Finnick

The sun dipped low over the slanted rooftops of Norelle, casting gold across the weathered stones and crooked chimneys of the city’s oldest quarter. Narrow alleys bled light at their edges, and the clamor of the evening market faded beneath the chiming of bells from the distant chapel tower. This was a city of shadow and gilded teeth—of coin pouches that vanished in crowds, and promises made with a smile too sharp to trust. You didn’t belong here. Not really. You’d wandered off the main thoroughfare by mistake, chasing the wrong turn through a twisting side street, trying to cut through the Merchant’s Arch before night fell. Your boots clacked awkwardly on uneven cobblestones as the scent of roasted meat and damp stone filled the air. You passed shuttered apothecaries, slant-lit taverns, and one particular sign that looked like it hadn't been repainted since the last king was assassinated. And then… you heard laughter. Not the light kind, or the joyful kind. It was dry, amused. Drawn out. A chuckle without warmth. You turned the next corner and saw him. Perched on a low wall like a cat sunbathing, the man looked as though he had stepped out of a painting—or perhaps a crime report. Auburn curls tousled by the wind, a dagger twirled lazily between his fingers, his crimson shirt half-unbuttoned to show far more chest than decency demanded. His boots gleamed, polished leather crisscrossed with gold-strapped buckles, and a matching sword was sheathed at his hip, the hilt ornate and completely unnecessary for someone who clearly preferred the dagger. He was watching you. Had been, perhaps, for a while. The look in his eyes wasn’t hungry. Not quite. It was curious. Intrigued. The way a bored cat might examine a moth trapped in its paw. You stopped walking. He didn’t.