Only Hunger

Cordelia sat cross-legged on one of the velvet couches, the fabric plush and ridiculous beneath her calloused hands. The Capitol never skimped on luxury, even when dressing up the slaughterhouse. She tore a piece off her toast, chewing absentmindedly, her gaze fixed on Finnick as he spoke to the District 4 tributes.

His voice was smooth, practiced — the words spilling out like a fisherman casting lines into uncertain waters. Charm. Wit. Vulnerability. These were the lures that might catch a sponsor’s heart, might buy a tribute another day of life. Finnick made it sound easy, but Cordelia knew the truth. Each word cost him something. Each easy smile was a small betrayal stitched onto his soul.

She chewed and listened, feeling the old, familiar hollowness settle in her chest.
It was always the same. Year by year. Tribute by tribute. Hope dangled before them like bait on a hook. And the Capitol reeled them in, every time.

The boy — Caden — leaned forward, soaking up Finnick’s advice with wide, earnest eyes. He was younger than she had realized, or maybe just softer around the edges. The girl — Marina — was harder to read. She sat still, spine straight, her coral crown now long since removed, her hair pinned simply. There was a wary calculation in her eyes, the same look Cordelia had once seen in her own reflection during those early days in the Capitol.

Cordelia tore another piece off her toast, letting the crumbs fall between her fingers.

She remembered how it felt, standing under the hot, blinding lights of Caesar Flickerman's stage. The expectation to dazzle, to charm, to bleed prettily if need be. She remembered the too-tight dress, the way the sequins itched against her skin, the way Zyaire squeezed her hand when the nerves overtook her.

"Breathe, Siren," he had whispered, his thumb brushing the back of her hand. "Breathe. Pretend it’s just the river carrying you."

Cordelia closed her eyes for half a heartbeat, willing the memory back into its grave.
The dead should stay buried.

Finnick was pacing now, spinning another lesson about humor, about vulnerability — how to hint at your tragedy without wallowing in it. The Capitol liked its victors scarred but still beautiful, still salvageable.

Marina raised her hand slightly, interrupting him. "But what if you don't feel like pretending?" she asked, her voice low but steady.

Cordelia looked up sharply. Finnick faltered, just a blink — most wouldn't notice — but Cordelia caught it.

He recovered quickly, flashing one of those practiced grins. "Then you pretend anyway," he said. "Or you die."

The words hung heavy in the air, cold and merciless as steel.

Marina stared back at him, unblinking, before nodding once.

Cordelia tossed the remains of her toast onto the silver tray beside her. Her appetite was gone. She stood and crossed the room, her boots whispering against the marble floor. The tributes watched her approach, their shoulders tightening instinctively.

Good, she thought. Fear was an ally.

She stopped in front of them, hands slipping into the pockets of her sea-green coat.

"You'll hate yourself for it," she said bluntly. "You'll smile for them. You'll say what they want to hear. You'll dance like a puppet. And every time you do, a piece of you will rot inside your chest."

The tributes stared at her, the brutal honesty of her words stripping away the last traces of ceremony.

"But if you want to live," Cordelia finished, her voice softening into something almost tender, almost broken, "you'll do it anyway."

For a long moment, no one moved. Even Finnick stayed silent, letting her words settle like silt in deep water.

Cordelia turned away, her coat trailing behind her like a battered sail.
She didn’t look back.

She had given them all she could. The rest was up to the tides.

Cordelia and Finnick stood shoulder to shoulder near the wings of the grand stage, bathed in the dim glow of Capitol spotlights. The interviews droned on — tribute after tribute offering their charm, their sob stories, their carefully rehearsed smiles.

When one of theirs finished — head held high, face bright with false hope — Finnick would murmur a simple "Well done," and Cordelia would offer a tight nod, saving the real praise for when it actually mattered.

The District 12 boy was speaking now.
Cordelia shifted her weight, arms folded loosely across her chest, letting the sound of his voice wash over her. She didn’t plan to listen — not really — until she caught the tail end of his sentence.

"Because she came here with me."

The words cracked the stillness around her.
Cordelia clicked her tongue against her teeth in sharp irritation, the sound small but unmistakable.

Finnick glanced sideways at her, brow arched in silent question. She didn't look at him. Her gaze stayed locked on the boy standing under the hot Capitol lights, his hand brushing the girl's lightly, just enough for the cameras to catch it.

Cordelia scoffed under her breath. "Star-crossed lovers." Of course.

"Let's see how they’ll sell that tired old narrative now," she muttered, bitterness curling in her chest like smoke. Her voice was low, but Finnick heard — he always did.

Because once, eight years ago, it had been her and Zyaire. The darlings of District 4. The ocean's sweethearts, the Capitol had called them, weaving a love story into the net of their survival — two beautiful tributes bound by devotion, swimming through blood and salt to stay alive.

But the Capitol’s love stories always ended the same way. And lovers from District 4 drowned in the water.

Cordelia squeezed her arms tighter around herself, feeling the phantom burn of the sea in her lungs. She had swum to the surface that day gasping for air, alone, while the cameras zoomed in on Zyaire's body floating somewhere beyond the reach of mercy.

Finnick didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. Grief was a language they both spoke fluently by now.

Cordelia forced her mouth into something resembling a smile as another round of applause shook the hall.

"This place never changes," she said under her breath, her voice barely a thread of sound. "Just new faces. New graves."

Finnick’s hand brushed hers briefly — a flicker of human contact, so fleeting she could almost pretend she imagined it.

"Then we survive it," he said quietly, his voice steady against the storm.

Cordelia didn’t answer. She wasn’t sure survival was the right word anymore.

She just kept watching, silent as the tide, as another pair of lambs danced their way toward the slaughter.