When he arrives back on his floor for dinner, he expects Mags to be waiting for him like she was the night before. Instead, a note lies on the table in the center of the room.

Gone to a meeting with Abalone, it reads. Get some rest.

She must be meeting with potential sponsors. The thought consoles Finnick somewhat as he swipes a piece of fruit from a centerpiece bowl.

A terrific crash fires a jolt of alarm down Finnick's spine. Before he even has time to think, he'd dropped the fruit, swiped a knife from the table, and is creeping toward the source of the noise, every sense shifted to high alert.

Then a shattering sound erupts from behind a door—Caspia's door. Holding his knife aloft, Finnick edges toward the door and carefully pushes it open.

"Caspia? Are you okay?"

"Get out!" Something small hurtles toward his head. Only a lifetime of training lends him the speed necessary to yank his head behind the door before something glass shatters against it. He waits until it's been quiet for a few moments before he dares to crack the door again.

Illuminated by a broad shaft of light streaming in from the hall, Caspia is sprawled on the mutilated remains of her bed in almost total darkness. The glint of a knife clutched in her hand makes Finnick's heart plummet to his gut, but then she stirs, throwing a hand over her eyes and turning her head away from the light. Finnick barely stops a noise of shock from escaping his throat. Locks of long, dark hair are strewn about the room, littering the bed, the floor—even stuck to the ceiling. It's as though a hurricane has devastated the room. Caspia has put her knife to good use beyond her own head, tearing up her mattress and duvet, scoring jagged gashes across the walls, driving the blade repeatedly into the ceiling. Dishes, clothes, and other unidentifiable objects in various states of ruin mingle with the hair on the floor, making safe passage to Caspia's bed nearly impossible. Most prominent amidst the mess is the presence of bottles. Some shattered, their contents creating amorphous stains on the floor. Others half empty, sitting on dressers or the bed. The reek of old liquor stings his nose, and bile creeps up the back of his throat.

"Caspia, what—"

"It'll just get in my way anyway."

Get in the way? "But it was so—"

"Beautiful?" Caspia lets out a harsh, dry laugh, strident and mirthless in the dark. "Nothing of mine could ever compare to you."

So Mags was right about the jealousy thing. "But you're a Career," Finnick finds himself saying. He inches further into the room, careful navigating around shards of glass or other broken items. A part of him wonders why he's trying to encourage her, especially when he'd just dismissed her as a lost cause earlier the same day. "You've got a way better chance than any of those Callows, and probably some of the Primaries! The boy from Two is incompetent, and neither tribute from One even showed up at training today."

"It doesn't matter," she mumbles without budging an inch. "None of it matters."

"Come on," Finnick says cajolingly. "To be a victor, you have to have the attitude of a victor. What would Abalone say if he saw you like this?"

"He wouldn't care," Caspia replies bitterly, speech amplified and slurred by liquor. "He doesn't care about me."

"I'm sure that's not true," Finnick starts, but Caspia makes a derisive noise in the back of her throat, cutting him off.

"You wouldn't know anything," she sneers. "Your mentor loves you, just like everyone else."

It pains him, Finnick realizes. It pains him like a broken rib to see Caspia Deltan—trenchant, unshakable Caspia Deltan—brought so low. If the Games can get the best of Caspia before they've even begun, what will they do to him?

"Caspia..."

She bolts upright as though struck by lightning. Finnick starts, sure he's about to be evading knives next. Caspia's newly shorn hair sticks out in ragged clumps from her head and there's a wild desperation in her eyes, reminding Finnick of a netted fish being hauled up to the boat. "Leave."

Anger, repressed, diluted, and ignored since the moment they first spoke, shoots to the surface, a flashflood of emotion Finnick has tried and failed to drain many times before. "Fine. But you know what? I want you to hate me. Hunt me down, slit my throat in the Games. Because at least then you haven't given up." Finnick's knife is alive in his hand—a lifeboat stranded far out at sea, bobbing in endless circles with nowhere to go. "I don't care if you're jealous of me, I don't care if you don't think you have a chance. You can't let them win already. Nothing in the Games is set in stone. I could get my head chopped off in the first five minutes of the Games. But you know what? I'm still going to fight."

"Because it's your duty." The words are drawn out, dripping with scorn. "Because big man Finnick Odair thinks he has to save everyone."

"Because my district needs me," Finnick snaps. So does his tenuous hold on his temper. The tirade rushes forth, a river gushing past a broken dam. "You don't think it's hard, being down there with One and Two, seeing how confident and strong and skilled they are? I have to try to compete with them! I have to kill every single one of them, and the Callows too! I can't let them win. I deserve to live. I deserve to live!"

