As soon as the director called "cut," Caesar bounded out of his chair and stalked off the set. Finnick would have done the same, were it not for the Peacekeepers lurking behind the set lights, weapons in hand. Peeta, too, remained still, shoulders rigid, eyes wide as he watched their host disappear. The crew began to break down the set, and the director turned his back to have a hushed conversation with one of Snow's secretaries. For a moment, the world seemed to revolve without them, but Finnick knew it wouldn't last for long. With no one looking, he leaned toward's Peeta's chair and murmured,

"Have you seen Annie?"

Peeta twitched at the sound of his voice, "No." He dared a glance in Finnick's direction, his brow twisted with worry, "Who else is here?"

"I don't know," Finnick admitted. "I just know Annie's here somewhere."

The director and the secretary huddled around a bundle of set monitors to watch a replay of the broadcast they'd just filmed. The set lights cut off, and the black-clad crew began to haul them away.

Peeta took a deep breath before he dared to whisper, "Did you know about this?"

Finnick glanced at him. Even in the midst of captivity, his cheeks were still rosy, his eyes soft and innocent. How old was he now—sixteen? Finnick remembered his sixteenth year vividly. He swallowed back a lump in his throat before he finally answered with a nod. "We couldn't risk telling you with Snow watching," he explained quietly. "It was the only way we could get Katniss out of the arena."

Peeta blinked at him for a moment, his lips quivering. "Is she really doing this? Is she really the one causing all this violence?"

Finnick stared at him for a moment before giving him the only answer he could, "I don't know."

The stylists had returned for them. Finnick straightened in his chair, but not before muttering out of the side of his mouth,

"If you see Annie, tell her I'm going to get her out of this."

Peeta couldn't respond as the stylists, flagged by Peacekeepers, ushered them out of their seats. They whisked them out of the President's mansion, where two cars awaited them on the curb. Peeta glanced back at Finnick as he ducked into the car, and Finnick offered him a nod. Maybe he was on his way to some cozy suite in the Tribute Center, maybe he was on his way to the same torture chambers as Finnick. Either way, he needed the assurance. As soon as Finnick slid into his own car, Peeta's disappeared behind the tinted glass, and he had nothing to look at but the stylists tapping away on their phones as they rolled away from the President's home and towards their destination.

The driver didn't open the door for them until they were already sealed inside the building's garage—an expansive, empty space of concrete that gave no clues as to where exactly they were. The entourage of stylists and soldiers escorted Finnick into an elevator that raced upwards for several seconds before opening to the same stark hallways where they'd been keeping him before. He hesitated to move forward, but the stylists nudged him on, steering him into a makeshift styling room.

"We need the clothes back," the female stylist informed him, already tugging at his jacket. He let it slide off of his shoulders, and he fumbled at the buttons of his shirt as he tried to ignore the other stylist unfastening his pants. A third knelt down and untied his laces, and in moments they had him stripped of his suit, his shoes, his underwear. As soon as they'd recovered their garments, they stepped away, and the Peacekeepers moved in. They pushed him out the door, down the hall, into a room of a bare shower heads.

And as soon as he stepped inside, the Peacekeeper's shoved him forward. Finnick stumbled to the ground, his hands and knees tearing on the raw concrete. Before the sting subsided, he felt the first blow to the back of his head. A moment later the others joined in, beating him into the ground.

Finnick curled into himself, knotted his arms over his head in a desperate attempt to shield his skull from their blows. "What did I do?!" he screamed over them. "I did everything he asked!"

They didn't show any sign of stopping.