The stars are wrong. Wren decides it after four nights of staring at her ceiling. It's the only thing she does these days. Sleep is a non-starter, sleep without nightmares even more so. Finnick has knocked on her door exactly seven times since he last massacred her constellations. Always the same knock, always the same message. The Victory Tour starts in one-week and President Snow expects her to speak.
She rolls onto her side, smacking the annoyingly plush pillows deliberately, but even this small act of rebellion leaves a cold feeling in her gut. Seven days to find her voice. Seven days to get past the scream that has made a home in the space between her ribs and her throat. It's not enough.
Finnick's eighth and most impatient knock comes somewhere between her crawling out of bed and staring at a cold cup of tea she hasn't bothered to sip.
"I know you're in there, Medler." He knocks the door again, an impatient rap that tells her he's not going away any time soon. "Your kitchen light is on."
She squeezes her eyes shut, willing the string of curses forming in her head to make it out of her mouth. They don't, so she settles for unlatching the door and fixing him with her iciest glare, the one that used to send the younger children at the community home running. That doesn't work either.
"Nice to see you, too, little fish," he says, breezing past her into the house and producing a stack of carefully printed flashcards.
Wren stares at the flashcards in Finnick's hands, her stomach turning. More scripts. More lies. More words that aren't hers pressed between her teeth like poison pills she's meant to swallow. She shakes her head sharply, dark curls flying.
"This isn't optional anymore." Finnick's voice has an edge she's never heard before. "Snow made that very clear."
The mention of the president makes her freeze. There's something in Finnick's eyes now – not just frustration or exhaustion, but real fear. She remembers how he looked in the Training Center when he thought she wasn't watching. How his hands would shake after returning from "social engagements" in the Capitol.
"They're watching, little fish," he says quietly, laying the cards on her kitchen counter. "And they don't believe the illness story anymore."
Wren traces her fingers over the neat Capitol print. The words blur together – gratitude, honor, privilege. Her nail catches on the edge of one card, tearing it slightly. Good. Let it tear. Let it all tear.
"You don't have to mean it," Finnick continues, running a hand through his bronze hair. "You just have to say it. Once for each district. Then you can go back to—" He gestures vaguely at her silent form. "This."
She picks up a card, reading the carefully crafted lies about how proud she is to represent District 4. About how the Games taught her strength. About how grateful she is for the Capitol's generosity.
The scream builds in her throat again, pressed against her teeth like a trapped animal. But this time, something else builds with it. Something that tastes like salt water and iron and rage.
Wren opens her mouth, and for the first time in months, a sound escapes.
It's not the scream. It's not even really a word. Just a broken, raspy sound that might be the beginning of "no."
Finnick goes completely still, like he's afraid any movement might spook her back into silence. She tries again, forcing air past vocal cords that feel rusted shut.
"No." It comes out like sandpaper on stone, but it's there. A real word. Her word.
"Wren—"
"No!" Louder this time, sharp enough to make them both flinch. She swipes the cards off the counter, sending them scattering across the floor like dead leaves. Her throat burns, but words keep coming, raw and jagged. "Not... their... words."
Her voice sounds wrong, like it belongs to someone else. Someone who didn't bash their district partner's head in with a brick. Someone who didn't spend months drowning in silence.
Finnick pinches the bridge of his nose, and Wren can practically see him counting to ten in his head. At twenty-four, the Capitol's golden boy is starting to show signs of wear – especially around her. "Absolutely not. Do you have any idea—" He cuts himself off, visibly frustrated. "No, of course you don't, because that would require you to actually listen when I speak instead of just plotting new ways to make my life difficult."
Wren's next words come out like gravel, but she manages to inject every ounce of teenage disdain she can muster into them. "Poor... Finnick." She deliberately kicks one of the scattered cards, sending it spinning across the floor. "So... difficult."
"You know what? Fine." He throws his hands up, looking for all of Panem like an exasperated father rather than Panem's most desirable victor. "Go ahead. Tell the truth. Tell them exactly how you feel about the Capitol, about the Games, about bashing Brent's head in with that brick. I'm sure that will go over wonderfully. While you're at it, why don't you just set the Justice Building on fire? It would probably be faster."
She tilts her chin up defiantly, even though she has to crane her neck to meet his eyes. "Maybe... I will."
"Of course you will," Finnick mutters, running a hand through his perfectly styled hair. "Because obviously the best way to deal with trauma is to get yourself killed before your fifteenth birthday. Brilliant plan, Medler. Really stellar work."
Her rasping voice finds a little more strength, fueled by pure spite. "Better than... your plan."
