𝙰𝚜𝚜𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚗 ✪ 𝙵𝚒𝚗𝚗𝚒𝚌𝚔 𝙾𝚍𝚊𝚒𝚛

- ȶɦɨʀȶʏ ʄɨʋɛ

Finnick felt like his life was over. It had been days since the arena. Or maybe weeks. Time was hard to measure when every second stretched like a noose around his throat. He sat slumped against the cold concrete wall of the underground safe house, elbows on his knees, head buried in his hands. District 13 was buzzing with activity—medics, strategists, soldiers—but all of it blurred into meaningless noise.

Because she wasn't there.

Willa.

Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the wave crashing through the jungle, saw the sand ripping away beneath his feet, heard the screams—so many screams—and he had run, but he hadn't seen her after. Not after the chaos. Not after the cannons. Beetee was in medical, barely alive. Katniss... Katniss was breathing but fractured, haunted in her silence. But Willa—

Gone.

He'd heard whispers from the rebels. Rumors. Some believed she'd died in the wave, her cannon lost in the confusion. Others... others thought the Capitol had taken her. That was worse. That much Finnick knew.

"Finnick," Haymitch's voice cut through the fog, rough and sharp as broken glass. He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. "You look like death warmed over."

"Go away," Finnick muttered without lifting his head. Haymitch didn't. Of course he didn't. Instead, his boots scraped against the concrete as he crossed the room. He stopped just short of Finnick and crouched down to his level, sighing through his nose.

"You keep doing this," Haymitch said. "Staring at the wall like if you wait long enough, she's just gonna walk through it."

Finnick's jaw tightened, but he didn't respond. Haymitch tilted his head, watching him closely.

"You wanna sit there and rot, fine. But I need you functional. District 13 needs you functional. So pick your damn poison—grieve later or fight now." he said. Finnick finally lifted his head, bloodshot eyes locking on Haymitch's.

"She's not dead." Finnick told him. Haymitch's expression faltered for half a second, but then he schooled it into something unreadable.

"Finnick—" he started.

"She's not dead," Finnick snapped, shoving himself to his feet so fast the chair screeched against the floor. He was breathing hard now, anger spilling out like cracks in a dam. "I'd know if she was. I'd feel it. I—" He stopped himself, chest heaving, and ran a shaking hand through his hair. "She's not gone."

Haymitch stayed quiet for a moment, studying him with the careful patience of someone who'd had this argument before.

"And if the Capitol has her?" he asked finally. Finnick froze. That was the knife Haymitch knew would land deepest.His hands curled into fists.

"Then I get her back," he said hoarsely. "I don't care what it takes. I don't care if I have to burn the entire Capitol to the ground."

"It's not that simple." Haymitch sighed, standing slowly. Finnick turned, eyes sharp, desperate.

"Then make it simple." if she was alive, Finnick would do anything to get her back. Haymitch hesitated, weighing something in his head before finally muttering,

"There's... talk. Among the higher-ups here. Recon missions. Intel runs." He took a swig from his flask. "Word is, the Capitol's holding tributes who survived the arena. Keeping them alive. For leverage."

Finnick's stomach dropped. It wasn't confirmation, but it was enough. Enough to ignite the smallest, most dangerous spark of hope. He stepped closer, voice low, trembling.

"Have they said her name?" he asked. Haymitch didn't answer immediately. And that was answer enough.

"Finnick—" Haymitch said. But Finnick was already moving, shoving past him, practically sprinting down the narrow hallway toward Command. The low, constant hum of District 13's operations blurred in his ears, drowned out by the pounding of his heartbeat. If Willa was alive—if they had her—he wasn't going to sit here waiting for someone else to decide what happened next.

He was going to get her back.

Even if it killed him.

⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧

"Willa," Finnick slammed his hands on the table, the sharp crack echoing through the concrete war room. He leaned forward, chest heaving, his knuckles whitening against the polished surface as he stared Plutarch down. Plutarch barely flinched. Behind his glasses, his expression remained composed, hands folded neatly in front of him like he'd been expecting this. "I need to know where she is."

Across the table, President Coin's sharp gaze cut to him, her expression frosted steel.

"Finnick," she warned, her tone clipped. "Lower your voice."

Finnick's head snapped toward her, teeth bared.

"Lower my—? Are you out of your mind?" He gestured wildly, his voice cracking under the weight of weeks of sleepless nights. "She's out there—alone, terrified, tortured—and you're sitting here drawing up battle maps like she doesn't exist!"

Plutarch exhaled heavily, removing his glasses and polishing them with the edge of his sleeve. It was a stalling tactic. Finnick recognized it instantly.

"You know where she is," Finnick accused, pointing at him. "You've known this whole time."

"I know she's dead," was all Plutarch said. For a moment, Finnick just stared. The words didn't register—not fully. They couldn't. Plutarch's voice had been too calm. Too measured. Like he'd rehearsed it. Finnick didn't want to the believe that the wave really did kill her.

"No," Finnick said finally, shaking his head slowly, almost laughing under his breath. "No, you're lying."

"Finnick—" Plutarch started, but Finnick slammed his fist on the table so hard the sound cracked through the room like a gunshot.

"Don't," Finnick barked, his voice splintering around the edges. "Don't you dare say it like it's fact. Like you know."

Plutarch didn't flinch this time. His silence was worse than any confirmation.

"You think I wouldn't know if she died?" His voice cracked hard on the last word, and he shoved a hand into his hair, tugging at the roots like he could pull the memory into focus.

"Finnick." Coin's voice cut in, sharp and cold. He didn't look at her.

"You need to accept it," she said evenly, her eyes like sharpened steel. "Willa Levine is dead, the wave killed her. And this rebellion does not have time for personal crusades."

Finnick's head snapped toward her, and for the first time, she seemed to understand the danger she'd just walked into.

"You don't say her name," he warned, voice low and venomous. "You don't know her. You don't get to speak about her like that."

"Odair," Coin snapped, slamming her palm onto the table, forcing his attention back to her. "Do you understand who you're talking about? If Snow has her, if there's any chance that she's even breathing right now, she's in a lab or an interrogation room. They would've broken her already."

Finnick's breathing turned ragged, shallow.

"You don't know that," he whispered, but the words sounded weaker now. Coin leaned forward, her voice quiet but lethal.

"Snow doesn't keep broken pieces. He destroys them." she said. For a long moment, no one spoke. The hum of the ventilation system filled the silence. Then Finnick laughed—a hollow, bitter sound that didn't reach his eyes.

"You've never met Willa," he said, finally looking up, a flicker of something dark in his expression. "Snow can try to break her, but he'll never win."

Without another word, he stormed out of the war room, boots pounding down the hallway, his vision blurring with rage and exhaustion.

If District 13 wasn't going to find Willa...

He'd do it himself.