Almost of its own volition, Finnick's own knife flies out of his hand and plunges into the wall across from him, embedded hilt deep in the smooth, cream surface. Finnick steps back, staring at the quivering handle like he doesn't know who had just thrown it.

Caspia is staring at him now, half-lidded eyes glazed and barely functioning, but staring nonetheless. "Well, well," she murmurs. "I knew you couldn't keep up the selfless little hero act forever."

Her words push Finnick off a high place, perhaps one of piers extending from the shore of District 4. He's weightless, scrabbling for purchase, bracing for impact. So much of his time has been occupied finding ways to survive he hasn't really taken the time to think about why. Why should he have to spend his whole life training for the Hunger Games? Why should he have to provide for his district? Why should he have to put his life on the line? The questions racing through his mind do nothing to mitigate the ire building within him. Righteous anger—a seething vortex of acid, bone-deep fury whirling in his gut—spills over into his lungs, creeps up his throat, incendiary. He breathes fire and sees red. He wants to scream. He wants to cry. He wants to raze the Capitol to the ground with his hurricane-rage.

I know it's hard, dear boy. Mags is there, solid and unflappable, and Finnick's head is pressed against her stomach, face turned so his tears don't stain her shirt. He is fourteen years old, it's the evening before the Reaping, and this is the last time he let himself cry in front of anyone. Cry all of your tears now, and give me all of your sorrow. You cannot afford either in the Games.

Somehow, years of discipline and self-regulation regain their iron grip on his emotions. Finnick inhales deeply and lets the fresh air fill his lungs, sweeping away the hysteria creeping in on him. The entity deserving of his wrath is as inaccessible as the stars. He's just reaching for something closer.

"I'm not a hero," he says, once he's recovered control of his vocal faculties. "But I'm trying. You don't have to be a hero, Caspia. But you shouldn't give up. I...I don't want you to give up."

Caspia doesn't respond. She just gazes at him, expression slack and unresponsive. She might've not even registered what he said. Regardless, Finnick is done.

"I'll call in an Avox to help you clean up," he finds himself saying, and walks out of the room, leaving his knife buried in the wall.

It's the final day of training, and Finnick walks into the Training Center to find the Primaries in deep conversation next to the wrestling mat. Immediately his guard goes up: Are they talking about him? Are they debating whether to kick him out of the pack for leaving yesterday?

"Four." Ruby beckons him over, and it feels like she's loosened a belt cinched around his chest.

Alabaster doesn't react beyond the perfunctory nod as Finnick approaches, which he supposes is an improvement from sucker punching him in the face.

"We're discussing if we want to expand our ranks or leave them as is," Ruby explains in a low voice.

Instantly Finnick thinks of Caspia. Caspia, lying on her destroyed bed, surrounded by bottles of liquor and shorn locks of her own hair. "Do you have anyone in mind?"

"You seem to be pretty chummy with some of them," Alabaster points out. "So what do you think? Are any of the Callows worth our time?"

Finnick tries not to bristle at the thinly veiled accusation. He moves down a mental list of tributes numerically. "The girl from Seven is excellent at traps. She might come in handy."

"No," Bellona says immediately. "She's a bloodbath mark."

After capturing the Cornucopia, selecting which tributes to target in the bloodbath is a vital aspect of Career strategy. The layout of the arena and location of the Cornucopia vary widely, but overall tactics remain the same: Seize the Cornucopia, monopolize arena resources, and eliminate threats at the bloodbath. Who lives and who dies in the initial slaughter frequently dictates the outcome of the Games. Leave the wrong snake alive and it will come back to bite you, Mags often quipped. Conversely, if you kill the wrong snake, it won't be there to get rid of the rats. And rats, when left to their own devices, can be just as deadly as any snake.

The pack's final choices will be solidified after individual assessment scores are released, but it sounds like they've already decided the girl from Seven is too dangerous a snake to be left alive.

Of course, the boy from Ten would probably make a good ally, but Finnick knows better than to mention him. "How about the girl from Eleven? She's sturdy and well-fed; could be useful in a fight."

This time, Ruby shakes her head. "Too defiant. She'd just as soon stab us in the back as help us."

"So we're keeping things amongst ourselves then." Bellona nods conclusively, as if this is the result she'd anticipated from the start.

"Should we go over marks just to make sure we're all on the same page?" Finnick asks. Since you apparently picked them without me? It's probably his fault, considering he didn't arrive until nine thirty, but he didn't fall asleep until well after two in the morning. Even now, fatigue tugs at him with warm, persistent hands, filling his eyes with sand and his limbs with lead.

