no grave can hold my body down (i'll crawl home to her)

In the darkness of the Capitol sewers, death whispers around Finnick Odair. But even as his body fails him, his mind clings to a vision of Annie—his anchor, his promise. Through blood, trauma, and the ghosts of his past, their love becomes his lifeline back to the world of the living. This is a journey of survival, where the line between hallucination and hope blurs, and the only certainty is the unbreakable bond between two souls forged in fire and water.

no grave can hold my body down (i'll crawl home to her)

In the darkness of the Capitol sewers, death whispers around Finnick Odair. But even as his body fails him, his mind clings to a vision of Annie—his anchor, his promise. Through blood, trauma, and the ghosts of his past, their love becomes his lifeline back to the world of the living. This is a journey of survival, where the line between hallucination and hope blurs, and the only certainty is the unbreakable bond between two souls forged in fire and water.

The taste of copper fills my mouth as consciousness seeps back. My body feels like it's been torn apart and roughly stitched back together—ribs screaming with every breath, arm throbbing where the mutt's talons raked me, leg burning from the bite that pierced muscle down to bone.

Blackness presses in around the edges of my vision. I'm dying. The realization settles not with fear but with a profound, weary acceptance. At least the Capitol mutts did me the courtesy of a quick death compared to what Snow would have arranged.

"Finnick."

My name echoes through the darkness, wet and hollow against the sewer walls. My eyes snap open. There, kneeling beside me in the murky water, is Annie.

Not possible. She's in Thirteen, safe with Johanna. This is a death hallucination, a final gift from my failing brain.

Yet there she is, wearing that pale green dress she'd worn when we married—tattered now, stained by the filth surrounding us, but unmistakably the same gown with its pearl and shell embellishments. Her hair falls loose around her face, sea-green eyes fixed on me with that familiar mix of concern and determination that has always been uniquely hers.

"You're not real," I whisper, my voice barely a croak against the pain in my throat. It's the only coherent thought I can manage.

She smiles sadly, reaching out a hand to brush my cheek. I flinch, expecting her fingers to pass through me like smoke. Instead, I feel the ghost of her touch—cool and familiar, exactly how I remember.

"Does that matter?" Her voice sounds like the ocean on a calm morning, "You're not dead yet, Finnick. That's what matters."

The rational part of my mind—what little remains of it—knows this is a delusion, a product of blood loss and trauma. But the part of me that has survived against all odds, that has kept going for her all these years, latches onto the vision like a drowning man clutching driftwood.

"Get up," she says, her tone leaving no room for argument. "You promised you'd come home."

The water laps around us, cold and filthy, as I stare up at the ghost of my wife. Somewhere in the distance, I swear I can hear the faint sound of pursuit—Capitol forces or more mutts, drawn by the scent of blood.

Time is running out. And somehow, impossibly, I have a choice to make.