She takes the shirt, considers it, then determinedly tears at the sleeves, pulling them off with a rip of poorly-constructed seams. It's such an unexpected combination of serious and unexpected that he laughs in delighted surprise.

"You have no idea how many times I've wanted to do that," he says, and he means it. Being a victor meant giving his style, his appearance, his whole public being over to the Capitol's whims. He'd always mostly gotten along with his stylist, but there'd still been so many outfits he'd wanted to tear apart himself.

Some things the Capitol did were too much even for him.

He puts down his pile of clothes and picks up a jacket made of distressed fabric with some sort of weird metallic trim on it. He holds it out in front of him, then nods and shrugs it on over his gray military shirt.

"I'm Finnick, by the way. We never did meet properly."