The Justice Building was freezing inside, just like Wren Medler remembered. She'd been there once before, nine years ago, after the sea took her mother, father, and sister with one cruel turn of the waves. At five, she was too small and too scared to understand what was going on—the clipped words of the officials as they transferred her records to the Community Home, the carefully blank expressions of the Peacekeepers who flanked either side of her tiny frame, and the screaming silence that pressed down harder and harder each time she cried out for her parents. But she did understand the cold. That part stuck with her, burrowed deep into her bones like a parasite.
She feels it now, sending goose pimples down her arms as the Capitol attendant, Lucilla, attempts to smooth down her wild nest of dark curls with more force than necessary. The woman's perfectly manicured nails catch and snag, each tiny pull a reminder that even the simplest things hurt now.
"Now, Wren, cameras will be on in five," Lucilla trills, untangling one of her comically long nails from Wren's hair. "We want to see big, smiling faces. Can you do that for us, dear?"
Wren's answer is automatic, a deliberately garish grin better suited to a shark than a fourteen-year-old girl. It's the kind of smile that shows too many teeth, that doesn't quite reach her eyes. Lucilla winces, folding her hands behind her back.
"Okay, how about a few words for the cameras?" She tries again, delicately tip-toeing around the fact that Wren hasn't uttered a word in months. That's what the reports said, anyway. They chalked it up to trauma, some primal response to change. And what could be a bigger change than going from a nameless, faceless orphan to the youngest victor Panem had seen in eight years?
Wren had managed to avoid the Capitol fan-fare for a while, stubbornly holding an impressive silence that set Lucilla's nerves on edge and sparked a ripple of hushed whispers wherever she went. But the Capitol wanted their victor, and patience wasn't one of their virtues—if they had any at all.
"Places!" A voice calls, clipped and Capitol, as the cameras whir to life.
Lucilla fixes Wren with one last warning look before ushering her to her place just outside the large gilded doors to the main foyer. The girl straightens her back and juts out her chin in an attempt to look older and braver than her fourteen years allow, but even then she barely clears five feet. The sharp angles of her bones tell the story of a lifetime bounced between Four's Merchant Quarter and the Community Home, of never quite having enough.
The heavy bronze doors swing open, revealing an eerily familiar scene. The Justice Building steps, slick with rain and seaweed, glint in the early morning sun. The square is lined with people, cameras, and Peacekeepers, all eager to get a glimpse of Four's latest victor. The girl who made it back alive. The girl who bashed her district partner's head in with a brick to do it.
As Wren takes a small half-step forward, she sees the children at the front of the crowd visibly shrink back behind their mothers' skirts. She doesn't blame them. Between her performance in the games and the rumors of madness that followed her victory, she's half-convinced she'll bash Lucilla's head in next. Or maybe her own. She hasn't decided yet.
"Good morning District Four!" Caesar Flickerman's disembodied voice trills out of one of the many speakers dotted around the stage. "We are thrilled to be joined by the lovely Wren Medler! And what an honor it is. I don't think we've been this excited since Finnick Odair's victory eight years ago. There must be something in the water in District Four..."
A few polite laughs ripple through the crowd at Caesar's attempt to side-step the true nature of Wren's victory, but she hardly hears it over the blood pumping in her ears. Her hands find the hem of her dress, balling the too-soft fabric in her fists until her knuckles turn white. The Capitol loves doing that—comparing her to Finnick as if she had anything in common with Four's golden victor.
As if on cue, Finnick emerges from the side of the stage, tilting his chin at that infuriatingly specific angle that makes every girl in the vicinity swoon. He's wearing that carefully crafted mask of his, the one she used to see right through during training. The one she'd managed to crack with her quick wit and stubborn refusal to let him hide behind Capitol glamour. Now, though, she can barely look at him.
Wren hates him.
"Now, Wren." Caesar continues. "We've all been waiting to hear your thoughts on winning the Seventy-third Hunger Games. Perhaps a few words on how you've been settling into life back in Four?"
All eyes redirect from Finnick to Wren and she swears she can hear the square hold its breath. Lucilla jabs an elbow into her ribs when the silence stretches on for a beat too long. But it only makes Wren's lips tighten into a firm line. A line that says no. A line that smacks of defiance. A line that, after nine years in a community home, should know better.
