Siren Song ~ Finnick Odair x oc

3...Remake Centre

As dusk transitioned into night, our train, which bore the tributes from District 12, expertly maneuverer the winding tracks and arrived at the Capitol just as midday dawned.

Being the farthest district, our presence marked us as the last tributes to enter this vibrant yet intimidating centre of glamour and ambition.

The brilliant blue sky stood in stark contrast to the harsh reality we faced as the vigilant peacekeepers swiftly guided us into the Remake Centre, their authoritative demeanour heightening the tension of the moment.

Upon entering, we were quickly separated and led into individual, sterile rooms, where our preparation teams eagerly awaited us.

As I stepped into my assigned space, the prep team swarmed around me like a flurry of busy bees, their rapid-fire commands and encouraging words urging me to comply as they insisted, I disrobe, ready to prepare me for public scrutiny.

Reluctantly, I complied, a wave of embarrassment washing over me as their eyes roamed over my body.

Yet, I found a strange comfort in the anonymity of the situation, reminding myself that they were professionals likely to forget the details of my vulnerability after the event was over. Standing before them, stripped of clothing but wearing an uncomfortable expression, I felt exposed in a deeply intimate manner.

As they began their work, it became clear that they viewed me without the same discomfort. Instead, they moved around my bare form with practiced efficiency, their gazes a mixture of appreciation and professional distance.

With hot wax, they expertly removed every trace of unwanted hair, their hands working in a rhythmic manner. I was consumed by conflicting feelings of being both on display and scrutinized, their murmured praises for my physique blending unsettlingly with the clinical atmosphere.

"She's absolutely flawless," one commented, while another chimed in about how easy I was to work with, their words weaving an almost surreal environment around me.

Despite their focused attention, I couldn't shake the sensation of being a living canvas, an object of admiration rather than a person, as they critiqued and transformed every aspect of my appearance.

The team continued their choreography of beauty, effortlessly styling my hair and complimenting the delicate features of my face.

They called my lips a "perfect pout" and remarked that my skin looked "almost surreal."

It felt strange—almost alien—to have strangers admire me so openly, their fascination palpable as they noted even the smallest details.

Eventually, I was left alone, the echoes of their admiration lingering like a soft hum in the background.

Each compliment stuck in my mind as I stood there, exposed and unguarded, the silence wrapping around me in a suffocating embrace. Waiting for my stylist felt eternal, each second stretching endlessly as I grappled with what it meant to be both beautiful and vulnerable in a world that often reduced me to mere appearances.

The oppressive silence in the room was abruptly broken by the creaking of the compartment door, swinging open to reveal two imposing figures who encroached upon my fragile solitude.

Their wide, unsettling gazes immediately honed in on my exposed body, as if I were an exhibit rather than a person with feelings.

"Well, well, they were right," one of the men commented, a predatory grin spreading across his face as he scanned me with an unsettling ownership that made my skin crawl.

"Quite smooth and flawless—a perfect canvas, indeed," his companion added, and I struggled against the surge of nausea threatening to overwhelm me, yearning to flee their invasive stares.