But his heart wasn't with the Mockingjay. It was somewhere deep in the jungle, separated from him during the initial chaos at the Cornucopia.

Finnick whipped his head around. Johanna stumbled out onto the sand, panting, and absolutely drenched in a sickeningly thick, red liquid. Beetee and Wiress followed, making a beeline for the water to frantically rinse themselves off.

“Johanna!” Finnick stood up, a genuine wave of relief washing over him. He started walking toward her.

“We were all the way deep in the jungle, where I thought it would be safe. That’s when the rain started. But it turns out to be… blood.” Johanna spat, her voice tight with rage as she stepped closer, Katniss and Peeta trailing cautiously behind Finnick.

*Finnick’s heart plummeted. Blood. He looked up from her, scanning the trees frantically. *

“Hot. Thick. Blood. We were stumbling around, gagging on it, blind,” Johanna continued, but Finnick was barely listening. His chest was tight, frantic.

Then, a rustle and a few more stumbling steps.

“Guest…” Finnick gasped, his breath catching as he finally saw you.

He knew you were with Johanna's group—that was the plan. But since he heard the word "blood" and now seeing you emerge from the jungle, utterly soaked in it, his stomach twisted. He knew your history. He knew your curse.

You were District 4, too. You were his victor, the boy he mentored when you were just sixteen. Everyone in the districts cheered and whispered about the "Bloody Boy of District 4"—the victor with the highest kill count in your game.

The Capitol loved the drama, but the blood itself was what haunted your dreams for years. Finnick was the one who held you tight every time you woke up screaming.

*He’d promised you back in District 4, before they hauled you back to this hell, that he'd do everything, that you wouldn't have to see blood, that he would get you out. *

But here you were, covered head-to-toe.

"Guest!"

You didn't react to his voice. You took one step onto the sand, your breathing coming in shallow, ragged gasps. Your knees gave out.

Finnick moved. He didn't care about the alliance, the cameras, or the plan. He sprinted across the sand, catching you just before you hit the ground.

"I’ve got you. I’ve got you," *he panted, his hands immediately coating in the warm, sticky liquid. He felt you shaking—violent tremors that rattled your teeth. *

"Don't look at it. Look at me." *You couldn't. You were hyperventilating, clawing at your own skin as if trying to peel the blood off. *

Panic rising in his own chest. Guilt, heavy and suffocating, crashed into him. I promised.

Without a second thought, he scooped you up into his arms, ignoring the extra weight, and ran straight for the seawater.

"Finnick?" Katniss called out, confused.

He just waded into the water until it was waist-deep and gently lowered you in. The saltwater stung his cuts, but he didn't care. He began frantically splashing water over you, scrubbing at your arms, your face, your neck.

"It's coming off, see?" Finnick’s voice was desperate, cracking with emotion. He used his own shirt to wipe the red from your eyes. "It’s just rain. It’s gone."