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TOGETHER, haymitch abernathy

pairing haymitch abernathy x tribute!fem!reader

summary when the eldest donner volunteers for the fiftieth hunger games in place of her sister, survival is the last thing she expects. trapped in an arena designed to punish rebellion, she is forced to confront loss, violence, and the boy she always hated: haymitch abernathy. as the games twist toward an unprecedented ending, she learns that some special things endure even when the capitol tries to erase them

warnings 22k+ word count, little use of y/n, angst, mentions of death + violence, heavy spoilers for sunrise on the reaping w/ a somewhat altered plot — request

the tributes

i don’t feel the cold until the door slams shut behind me.

the justice building always felt too big from the outside, but from in here—from the backseat of the black car that smells like leather and polished brass—it feels even bigger. like the walls are swallowing the sound of everything i didn’t get to say.

my hands are still trembling. not the dramatic kind of trembling—no shaking shoulders, no sobbing, no broken breaths. just this quiet, constant vibration under my skin, like my body hasn’t realized the reaping is over yet.

like it hasn’t realized that i volunteered as tribute.

the window beside me fogs with my breath. i stare at the blurred shape of the justice building as we pull away, the faint gold lettering smearing into nothingness.

maysilee’s voice still rings in my ears—you shouldn’t have done that—she said it twice. once angry, once muffled by sobs. the first time, she sounded like a sister. the second, she sounded like someone losing one.

merilee said nothing at all. she just held my hands so tightly her knuckles went white, her forehead resting against mine like she was trying to memorize the shape of me. my mother’s sobs felt muffled, like i was underwater watching someone else’s life play out. my father had to pull her away when the peacekeepers stepped in.

i didn’t cry. i think something in me wanted to, but the shock was thicker. like grief was settling into my bones before i even left district twelve.

across from me, wyatt callow sits with his elbows on his knees, staring at the floor like the numbers are running behind his eyes. louella mccoy is beside him, tiny and pale, wringing the hem of her dress in her fists. she looks thirteen in the worst way—too young to understand everything, but just old enough to understand enough.

haymitch abernathy sits in the farthest corner of the carriage, wedged against the window, arms crossed so tightly it looks painful. he hasn’t bothered wiping the soot off his face from the mines. it streaks across his cheekbone, sharp like war paint. he glares out the window like he wants to punch it until the glass shatters.

my heart tugs at the thought of him and the undoubtedly horrible thoughts that swim through his head. haymitch wasn't reaped, not really. i watched with a slack jaw as woodbine chance, who had just had his name announced, was shot seven times after his attempted escape. it was all a blur after that; haymitch's friend, lenore, trying to comfort woodbine's mother, the peacekeepers trying to hurt lenore, haymitch trying to protect lenore.

he was then designated the second male tribute; a punishment for his kind but rebellious regards.

i don’t look at him. i can’t. not with how brittle i feel. not with the way his eyes cut through everything.

drusilla sickle and her flaming orange bob sit nearest the front, legs crossed neatly, her makeup cakey, a smile painted on like she’s hosting a garden party and not escorting four children to their televised execution. “such bravery today,” she chirps, as if bravery is what happened in the square. as if volunteering to die is noble.

no one answers her. not even haymitch, who never misses an opportunity to snarl at the capitol.

previous victors, mags flanagan from district four and wiress from district three, are on the bench with the driver, murmuring softly, preparing rooms, food, schedules. they are kind—too kind. the worst kind. the kind that makes you realize how doomed you are.

my fingers curl into the fabric of my skirt. the carriage bumps over uneven stone as we cross out of the merchant district. the roads change texture when we hit the seam—rougher, colder, biting at the wheels.

i feel it before i look: haymitch’s eyes shifting away from the window. the weight of his attention lands on me like a stone. i keep staring straight ahead, jaw tight, breath steady, pretending i don’t notice him watching me. pretending i don’t feel his resentment curdling the air like smoke.

he’s hated me for years. "spoiled princess" he had called me that night. i’d thrown it right back at him, calling him a charity case myself, unknowingly two days after his father passsd in a mine explosion. i regret that now, i’ve regretted it for years. but neither of us ever apologized.

the distance between us in the carriage feels like a punishment.

louella sniffles quietly. wyatt rests a hand on her shoulder, awkward but earnest. i should reach out too—i want to—but my body feels like someone else’s. like it’s stuck between wanting to crumble and refusing to be the weak one in front of haymitch abernathy.

the carriage slows as we near the station. steam billows from the massive engine waiting on the tracks. the tribute train gleams silver under the fading light—too clean, too beautiful, too bright for district twelve.

the peacekeeper outside calls, “doors!”

drusilla beams. “off we go, my dears.” her voice is sugar but this situation is acid.

the door swings open. cold air rushes in, sharp and metallic. i shiver.

