Finnick generally doesn't feel too sorry for himself, but the tributes he mentors year in and year out, almost all of whom die, are another story. The grief stacks, becomes so heavy he has to disassociate. He feels that grief now, for Nina, too. For the childhood she lost.

He isn't sure what she says is true; that he can't surprise her more. But he'll go on anyway, because it seems important to her to know what makes him tick.

Thankfully, more drinks come just in time, and the barmaid mops up the spilled ale. Finnick thanks her quietly with a small smile, and once she's gone he takes a healthy sip and speaks.

"I'm the youngest Victor in Games history. Every tribute has their own strategy, their unique strengths for survival. The main reason I won my Games was that I was liked. If rich people like you, they can sponsor you, send you things in the arena that can save your life or give you an edge. I was so well-liked that I was sent a Trident in the arena, my weapon of choice. It was the most expensive gift ever given in the Games."

This is important, for Nina to understand why he's 'fake' and cares so much to be liked. He had to be. Has to be still, not so much here, but in his world.

"If a Victor is desirable, then once they win, the President sells them to the rich in the Capitol. For their bodies. Of course, I was a prime candidate. If I refused, he would kill someone I loved. They were supposed to wait until I was sixteen to really go for me, but of course, not everyone is that... Upstanding. For ten years I'd make trips to the Capitol and sleep with people. People far too old for me, with power over me, and I had to do what they asked of me. I had to be good at it and maintain my perfect image to keep my people at home safe."

He presses his lips into a grim line and takes another long drink.