I decide to hate the Victory Banquet on principle. It's bad enough that I'm back in President Snow's mansion. It's even worse that the whole event revolves around my victory.

Victory. That feels like the wrong word. A victor shouldn't be seeing their dead ally in every shadow, should they? But here I am, draining every glass of champagne that comes my way, and hoping it's enough to avoid Blythe's vacant stare.

My drinking habit concerns Marina. I can see her from across the room, and one look tells me she's itching to say something. But she can't. Not here, anyway. There's too many prying eyes, so she's forced to whisper her complaints to Finnick, and he's much too preoccupied to do anything about them.

Everyone who's anyone in the Capitol flocked to his side the second he entered the mansion. Honestly, you'd think he won this thing instead of me. Not that I'm complaining. The more attention Finnick receives, the less I'm subjected to. I figure it's the least he can do.

I'm not completely safe, though. Every now and then, a sponsor will sidle their way up to me and reel off their private commentary on my performance:

"I nearly fainted when the mines went off, you certainly started the games with a bang!"

"You know, I was in the middle of lunch when your district partner died. What a beast of a boy… He almost put me off my lamb."

"We all thought it was such a shame about the girl from Two. We placed good money on her winning, but you can never predict these things."

I nod along as they talk, forcing memories of the arena to the furthest reaches of my skull. I drink, too. Lots. It doesn't make hearing their comments any easier, but the buzz makes it easier to stomach.

By the time we're called into the next room for the banquet portion of the night, I'm visibly staggering.

"This way, Wren," Marina says, patting the empty seat between her and Finnick.

I make every effort to drag my feet as I make my way over.

"Well, isn't this lovely," Marina says, fiddling with her napkin. "President Snow is so generous to invite us into his home."

"So generous," I echo back, doing nothing to hide the sarcasm in my tone.

Marina offers me a tight smile as she clears her throat. "Yes, he certainly is," she says. "And we're all very grateful."

Grateful is about the last thing I'm feeling but there's no point in acknowledging it, so I look past Marina and make a move to grab the nearest bottle of wine. Only, as my fingers wrap around the neck, Finnick plucks it out of my hands.

"I think you've had enough for tonight, Medler."

Maybe it's the casual use of my nickname, or maybe I'm still reeling from the car, but something about what he says lights a fire in my belly.

"I thought this was a celebration?" I say, practically spitting the words.

"It is," he says. "So having the guest of honor pass out half-way through dinner wouldn't be a good look, would it?"

"I'm not stupid," I shoot back. "I know how to hold my drink."

That's a lie. The champagne has already started to turn my stomach and I'm pretty sure I'm a handful of glasses away from being totally incoherent. But admitting any of this out loud will only make me feel worse, so I send Finnick my filthiest glare and rise from my seat.

"I'm getting some air," I say, not waiting for approval.

I end up in what I assume must be President Snow's personal gardens. My skin feels strange and balmy against the cool breeze, and there's an awful smell worming its way up my nose.

Roses.

I clamp my hand over my nose and stumble my way further into the gardens until I come to a little bench. The silence out here makes the ringing in my ears even louder, but it's better than being in the mansion. I wrap my arms around my middle, as if to hold myself together, and concentrate on the act of breathing.

That's when I hear her.

"Wren?"

My blood turns to ice as I follow the sound of Tressa's muffled voice.

"Help me, Wren."

The earth a few feet from the bench shifts, like something is trying to dig its way out.

"Please!"

A pale hand breaks free of the dirt, caked in blood.

"I just wanted to go home. Please, Wren… Please don't leave me here."

I spring from the bench, fall to my knees, and start piling dirt on the spot where Tressa is trying to break free.

"Don't leave me here!"

My movements become frantic as she gets louder and louder. And suddenly I don't care about destroying President Snow's precious rose garden. I don't care if there's a horde of peacekeepers on their way to drag me back to the celebrations. I don't care about anything apart from making her stop.

"Wren?" Finnick's voice cuts through the frenzy as I rip up another clump of dirt.

He wraps his arms around my middle and pulls me away. I struggle against his grip, a mess of soil and tears, as I check for Tressa's body.

"You're okay," he says, taking me by the shoulders. "You're okay, Medler. What happened?"

I take a half-step back and peer behind his shoulder, certain that Tressa will be there.

But there's nothing. No voice, no hand, no corpse. Nothing at all.

"She was right there," I slur. "I swear, she was right-"

"Who was there?"

I bring my palms to my eyes, squeezing them shut.

"Wren, who was there?"

I shake my head, the name dying on my tongue. But Finnick has caught me in the act, and no amount of talking will get me out of this one.

"Tressa."

The word feels like setting off a bomb in my head. Because when I say it, all I can think about is the feeling of a brick meeting bone. Finnick pauses for a moment, looking between me and the tattered rose bush.

"It wasn't real," he says. "You're safe."

I let out a shuddery laugh. "It felt pretty real to me."

"I know," says Finnick. "But Tressa wasn't here, okay? She's gone home."

Home. That's a nice way of putting it. The truth is, Tressa's stiff body is in a little wooden coffin back in Eight. But I'm not concerned about her body. I'm concerned about her ghost. I'm concerned about all their ghosts.

"I'm losing it, aren't I?" I say, meeting Finnick's eyes.

He stares back, remarkably unphased given the situation.

"You've been through a lot, Medler. You're just adjusting."

"Adjusting," I repeat, tasting the word. "Sure."

"It's not your fault," he continues. "None of this is. You know that, right?"

He doesn't mean to bring up what happened in the car, but that's where my brain goes.

"Finnick, I can't do this," I say, only now realizing how much the alcohol has loosened my tongue.

"Sure you can," he replies. "We're going back to Four tomorrow and-"

"No, not this," I say, gesturing around the gardens. "I mean, I don't want to be your burden. I don't want to do that."

The words are coming easily now but they're not what I was hoping for. The truth is, I'm used to doing most things alone. Clara is the only person in my life that's cared for me since the beginning, and I liked it that way. No family, no parents, no real responsibility to anyone or anything apart from her. Life wasn't exactly easy before the games, but it was much simpler.

Then came Finnick, with his secrets and his deals. The Capitol's golden boy and my mentor. He cared about me right off the bat, even if it was only because he was the reason I got reaped in the first place. I could deal with that information before the games when it was simply a case of surviving. But what are we supposed to do now?

"I shouldn't have said anything," Finnick says, voice low. "I was worried about you and it came out all wrong."

"But you meant it, didn't you?"

"Not like that," he confirms. "It's complicated, Wren."

"So uncomplicate it," I shrug, forcing my bleary eyes to focus on him. "I need to know. You kept me alive in the games. Did you do it because you wanted to, or because you had to?"

The silence stretches on for an eternity before he finally lets out a breath.

"Both."

And just like that, I wish I'd never asked.