haymitch doesn’t move at first. he watches me stand, watches me wipe my palms on my skirt, watches my shoulders stiffen as i prepare to step out of the life i knew and into whatever waits for me on the other side of that platform. his jaw clenches—one sharp line. i don’t know what it means.

i take the first step out of the carriage. the station lights flare white-hot, almost blinding. the platform smells like coal and oil and something sweet drifting from the train’s open doors—death dressed in velvet.

i hear maysilee—my sweet younger sister, my best friend—in my head again, voice cracking: “please come back. promise me you’ll try.” i didn’t promise her anything. i couldn’t.

my throat locks. i stare at the train, at the polished steps leading into the car, at the curtain of warm air brushing my face like an invitation i never asked for. i am not ready. i am not the brave volunteer they think i am. but i walk toward the train anyway. because maysilee is safe. merilee is safe. and i will bear the consequences of loving them more than myself.

haymitch passes me on the steps and mutters, low enough only i can hear: “figures you volunteered." the words sting sharper than they should. i don’t answer. i don’t trust what cruel words that i don't truly mean might come out of my mouth.

the seven of us step inside one-by-one, the door sealing shut behind us with a soft click. and just like that—district twelve is gone. the warmth of the car hits me first, wrapping around me the second i let myself deeper into the tribute train. it smells faintly of lavender steam and something sweet simmering in copper pots far ahead.

i blink hard, letting my eyes adjust. everything inside gleams. gold fixtures polished within an inch of their life. soft carpets that swallow my footsteps. walls paneled in dark wood that looks expensive enough to feed my family of five for a year.

louella hesitates at the doorway like she’s afraid to step on anything. wyatt gently nudges her in. haymitch stomps past all of us down the aisle, boots still covered in seam dust, tracking it onto marble tile in a carelessness that makes me wince.

drusilla gestures down the corridor. “dining car first! refreshments, introductions, announcements—oh, it’s all so exciting, isn’t it?” no one answers. again.

the corridor smells too clean, too warm, too alive. it makes my stomach churn. district twelve fades behind us through the narrow train windows, shrinking to a blur of gray and smoke. i swallow hard at the sight.

the dining car opens before me like something out of a dream—velvet seats, crystal bowls full of vibrant fruit, a shining chandelier overhead. the table is already set. wiress sits at the far end, fingers tapping lightly against a silver fork, eyes drifting between details no one else notices. mags is beside her, small and steady, hands folded over one another.

drusilla flutters in behind us. “take a seat, darlings! anywhere you’d like!”

haymitch doesn’t sit. he leans against the wall, arms crossed, jaw clenched. daring someone to tell him what to do.

scoffing, i move toward an empty seat across from mags, trying not to stare at the plates in front of us: pastries glazed with honey, sliced pears, shimmering cubes of pink meat. food meant to tempt tributes into forgetting they’re sacrificial lambs.

louella climbs into the chair beside me, her legs barely reaching the edge. she looks up at me like she’s asking permission. something in my chest twists; she reminds me of my sisters.

“go ahead,” i murmur. “sit. you’re okay.”

her shoulders relax by a fraction.

haymitch scoffs quietly from behind, like the idea of me comforting anyone is laughable. i ignore it.

wyatt sits next to louella, already analyzing the table like he’s tallying odds on which dish is poisoned. when mags gestures for us to eat, he waits a full ten seconds before picking anything up.

i’m not hungry. i don’t think i’ll ever be hungry again.

drusilla, however, is starving. “children!” she claps her hands. “introductions! enthusiasm! let’s get to know one another, shall we?”

haymitch mutters something under his breath. it sounds like, “go choke.” drusilla ignores him.

“we’ll start with our dear, sweet lou-anne—”

“louella." wyatt corrects gently.

the correction makes louella perk up just a little, like the gesture was made of gold.

“louella,” drusilla repeats with strained delight. “isn’t she precious? protected by our own, personal calculator, wyatt callow. now—” her attention snaps to me. “and you, miss donner. our bold volunteer. our heroine.”

my stomach drops. heroine. what a grotesque word.

i feel haymitch’s stare before i see it—sharp, slicing, waiting for me to bask in the praise like some merchant princess who loves attention. i keep my expression empty. “there’s nothing heroic about it,” i say quietly. “i did what i had to.”

louella looks at me. wyatt looks at his hands. wiress looks through me, into something deeper. and haymitch—his expression shifts. not softening, not sympathetic—just something like surprise flickering behind the resentment. like he expected me to smile. or boast. instead, i’m just hollow.

drusilla moves on quickly, eager to regain her performance energy. “and last, but certainly not least: haymitch abernathy!”

haymitch lifts one hand in the laziest parody of a greeting i’ve ever seen. “thrilled—" he deadpans, “to be here.”

drusilla stiffens.

mags speaks up gently, “you all must be exhausted.”

louella nods hard enough to wobble. wyatt’s jaw tightens. haymitch scoffs. i inhale, the smell of honey pastries sickeningly sweet in my throat.

