She glances up and nearly laughs aloud at the sight of Tommy dressed to the nines in a posh suit with sparkly lapels – as is the current fashion trend for men. (That and dyed facial hair, but thankfully Tommy is always freshly shaven.)

"Dear me, I should think so!" Sil agrees in a rather upstaged version of her usual pompous accent. She winks at Tommy and adds, "It took my stylist three hours to get me ready tonight. She's dreadful, darling. So inadequate! How I wish Iridessa could come back and replace her."

She trills out a loud laugh and picks up her drink. The rim touches her lips and hides their movement when she murmurs, "Finnick?"

Tommy, who has turned to get a drink of his own, pauses for just a moment before pursing his mouth. That's how Sil knows it's bad.

"No change," he tells her quietly. For once Sil is grateful for the blaring music and harsh beating tones of the DJ.

Tonight's party is a little wilder than some of the others she's attended. There is no live orchestra or classical music to create a peaceful sway. Tonight it's all savage beats and short skirts and wrinkled dress shirts.

"Heard he's being released tonight. Don't know where, though," Tommy adds, and Sil blanches a little.

Where indeed. His deceptively safe apartment, or the torture chamber?

Sil downs the shot.

"And everything else is going smoothly?" she asks, and gives him a wide smile just in case someone is looking her way and wonders at the somber way she's holding herself.

Tommy grunts. "As smooth as it can. We've cut off communication with Coin until things settle down. Beetee made it out though – I'm sure he'll be able to come up with a safer way to send messages soon. He's smart, right?"

Sil hums. 'Smart' is probably an understatement. The man's a genius.

"Silver! Darling, you look spectacular. Come and dance with us!" a Capitol woman that Sil vaguely recognizes suddenly says, throwing herself into Sil's personal space with a glowing smile and eager eyes. Sil immediately laughs even though she'd like nothing more than to throw the woman off.

"Gracious, I thought you'd never ask, my love!" Sil exclaims, like the invitation is so exciting that every single one of her worries have vanished into nothing.

She gives Tommy one last glance before allowing the woman to drag her onto the dance floor, and loses him in the crowd. It's really a shame that she can't just make a trip to Dorsey's shop and sit down with them, because it's been very difficult just to get information underneath all this scrutiny. But Sil laughs and dances anyway because she has an image to uphold, not realizing that by the time she returns to her apartment hours later, her world will yet again threaten to rock itself into shambles.

Sil reaches her apartment a little after midnight. It's early by Capitol standards. Parties usually last well into the morning, but it hadn't been difficult to plead exhaustion given her circumstances, and it isn't entirely a lie either. She is exhausted; her worries keep her up at night, tossing and turning endlessly.

She types her password into the keypad and hears the door unlock. As she stumbles into the hall that opens into her kitchen and tosses her purse on the side table, Sil notices several things that are out of place.

For one, the lights are already on. The soft sound of the television drifts through the apartment. If that isn't enough of a surprise for her, as she kicks off her heels she notices a pair of men's dress shoes sitting innocently by the closet door. Brown patent leather. Expensive.

She stares at them for a long moment before fear begins to slide through her. Is Felix here? Has Snow finally gotten tired of giving her freedom and has sent clients to her rooms?

She swallows hard and steps forward, padding silently across the thin area rug that covers the hallway. When the left wall opens into the kitchen, she notes that there are dishes in her sink and the kettle's been moved from the back burner to the front. And that's not all – there is a suit jacket hanging on the back of a kitchen stool.

She steps towards it and touches the smooth fabric warily. When she smells the faint scent of Finnick's cologne permeating the jacket, her wariness is replaced by conflicting eagerness tempered through with concern. What is Finnick doing in her apartment? When did Snow release him? Is he okay? And why did the President send him here – or had Finnick just wandered to her place of his own accord?

"You're finally home," Finnick's voice drawls from the doorway. Sil's heart jumps in her chest and she flies around, hand going to her throat. Her pulse quickens, though she isn't sure if it's because he's here or if she's somehow still afraid.

"Finnick?" she asks, her voice a whispered sound that barely gets passed her lips.

He just stares at her as if he's also not sure what he's feeling. Something has changed between them, she thinks with a start. Something important. But what?

"I just got out of the hospital. Snow sent me here. I put all my stuff in the living room. I didn't know where you wanted me to sleep." His explanation is dry, robotic, like he's reciting the words from a piece of paper. He keeps staring at her emotionlessly.

Sil pauses, then asks, "…What?"

Finnick chuckles but the sound is off. He doesn't even seem to make it sound real like he usually does. It's like he's stopped trying.

"We're going to be living together for a while. Snow was adamant about it," he tells her with a shrug, as if he doesn't really care one way or the other. But clearly he does, or his reaction would be calmer, easier.

It's Sil's turn to stare. She gapes at him in shock. She hadn't expected to see him so soon, much less to have him waltz into her apartment and announce that he's moving in. It's too sudden and she isn't equipped to handle the announcement after a night of blasting music and downing neon drinks.

