Only Hunger

“And who’s going to protect Peeta?” Cordelia’s voice cut through the room, sharp and steady as a blade unsheathed. The Victors had just finished dissecting the latest version of Plutarch’s plan: extract Katniss, sabotage the arena, and give the Capitol a show they wouldn’t forget. All of it centered around the girl on fire. But there were others in the flames.

The silence that followed was suffocating. Plutarch Heavensbee only offered her a closed-lipped smile, the kind that dripped with quiet condescension. Cordelia’s stomach twisted. She hated that smile—it meant too much and said nothing.

“I guess you will,” Johanna muttered, half amused, half resigned.

Cordelia rolled her eyes, dragging a hand through her hair as if she could scrape the noise out of her skull. The voices in the room continued, strategy washing over her like static. She heard the words but didn’t care for them.

When the meeting ended, she didn’t linger. Her footsteps were sharp, echoing off marble floors as she was the first to walk out, the weight of unspoken dread pressing into her spine.

Johanna caught up with her, her tone light and teasing. “What’s got you all twisted up, Siren?”

Cordelia halted abruptly, turning on her heel. Her voice was quieter now, but it carried with it a fury tightly coiled beneath her skin. “Johanna… if Zyaire were in Peeta’s place, helpless and marked, who would protect him?”

For a moment, Johanna’s smirk faltered. Her bravado slipped like a mask loosened at the edges.

“I don’t know,” she said finally. “Guess it’s a good thing you’re not the Mockingjay.”

Cordelia’s eyes narrowed. “No. It’s just a shame someone has to be.”

Johanna was about to respond, a witty retort already forming on her lips, but she was interrupted by the soft shuffle of footsteps. Finnick appeared in the hallway with Mags at his side, his easy smile dimming the tension in the air.

“Still going over the plans?” he asked, his tone light, trying to break through the storm hanging between the two girls.

Johanna gave him a smirk and a shrug, then turned and walked away without another word. Cordelia stayed behind, her arms folded, her expression unreadable. Finnick exchanged a brief look with Mags before gesturing for Cordelia to follow. They returned to their room—quiet, heavy with unspoken things.

As soon as the door shut behind them, Finnick’s charm dropped. “You don’t actually believe them, do you?” he asked, his voice low but pointed.

Cordelia glanced at him, puzzled. “Who?”

“Katniss and Peeta,” he said, leaning against the edge of the table. “The District 12 star-crossed lovers.”

She tilted her head, searching his face for something—doubt, bitterness, maybe even envy. “You can’t fake that kind of love, Finnick. You know that.”

But he only gave a dry laugh, one without humor. “You can, Deli. If the Capitol needs a good story, you can fake anything.”

Cordelia’s jaw clenched. She looked away, out the window, toward the training center’s bright lights and the Capitol’s gleaming skyline. “No,” she said quietly. “Because if Zyaire and I were the ones in that arena… if we were the Capitol’s story…” Her voice caught for a second, but she pushed through. “Zyaire would do what Peeta did. He’d ask me to kill him. To end the game.”

She looked back at Finnick, eyes shining with a quiet ache. “And I wouldn’t be able to. Just like Katniss.”

Finnick didn’t respond right away. He just watched her, the flicker of memory ghosting through his own eyes. The Capitol demanded performance. But pain like that—that was real.

Mags sat quietly in the corner, her eyes on Cordelia with a softness that had nothing to do with age. She didn’t speak, but she didn’t need to—her presence was grounding, a silent reassurance that someone understood, even when words fell short.

Finnick finally exhaled, slow and tired, and rubbed a hand across his face. “We’ve all lost something,” he murmured. “Some of us more than once. I just hope Katniss and Peeta know what they’re doing.”

Cordelia didn’t answer. Her mind was elsewhere—on Zyaire’s voice, on the weight of his arms when he held her, on the look in his eyes that used to silence her fears. She remembered the first time he told her he would die for her, and the way it didn’t feel like a romantic promise but a fact, like something set in stone.

“They’re just kids,” she said at last. “Trying to survive a world that wants them as symbols more than people.”

Finnick gave a faint nod. “That’s what we all are.”

“No,” she said firmly. “We’re not symbols. We’re the warnings.”

The silence that followed was heavy but mutual. Cordelia stood and moved toward the small table near the window, where her Capitol-issued uniform lay neatly folded, untouched.

“You should get some rest.” Finnick said, watching her.

“I’ll rest when my mind is out of that arena,” Cordelia said, picking up the jacket and running her fingers across the fabric.

Finnick didn’t argue. He simply moved to Mags’ side and gently helped her to her feet, brushing a hand through her silver hair.

“Goodnight, Deli,” he said softly before leaving the room.

Cordelia remained where she was, staring at the Capitol uniform, the threads gleaming under the artificial light. She could still hear Plutarch’s words echoing from earlier, that smug smile like a knife behind his teeth.

They wanted her to play her part.

But if this rebellion was going to happen, Cordelia swore she’d play it her way.

Even if it meant burning everything down.