“your rooms are ready,” mags continues. “after you rest, we’ll begin discussing strategy.”

haymitch pushes off the wall. “i don’t need a strategy,” he says. “i won’t last long enough for it to matter.”

louella’s eyes widen, terrified. wyatt shoots haymitch a look like he wants to punch him. i feel something hot rise in me—anger, sharp and sudden. “don’t say things like that in front of her,” i snap before i can stop myself.

haymitch’s head whips toward me. oh no. “don’t tell me what to say, princess.”

the old insult lands between us like a blade. my heartbeat stutters. merchants don’t fight. donners don’t cause scenes. tributes are supposed to save their energy. but i don’t care. not now. not today.

“she’s thirteen, haymitch,” i say quietly. “she doesn’t need to hear about your death wish.”

his nostrils flare. “she needs to hear the truth.”

“she needs hope.”

“hope?” he laughs, bitter and sharp. “you think hope saves anyone in the arena?”

“maybe not,” i whisper, leaning forward. “but cruelty won’t either.”

his jaw tightens. for a moment—for one breath—his eyes flicker. not anger, not hate, but hurt. he looks away first.

drusilla clears her throat quickly, desperate to patch the cracks forming in her perfect tributes. “well!” she says too brightly. “rest up! tomorrow is all too busy with your makeovers, parade, and the beginning of training!"

i stand too quickly, almost dizzy. haymitch steps aside for me, but the space between us is razor-thin—close enough to feel the heat off his skin. close enough that i catch the faint scent of coal smoke and sweat clinging to him.

i don’t sleep much that night. the bed on the train is too soft, the sheets too clean, the pillow too quiet. every time i close my eyes, i see maysilee’s face in the crowd, wet with tears she tried too hard to blink away. merilee’s hands clutching her necklace. my mother’s knees buckling. my father’s jaw set in that way that means he’s about to break but refuses to do it where anyone can see.

when i do drift off, it’s in pieces—thirty seconds here, a minute there. flashes of louella’s wide eyes, of wyatt’s hollow stare, of haymitch’s voice saying i won’t last long enough for it to matter.

i wake to sunlight i don’t recognize. it pours in through the narrow window of my compartment, pale gold and too clean, nothing like the sickly gray that seeps over district twelve in the mornings. the train hums underneath me, smoother now, like the tracks themselves are made of polished glass.

someone knocks once on my door, brisk. “up, up, up!” drusilla’s voice trills from the hallway. “we’re nearly there, little doves!” little doves. like we’re pretty things in a cage, meant to sing until our throats give out.

i sit up slowly. my body feels heavy, like grief settled in overnight and crystallized behind my ribs. i swing my legs over the side of the bed, toes curling into the plush carpet. it feels wrong. all of this does.

there’s a uniform laid out on the chair by the door: simple, soft, too white. capitol-issued. i change into it, my fingers clumsy with sleep deprivation, and tie my hair back out of habit, like i’m getting ready for a normal day—there will never be a normal day again. i know that.

when i step into the corridor, louella is already there, swallowed in fabric that doesn’t quite fit her, hair mussed from sleep and eyes red-rimmed. she gives me a small nod, like she’s not sure she’s allowed to say good morning.

“hey,” i say quietly. “are you okay?” it’s a stupid question. of course she’s not.

she shrugs one shoulder, lip wobbling just a little. “i dreamed about my mom.”

“me too,” wyatt mutters behind her, running a hand through his hair. he looks like he didn’t sleep at all, dark circles bruised under his eyes. he catches my gaze. there’s something like truce there.

haymitch appears from the opposite direction, stepping out of his compartment like he’s already halfway through a fight. his curls are a bit flatter from the pillow, shirt twisted at the collar, eyes bloodshot but hard.

he looks at me once. just once. there’s no snide comment this time. no princess. no sneer. for some reason, that makes my stomach twist worse.

“gather, gather!” drusilla flaps her hands, her wig slightly askew like she slept in it. “we’re pulling into the station. first impressions are everything in the capitol. shoulders back, heads high, don’t throw up.”

mags and wiress are waiting in the small lounge at the end of the car. mags gives us a soft smile that almost undoes me completely. wiress is watching the window, eyes tracking something outside only she can see.