Since Sil doesn't seem to be able to talk, Finnick breezily reminds her, "The Capitol thinks we're married, sugar. You can't be that surprised."

Her mouth opens then closes. She takes a deep breath and rubs at her temples.

"It's just that I've been worried about you and suddenly you show up and – "

"You were worried about me?" Finnick asks, cutting her off with a vehemence that makes her flounder in confusion. Why does he look so angry?

He laughs bitterly and gestures to her form – her updo, her gown, her sparkly makeup. "You were just at a party. A party that you hosted. And you're claiming you were worried about me?" He clenches his jaw and mutters, "I've been in a torture chamber for a week, Silver. You've been nonstop partying during that entire time."

Her mouth flaps open again, but this time she doesn't have time to say even one word before Finnick bitterly says, "God, what the hell was I thinking all this time? I actually thought that maybe there was something else to you, Sil. That maybe you weren't as stupid and thoughtless as everyone says you are. But the fact that you can claim to be worried about me while you're having the time of your life is just – "

"I don't need to hear this," Sil says staunchly, narrowing her eyes at him. She's glad she'd kicked her heels off; her legs feel boneless, like she's about to fall. His words are double-edged swords. They cut one part of her then turn around and slice another.

This isn't the reunion she's been anticipating.

Finnick scowls at her. She's never been on the receiving end of such an angry expression before, not from him. It makes her hold her breath.

"I think you do," he bites out, clenching his hands before looping them into his pockets. Despite the fresh dress shirt and trousers he's sporting, he looks altogether unkempt, as if he's just spent a day on the streets. "You strut around like you own the entire city, playing Snow's lapdog. How many names have you given him, anyway? Just how many times have you sent random women to my hotel rooms?"

Her blood runs cold in her veins as his words cycle through her. How did he find out? Her reasoning falls flat and she stares at him in wide-eyed shock.

The guilt in her expression makes Finnick grit his teeth furiously. He can't stop his anger from surpassing all other emotions. He'd hoped that Snow was just feeding him lies, that Sil would never do something like this. But the guilt that spins through her eyes makes him feel more helpless than he's ever felt before.

She's been conveniently lying to him this entire time while she collects names of willing clients and inadvertently makes his hellish life ten times worse.

A burst of fury escapes him; he swings his hand through the air and accidentally knocks over one of the steel pots sitting on the small counterspace beside the door. As it clatters to the tiles, he shouts, "TELL ME!"

He sounds so angry that it even scares him, a little – but the sight of Sil's flinching expression gives him enough triumphant pleasure that he doesn't care.

There is a small part of him that hates himself right now, but it's so small that he completely overlooks it. He can't allow his feelings for her to get in his way tonight. He can't just let her off the hook. Sure, maybe she didn't have a choice. Maybe Snow had threatened her with something. It wouldn't surprise him. What upsets him most of all is merely the fact that she hadn't mentioned a word of this during the past few months they've been on close terms. She'd just danced her way through his life with that annoying simpering smile and kept quiet, wreaking havoc anywhere she could.

It isn't fair of him. He knows that. But he feels so betrayed.

"I can't even look at you," he mutters, dragging his eyes away from her grimacing expression and caught eyes. She looks like a doe in the headlights. An animal wanting to flee. It's just making him angrier.

Sil swallows tightly as Finnick turns around. He gets as far as the door before he turns back and says, "How can you live with yourself, sending innocent people to their deaths? Snow told me everything, Sil. I don't understand how you can just sit back and let other people die, just because they said the wrong thing at one of your ridiculous parties."

The look he sends her makes tears well up in her eyes. It makes her heart feel like delicate splintered glass seconds away from shattering.

He gives her an unimpressed glower and walks out of the kitchen. She can hear him storming through her apartment before everything falls silent as the front door slams shut. The stillness that follows feels like purgatory. She feels her tears slip passed her eyes.

Slowly, Sil steps to the fallen pot and puts it back in place. She stares at it for a moment. Her reflection peers back at her through the shiny metal. It's distorted and wrong, but for some reason she feels as though it shows the very core of her. The elements of herself that she doesn't want to admit she has.

He's got it all wrong. Everything is backwards. Could she have avoided this if she'd told him who she was months ago?

Her eyes fall to the pearl on her finger. The longer she stares at it the angrier she feels, until at last she lets out a pathetic grunt and rips it from her finger. She slams it onto the counter with a mournful fury that seems to shake through her entire body, then turns and flies to the threshold of the kitchen before she stops and deflates against the doorway.

Scrubbing a hand over her face, she sighs. It is a deep sigh, the kind of sound that is filled with exhaustion and sorrow and all the other sad, unhappy feelings that drop upon her shoulders.

Her finger feels too light without that pearl weighing it down.

She turns around with a teary scowl and slides it back into place, clenches her fist, and then flicks the light off before making her way further into her apartment.

It seems that no matter how hard she tries, she cannot stop herself from wanting him.