He hadn't expected Raleigh to be there. It's only recognizing the voice that stops Finnick's immediate, tension-driven reaction from being preparing to throw his spear. As it is, his head turns sharply in Raleigh's direction, and there's an intense focus in his brilliant green eyes. Raleigh's posture, though, has no threat in it, and Finnick's already looking back at the deer by the time the other man's drawn close.

"No, it doesn't. Nothing's been eaten."

He's seen wounds a little like that before. Close-up live on the television screen when he doesn't look away in time to preserve what little he can of the dignity of a dead or dying tribute in his own mind.

"It looks like something wanted it to suffer."

Mutts. That's what mutts do, and Finnick's voice is not as detached as he's like it to be.