The roar of the City Circle finally faded into the rhythmic clopping of hooves as our chariot rolled back into the cool, dim depths of the stables. The adrenaline was still humming in my veins, but the spectacle was over. Now, the real work began.
Before heading to the elevators, I stepped away from the stylists and the Peacekeepers. I walked over to the two massive black horses that had pulled our chariot. They were trembling slightly, eyes wide from the sensory overload of the crowd.
I leaned in, pressing my forehead against the velvet of their muzzles. I whispered to them in their own language—a low, rhythmic vibration that no human ear could truly decode.
"Don't worry. I'll come back for you. Just wait."
The lead horse exhaled a long, warm breath, his eyes softening as he nuzzled my shoulder. "Thank you, mistress. We will wait patiently for you to come save us."
"Zinnia? What are you doing?" Effie called out, her voice echoing in the stable.
"Just thanking them, Effie," I said, giving the horses one last pat before turning back to the group. "They did a wonderful job."
We were ushered into the Training Center, the elevator whisking us up to the twelfth floor. The apartment was a palace of luxury, but I didn't linger. I went straight to my room, scrubbing the charcoal and silver makeup from my face until my skin felt raw and clean. I shed the heavy, obsidian-encrusted gown—the masterpiece everyone believed Darien and Portia had created—and pulled on my sleek, grey training jumpsuit.
I was just tightening the laces on my boots when a rhythmic knocking sounded at the door. I walked into the living area and opened it to find Finnick Odair leaning against the frame, looking casual in a silk shirt.
"You're late," I said with a smirk.
"And you're dressed for a fight," he countered, stepping inside. He looked at David, who was sitting on the sofa, then back at me. "I saw you with the horses, Zinnia. You're a mystery. Those outfits your stylists gave you have the city calling 12 the new District 1, but it's the girl in the dress they're really looking at."
"Darien and Portia had a sudden burst of inspiration," I said smoothly, keeping the lie perfectly intact. I looked at the cameras tucked into the ceiling. "Not here, Finnick. The roof. Now."
I grabbed David's hand, and the three of us headed for the roof. The wind whipped around us, drowning out the hum of the city. This was the only place safe from the Capitol's listening devices.
"You're remarkably serious for a tribute," Finnick said, his flirtatious mask finally dropping.
I turned to him, my expression cold and commanding. David stood like a silent guardian beside me. "I'm going to save them, Finnick. Not just David. All of them."
Finnick scoffed, leaning against the railing. "Zinnia, only one comes out. That's the rule. You can't stop the Gamemakers from killing kids."
"I'm not going to stop the deaths," I whispered, stepping closer so the wind carried my words only to him. "I'm going to fake them. I have a manor back in District 12. It is protected by things the Capitol doesn't understand. When a tribute 'dies' in that arena, I can trigger a displacement. To the cameras, it will look like a bloody end. The cannons will fire. But the bodies will never be recovered because they'll be safe in my home."
Finnick froze, his sea-green eyes widening. "That's impossible. No one has tech that can bypass an arena's containment field."
"I didn't say it was tech," I countered. "I'm the Ghost of Twelve, Finnick. Do you really think I'm just a girl with a pretty face and lucky stylists?"
David looked up at Finnick with eerie calm. "Mama says they'll be safe. She never lies."
Finnick looked from the boy to me, his breath hitching. "Even if you can do this... the other tributes won't just stand still and let you 'fake' their deaths. And their mentors? They've seen too much blood to believe in miracles."
"That is why I need you," I said, grabbing his arm. "I need you to be my eyes and my voice. I need you to go to the mentors—the ones we can trust, like Beetee or Wiress. You have to convince them to tell their tributes to trust me when the time comes. If they don't fight me, I can save them. If they fight, they die for real."
I looked him dead in the eye. "I need the mentors to believe in a ghost story. I need them to know that when their tribute 'falls,' they aren't going to a morgue. They're coming to me. You are the only one who can talk to them without raising suspicion."
Finnick went silent, staring out at the city lights. The weight of the secret seemed to settle on his shoulders.
"I'll watch you in training," he finally said, his voice low. "If you can prove you're strong enough to stay alive long enough to pull this off... I'll talk to the others. I'll get you your trust, Zizi."
"I have no intention of showing them everything tomorrow," I replied, turning toward the elevator.
I paused, reaching into the hidden pocket of my training jumpsuit. I pulled out a small, simple pendant—a smooth piece of obsidian tied to a leather cord. It hummed with a faint, grounding warmth. I pressed it into his palm, closing his fingers over it.
"Keep this," I whispered. "It's linked to the Manor. If things go wrong, or if you need to know I'm still standing, hold onto it. It's the only proof I can give you right now that I'm not just a dream."
Finnick looked down at his closed fist, his expression unreadable as he felt the impossible warmth of the stone. He looked back at me, a new kind of respect—and perhaps a little fear—flickering in his eyes.
"I'll show you enough tomorrow," I said, giving him a soft, genuine smile that wasn't for the cameras. "Thanks for the sugar, Finn."
I led David back inside, leaving him alone in the wind, clutching a silver tin, a warm stone, and a secret that could save every child in the arena.