Snow left Finnick there in his cell, with nothing but white walls for company. He didn't tell Finnick what he was planning to do to him, and Finnick didn't wanted to know. He needed to focus on an escape plan: he had to figure out a way to rescue Annie and get out of the Capitol, get to District 4 or District 13 or wherever they could hide. He just had to figure out how to do it.

He had plenty of time to plan. Hours upon hours passed, or at least that's what it felt like. Finnick had no way of telling the passage of time under the bright, unchanging lights that bore down on him. His wounds were beginning to fester, and his stomach had pulled itself into an aching knot. He hadn't been fed. His hands started to shake. He told himself to ignore it. He wouldn't give Snow the satisfaction of seeing him weak and afraid. He had to plan. But his thoughts were interrupted by a piercing, shrill scream.

Finnick's stomach unraveled at the voice, and he staggered to his feet as he shouted back, "Annie! Annie!" She was sobbing, shrieking in pain, crying out for him to save her. He pounded on the glass door of his cell, threw himself at it, her name never leaving his lips, "Annie!"

He didn't hear the Peacekeepers approaching over the sounds of her screams. They lined themselves up across the door before they retracted the glass pane. Finnick didn't have time to think—he charged at them, desperate to break through the armored barrier, but a dozen arms caught him, wrestled him onto the ground. They cuffed his hands behind his back, wrenched him back to his feet, and marched him down the hallway.

Finnick struggled fruitlessly against them, "Where is she?! Where is Annie?!" Her screams still echoed through the hall, and when they pushed him through the next set of doors, the agonized sound ripped through the air anew. Finnick's eyes swept the room in search of the source, in search of Annie, but she wasn't there, nor were they in another holding cell. This was a torture chamber.

The Peacekeepers stripped the tatters of Finnick's uniform down to his waist. They forced him into a long, metal chair, similar to the kind of chairs that Capitol citizens reclined on while they had their teeth straightened and bleached, only this one had no plush cushions to separate his skin from the biting metal. They strapped down his arms, his chest, his legs, and finally they stepped away. Annie's screams subsided, but Finnick barely had time to catch his breath before President Snow stepped into the room.

"Where's Annie?" Finnick blurted.

Snow simply nodded towards the ceiling speakers, "You heard her, didn't you?"

Finnick swallowed at the fear creeping up his throat, "I'm not saying anything until you let her go."

The President shook his head, "That's not how this is going to work." He circled Finnick's chair, and one of the Peacekeepers followed him to the tray of probes and scalpels at his side. "Miss Cresta is being held in another room," Snow explained. "And if your answers to my questions or not satisfactory, both of you will receive an unpleasant stimulus. Do you understand?"

Finnick wouldn't acknowledge him. He glared at the ceiling, listening to the sound of Annie's ragged breath. The Peacekeeper picked up slender, palm-sized device with short metal prongs. President Snow stood at Finnick's shoulder as he began his questioning,

"Finnick Odair, were you involved in the plot to destroy the Quarter Quell and free Katniss Everdeen from the arena?"

Finnick clenched his jaw, refusing to answer. The Peacekeeper pressed the prongs to his abdomen. Instantly, the skin beneath it began to burn and blister. He held the grunt of pain behind his teeth, but the sound of Annie's shriek made him sick,

"Finnick!"

"Annie, hold on!" he shouted back.

"She can't hear you," Snow told him.

Finnick squeezed his eyes shut, trying to ignore the burn as it crept down into his flesh. He could stand the pain—clients had burned him before—but he knew Annie couldn't. He knew that burning was one of her fears. This torture wasn't designed for him, it was designed for her.

"Answer the question," Snow ordered. "Were you involved in the plot or not?"

Reluctantly, Finnick spoke, "I was, but Annie wasn't."

"Wasn't she?" Snow raised an eyebrow, and the Peacekeeper burned him again on his abdomen. Annie screamed. "I know the answers to some of these questions, Mr. Odair. I'll know when you're lying to me. Tell me again whether or not Annie was involved."

Finnick looked at him, "I've already answered your question." He couldn't implicate Annie. His word alone would be enough to have her executed for treason. He had no idea what she'd already confessed, but he wouldn't name her, not if he had a chance of saving her life.

So Snow had him burned again, and again, and again, until dozens of blistering pockets covered his abdomen. The sweat that coated his skin only aggravated them, as did the salt-like chemical the Peacekeeper occasionally rubbed into the wounds to keep them from drying or cooling. The pain was becoming unbearable—every gasp for breath ripped at the tender, burned flesh. Cries of pain escaped him against his will. But his own pain didn't compare to the sound of Annie's agony. With each burn he heard her bawling, screaming his name, begging his mercy. Still, Finnick wouldn't speak. He bit his tongue until he tasted blood.

"Should we try something else, sir?" the Peacekeeper turned to Snow for direction.

The President held up a hand for him to stand down. He leaned towards his captor until Finnick could smell the rot of his mouth through his perfume. "I know you and Miss Cresta were both involved in this, and I know who put you up to it. I also know how fond you are of secrets, Mr. Odair. Surely you have some regarding Plutarch and his rebels?"

"I don't have any of Plutarch's secrets," Finnick hissed between shallow breaths. "He didn't make me sleep with anybody."

Snow's lips tightened in displeasure as he straightened. "This will not bode well for Miss Cresta," he warned before nodding to the guards. "Take him back to his cell."

The Peacekeepers unlatched Finnick from the chair and pulled him onto his feet. His knees buckled beneath him, but they dragged him on. This time, he was too weak to struggle. They marched him back down the hall and tossed him into the same white room. Finnick managed to catch himself on his hands just before his stomach hit the floor. He flipped himself onto his back as the Peacekeepers relocked his cell and marched away. He could only watch them go as he struggled to regain his breath.

Eventually, the burns began to dry, though the pain still throbbed in his skin. He squeezed his eyes shut and thought of Annie. He'd kept her safe as best as he could. He tried not to think about the same oozing burns pocking her body—they would heal, and once he'd rescue her, he'd kiss her scars until she'd forgotten the pain.

The burns had scabbed over by the time Finnick heard footsteps approaching. He watched, waiting, unwilling to move if he could help it. A Peacekeeper stopped in front of the keypad to his cell. He punched in a passcode, and a metal slot opened beneath the pad. The Peacekeeper slid a tray into the slot and walked away.

Food. Finnick's stomach groaned for it, and gingerly he maneuvered himself onto his knees, crawled towards the open slot. His mouth watered as he pulled the tray through, took a first look at his meal-

The tray clattered to the ground, and Finnick staggered away with a strangled cry. His scabs broke open as he began to heave, as a sob racked his body. He backed into the wall, squeezed his eyes shut as he dug his fingernails into his scalp. Only one word escaped his lips, "No, no, no…"

There wasn't anything on the tray except for a single human tongue.