There's a small pause in which the Primaries are obviously selecting what information they want to reveal and what information they want to keep to themselves. Finnick allows the silence to abide, grow stale and uncomfortable. Many times, silence is a more effective communication technique than a barrage of inquiries.

"Alabaster will go after Caspia," Bellona finally says, as clinical and blunt as ever. "You won't even have to watch."

Alabaster jerks his head, a smirk playing across his lips. "I'll take her and the runt from Ten," he says. "Teach them to talk back to me."

A vague sense of nausea crawls into Finnick's gut and takes root there, churning his stomach like a stormy sea. "Okay."

"I'll hit the runners," Bellona says. "Miles will pick up creepers and hiders."

"I'm good with reconnaissance," Ruby offers.

"I'll stick close to the Cornucopia," Finnick suggests. "Help pick off stragglers with Miles."

"No, you should do long-distance," Ruby says. "You're much better with spears than swords."

Now, how could she know that unless Two ratted him out? As far as he knows, neither tribute from One saw him practice yesterday, and Alabaster decked him before he got the chance to touch a blade the first day.

He can hear Mags' warning now, ringing in his ear as if she were standing right next to him. District 4 will be the outsider, the first to get taken out when the alliance dissolves. Without Caspia there to watch your back, you'll need to be extra careful.

Given the choice, he'd probably choose to stick close to Ruby, not because they're compatible fighters but because he wants to keep an eye on her. She's sly in a way Alabaster hasn't mastered and possesses charm neither Bellona nor Miles can match. But as much as he hates to admit it, she's right. He's always been better with long-distance weapons, which is probably why he took to the trident so well.

"Fine," he says. He'll probably end up working with Bellona, who also unnerves him but in a different way. "But I—" The sight of another tribute entering the gymnasium cuts him off. Caspia, hands stuffed in her pockets, skulking like she's not supposed to be there. She catches Finnick's eye too quickly to be a coincidence, then looks away just as quickly.

Finnick doesn't bother to ask permission. He rushes over to her, long legs crossing the space between them in a few strides. "Caspia! Caspia, wait!"

She waits until he nearly runs into her to turn and address him. She looks surprisingly good for someone who'd been caught in the throes of a mental breakdown merely hours before. Someone—probably an Avox—shaved the bottom portion of her head and trimmed the top, leaving a stylish fringe in place of haphazard tufts. The bags under her eyes are no more noticeable than they'd been when she first arrived at the Capitol, and her mien, while sober, is thankfully just that—sober. "Finnick."

An infectious grin spreads over Finnick's face despite his efforts to contain it. "Couldn't get enough of me, huh?"

Caspia grunts, eyes rolled heavenward. "Do you ever stop?"

"Never," Finnick replies cheerfully. "What made you decide to come down and mingle with the common folk today?"

The moment the question leaves his lips he realizes it was the wrong thing to say. Caspia's gaze drifts past him to the Career pack, judging them from their corner of the gym. "Why? Do your friends want to know?"

"They don't know anything about you," Finnick responds hurriedly, afraid she's about to walk away. "Listen, Caspia. It's not too late to join. They trust me. I'll put in—"

"No." Caspia is guarded now, all of her defenses thrown up: chin lifted, arms crossed, eyes hard and searching. She's ready for another fight.

Finnick is pretty sure his heart wilts a little in his chest. "Are you sure?"

A single, dark eyebrow creeps up in a familiarly exasperated expression. "Yes, I'm sure. Go ahead and tell me how selfish and stupid I am."

Ouch. It takes a lot of self-control to keep from wincing. Finnick just shakes his head, schooling his features into something he hopes resembles humility. "Look...I'm sorry for, you know, everything I said. How you play the Games is up to you, and it's not my place to judge you for it."

Caspia's eyebrows shoot up. "Apology accepted." She takes a deep breath. "I'm sorry for saying all your heroics were fake. You're just trying to help the district; I gotta respect you for it."

Despite the grave, almost pained expression on Caspia's face, Finnick can't keep himself from grinning. "Okay, how hard was it for you to say that?"

"Don't push your luck," Caspia warns. She jerks her chin at the Primaries, whispering among themselves like a high school clique. "You'd better get back to your groupies. They're waiting for you."

"Aye aye, captain." Still facing Caspia, Finnick begins reverse walking in the pack's direction. She shakes her head in mock exasperation, which in Finnick's opinion is a distinct improvement upon bitter animosity. He gives Caspia a farewell salute before spinning around, and he returns to the pack with a little bounce to his step and his smile not yet faded from his face.