"My plan?" His laugh is sharp enough to cut. "My plan was to keep you alive, which I did, despite your best efforts to the contrary. But please, enlighten me about your superior strategy. I'm dying to hear it. Oh wait—" He affects an exaggerated look of realization. "I forgot. You don't actually have one, because you're fourteen and your entire personality right now is just making my job as difficult as possible."
Wren snatches another card from the floor and tears it in half with deliberate slowness, maintaining eye contact the entire time.
"Real mature," Finnick says dryly. "Did they teach you that in the Community Home, or is it just natural talent?"
She tears another card, this time into quarters.
"You know I can just print more of those, right?"
She stuffs the pieces in her water glass.
"Wonderful. You've graduated from selective mutism to actual property destruction. I can't wait to explain this one to Snow." He collapses into one of her kitchen chairs, looking every one of his twenty-four years and then some. "Is this what having a teenager is like? Because if so, I owe Mags about a thousand apologies."
Wren grabs another card, but Finnick moves faster, snatching it from her hands. "Enough." His voice has lost its sardonic edge. "This isn't a game, Medler."
She reaches for another card, but he sweeps them all into a pile, holding them out of reach. Which, given that she barely clears five feet, isn't particularly difficult. Her face burns with humiliation as she tries to grab them, missing by at least a foot.
"You know what? No." He runs his free hand through his hair, messing it up beyond even Capitol-stylish dishevelment. "I'm done playing this game. You want the truth? Fine. Here's the truth. Snow's getting impatient. The Victory Tour starts in a week, and if you don't give him what he wants—"
She crosses her arms, trying to look as unimpressed as possible while still having to crane her neck to meet his eyes.
"Don't give me that look." His voice rises in frustration. "This isn't just about you anymore. There are people whose lives depend on—"
Wren deliberately turns her back on him, walking to the sink to pour herself a fresh glass of water. Nine years in the Community Home taught her that the fastest way to make someone angry is to act like they don't exist.
"For someone who doesn't talk, you manage to be incredibly irritating," Finnick mutters. "Has anyone ever told you that?"
She takes a long, slow sip of water, staring out the window at nothing.
"Fine. You want to play it this way? Let's talk about what's really going on here." His reflection appears in the window beside hers, serious now. "You think if you push everyone away hard enough, it won't hurt when you lose them. Trust me, I wrote the book on that strategy."
Her hands tighten around the glass. She will not react. She will not give him the satisfaction.
"But here's what I figured out the hard way - they'll hurt you anyway. The Capitol will use anyone they can to get to you, whether you care about them or not." He pauses, and she can feel him watching her. "The only choice you get is whether you face it alone."
Wren turns, meeting his eyes with a glare that says everything she won't put into words. She's been alone since she was five years old. She survived the Community Home alone. She survived the arena alone. She'll survive this alone too.
"Stubborn as a mule," Finnick sighs. "You know what? Go ahead. Tear up the cards. Refuse to speak. Make my job impossible. But ask yourself this - what happens when Snow decides you're more trouble than you're worth?"
She maintains eye contact as she deliberately drops her glass into the sink. It shatters with a satisfying crash.
"Really? Property destruction now?" He throws his hands up. "Fantastic. Add that to the list of things I have to explain to the Capitol. Right after 'why does our newest victor act like a feral cat?'"
Wren picks up another glass, raising an eyebrow in challenge.
"Don't you dare—"
The second crash is even louder than the first.
"I hate my job," Finnick announces to no one in particular. "I hate my job, I hate teenagers, and I especially hate District Four's completely insane selective mute of a victor."
Wren's only response is to reach for a third glass.
"Fine!" He throws the cards down on the counter. "Break every dish in the house! See if I care. But when you're done with your tantrum, these will be waiting. And so will I." He heads for the door, then pauses. "Because contrary to what you might think, little fish, some people are actually harder to get rid of than a family you barely remember."
The third glass hits the door frame inches from his head.
His laugh is sharp and without humor. "Your aim's getting better. Maybe next time try using a brick."
The moment he's gone, Wren slides down the cabinet to sit among the broken glass. Her throat burns from the few words she managed earlier, but it's nothing compared to the ache in her chest. She will not cry. She will not scream. She will not care about Finnick Odair or his stupid cards or whatever game the Capitol wants her to play.
She's been alone since she was five years old. This is no different.
Above her, through the kitchen window, she can just make out the edge of the Wren Belt, five perfect points of gold on her bedroom ceiling. Strong stars for a strong girl.
She's never felt weaker.