But the truth is, Wren knows exactly what would come out of her mouth if she tried to speak. A scream. The same scream that's been building in her throat since the first cannon went off. And she knows what comes after a public breakdown like that. Capitol doctors, medication, punishment. At least defiant victors carry a chance of rehabilitation. But mad ones? Mad ones end up like Annie Cresta. Gone. And Wren Medler didn't claw her way back to Four only to end up like that.
"She's not feeling well." Finnick's voice cuts in just as the vein in Lucilla's forehead looks like it's about to pop. "I said we should postpone but Wren insisted. She's stubborn like that. Wanted to see everyone in Four as well as say hello to our friends in the Capitol, even if her voice isn't quite up to scratch. Isn't that right, Wren?"
He's next to her now, fixing her with a carefully manufactured smile halfway between fond exasperation and something harder. Something that reminds her of the arena, of the way he'd looked at her through the cameras when she'd found that brick. For a second, she's tempted to shake her head, throwing away his help as carelessly and publicly as possible. But something about the beady eye of the camera trained on her face changes her mind. She gives a tiny nod, gaze shifting to her too-tight shoes.
"But, don't worry," Finnick continues seamlessly, producing a stack of neatly printed cards from his pocket. "She wrote it all down and I'd be happy to read it. If that's okay with you, Caesar?"
The square lets out a collective sigh of relief and Caesar grabs the opportunity with both hands. Wren wraps her arms around herself, chewed nails biting into soft flesh. She hates all of them. Caesar Flickerman with his too-Capitol accent. Everyone in Four with their too-seeing eyes. And most of all, Finnick Odair with his too-silvery voice and too-easy lies.
She hadn't written those cards. Hadn't put pen to paper since before the games. But there he was, reading out words she'd supposedly written about her gratitude to the Capitol, her joy at representing District Four, her excitement about moving into the Victor's Village. Each word drops like poison from his lips, and she watches the crowd drink it in. They believe him because he's Finnick Odair, and everyone believes Finnick Odair.
Everyone except her.
Because she remembers how it was before. How he'd sit with her in the Training Center, teaching her to tie knots with patient hands and gentle words. How he'd looked at her like she was more than just another tribute when she'd made him laugh for the first time, really laugh, with some silly comment about the ridiculous Capitol fashions. How he'd promised—promised—that he'd bring her home safe.
Well, here she was. Home. Safe. Except she wasn't really either of those things anymore.
The ceremony drags on, a blur of Capitol pageantry and forced smiles. Finnick keeps her close, one hand hovering near her elbow as if she might bolt at any moment. She might. The thought has crossed her mind more than once, especially when the mayor steps forward to present her with the key to her new house in Victor's Village. As if she deserves a reward for what she did in that arena.
When it's finally over, when the cameras stop rolling and Caesar's voice fades from the speakers, Finnick tries to guide her toward the car waiting to take them to Victor's Village. But Wren jerks away from his touch, her first real movement in hours.
"Don't," she mouths, finding some bitter satisfaction in the way his carefully constructed mask slips for just a moment. She sees it then—the guilt, the anger, the exhaustion. Good. Let him feel it too.
"Wren," he starts, voice low enough that only she can hear. "We need to talk about—"
She cuts him off with a sharp shake of her head, dark curls bouncing wildly around her face. Talk? Now he wants to talk? After weeks of silence while she screamed herself hoarse in the Capitol's recovery wing? After watching her bash Brent's head in with that brick and doing nothing to stop it?
No. She doesn't want to talk. Not to him. Not to anyone.
She turns on her heel, ignoring Lucilla's scandalized gasp and the flash of cameras that haven't quite packed up yet. Let them see. Let them all see exactly what kind of victor they've created. Let them watch as she walks away from Finnick Odair, their golden boy, their perfect mentor.
Because that's what he is—a mentor. Not a friend. Not family. Just another Capitol puppet who helped turn her into a killer.
The words he'd spoken to her the night before the games echo in her head as she walks: "Trust me, little fish. I'll get you through this."
He did get her through it. But he never warned her about what would come after. About how the real games would begin once she left the arena. About how winning meant losing everything else.
Including herself.
