𝐀𝐌𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐂𝐀𝐍 𝐏𝐈𝐄 ━━ finnick odair ✓

𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐞𝐧. ( a proper goodbye )

        Seneca doesn't meet me at the door as he usually does, a housekeeper lets me in instead. When I try to ask her where he is, she hurries away without answering. The anxiety from earlier is replaced by true fear. Something is wrong here, I can feel it in the air. My hair stands on end in the cool dark foyer. I smooth the sleek dress down on my legs in an attempt to soothe myself. The darkness is oppressive, only the filtered light of the setting sun casts the furniture into vision.

I know my way around by now, so I set out to his bedroom. I can't imagine why he wouldn't want to greet me as he chooses to every time. Perhaps it's out of shame. He certainly won't be pleased with the defiance of the two young victors. If that's the case, it foreshadows a long and arduous night ahead.

The carpeted stairs below my feet muffle my steps on my ascent. I creep close to the banister, hand ghosting just overtop of the dark wood. I resist the urge to step out of my heels, convincing myself that I can discard them quickly enough if the need to run arises. So far nothing is out of place, every decoration sits exactly where I remember it, not a speck of dust on any glossy surface. The only difference is the smell. The hall near Seneca's bedroom always smells lightly of pine and sharp liquor, but now there's an overpowering wave of floral perfume. It's not an unfamiliar scent, but it's one I can't seem to place.

The door is cracked only a sliver. I try as hard as I can to peer into the room, but all I can see are the filled bookcases along the wall. My hand rests upon the cool silver knob, twisting it though there's no door frame in place to clear. When I begin to push it forward, the slightest of squeaks rings into the air. That won't do, Seneca will surely instruct a servant to fix it immediately. But no barked order comes from within, instead a slow drawl greets me.

"Do come in."

I let the door handle free and the momentum carries it forward to reveal the stranger in the room. He sits stiffly upright in the ornate armchair, facing me directly. One leg is crossed over the other, a glass of red wine grasped between cold white fingers. When my eyes travel up the length of his suit, the mask-like face shows me that he's not truly a stranger.

"President Snow." My greeting is cold in my surprise.

"Miss Jones." He inclines his head.

"Where's Seneca?" I ask, frozen to the spot.

"Oh, just on the bed."

I'm unable to tear my eyes away to check that his statement is true. Like an animal frozen in place by a predator, I feel that if I move I'll be struck in an instant.

"He's dead, isn't he?"

"Quite."

I inhale thickly, heart gripped in a sudden spasm of pain.

"Why?" It's perhaps the worst question I could possibly ask, but it doesn't seem that the filter between my mind and mouth works right now.

"Isn't that obvious, Miss Jones? I'd think that you of all people could have predicted why Seneca Crane didn't last long as our head gamemaker." His puffy lips, stained red from the wine, press into a smile.

"He's..." I trail off, it seems I'm suddenly unable to lie and that puts me in a very dangerous position.

"Speak freely, please."

"He was overconfident and obtuse." I keep my response clipped.

"Precisely. Seneca Crane became a liability, one too large to ignore. What I told you the last time we spoke is what I tell all of my acquaintances. Actions have consequences. I am not an unfair man, I hold all individuals to the same standard. You see that now, don't you?"