“we are almost there,” mags says gently. “remember to breathe.”

i move to the window. the world outside is nothing i recognize: towering buildings of glass and metal claw at the sky, throwing back the morning sun in shards of color. streets crisscross below like a living map, teeming with people in clothes that look more like plumage than fabric—bright, shimmering, impossible. fountains spray water that glitters pink and blue. even the sky looks different here. too blue. too open. like it’s laughing.

the train begins to slow. my heart picks up.

haymitch comes to stand beside me. so close that our shoulders almost touch, but not quite. his jaw works, like he’s grinding his teeth. “look at them,” he mutters under his breath, so quiet i almost miss it. “like this is a show they paid for.”

my eyes flick to the crowds lining the tracks. they’re already pressing forward, waving, cheering, some holding up holographic signs that read sayings you'd see at a sporting event. my stomach lurches at the sight. we’re entertainment. that’s all we’ll ever be to them.

“remember,” drusilla says, voice suddenly sharp, “smile when the doors open. the capitol adores bravery. and tragedy. and teeth.” she bares hers in demonstration.

wiress finally speaks, still staring at the world outside, “they built all of this on bones,” she says, voice distant. “layer after layer. they forget what’s underneath if it shines enough.” mags touches her arm softly, like she’s heard this before.

the train shudders to a full stop. for a heartbeat, no one moves. then the platform erupts in sound. cheers. shrieks. music blasting from unseen speakers. flashes of cameras. the train doors hiss as they unlock, and drusilla clasps her hands together like it’s wintermas morning.

“time to meet your adoring public.”

the doors slide open and air floods in—warmer than twelve, scented with something floral and sharp, like crushed petals and electricity. the noise slams into me a second later.

i take a breath that doesn’t quite make it all the way down. my legs feel wooden as we move forward in a small cluster: wyatt, louella, haymitch, me. mags and wiress behind. drusilla leading the way, beaming.

the platform is a sea of color. capitol citizens press against barriers, reaching out, straining for a touch. some hold those ridiculous, large signs. others have styled their hair in bright yellow plumes “in honor of the quarter quell.” a few have already painted 12 on their cheeks.

louella’s hand brushes mine. i don’t realize she’s reaching for me until her fingers hook tentatively around two of mine. i squeeze back.

haymitch notices. his eyes flick down at our joined hands, then up to my face, his expression unreadable. for a second, i think he’s going to say something cutting. he doesn’t.

a man with gold tattoos etched into his cheeks and a hovering camera at his shoulder shouts, “look this way! yes, perfect—district twelve, give us a smile!” i don’t but he takes the shot anyway.

“keep moving,” drusilla sings. “we’re off to the remake center! your teams are just dying to get their hands on you.”

we’re fun new dolls for them to dress. for a handful of days, we’ll be the city’s latest obsession. and then we’ll all die, and they’ll find someone else.

the station floors are slick and spotless beneath my flats as we’re shepherded toward a set of glass doors. the sunlight catches my reflection briefly—pale, wide-eyed, jaw tight. i hardly recognize myself.

behind me, haymitch mutters, “don’t let them see you scared.”

i almost laugh. “i’m not scared of them,” i say under my breath.

he cuts me a sideways look, skeptical. “so what are you scared of then, princess?”

i ignore his snarky comment and think about the answer of his in-genuine question. turning into someone i hate.

“nothing that concerns you,” i decide.

“good,” he replies. “keep it that way.”

we step through the glass doors into a gleaming white lobby so bright it makes my eyes water. capitol staff are already lined up—attendants in bizarre outfits, stylists with insane cosmetic surgery done, all smiling too wide.

a woman with teal hair and gemstones glued along her eyelids clasps her hands when she sees us. “oh, they’re perfect,” she sighs. “so tragic. so fixable.”

drusilla claps once, delighted. “welcome to the capitol, my darlings. next stop: the remake center. after that—” she spreads her arms like she’s unveiling a new product. “your grand entrance in the tribute parade.”

my stomach flips. the parade. the training. the private sessions. the interviews. and then the arena. an entire week ahead of me, pretending i’m not already dead.

i glance sideways at haymitch. he’s staring straight ahead, jaw clenched, eyes burning—not with awe, not with fear. with fury. with something feral and stubborn and alive.

for the first time, it hits me: if anyone is going to claw their way through this, it will be him.

if i want to live even just a little longer than expected, i’m going to have to survive beside someone i’ve spent years despising and he’s going to have to survive beside me. the thought should terrify me. instead, it just makes everything feel sharper. louder.

“keep up, miss donner,” drusilla trills from ahead. “can’t have our volunteer falling behind.” i take another breath of strange, perfumed air and force my feet to move.

the training

the remake center smells like chemicals and rubbing alcohol. it hits me the second the glass doors slide shut behind us—sharp and sweet and sterile all at once, like something that’s been scrubbed so clean it forgot what it was before. the lobby is cavernous and white, floors gleaming, ceilings impossibly high. everything echoes. footsteps. laughter. the soft hum of machines somewhere deeper inside the building.

i feel small. not physically, but emotionally. like if i stood still long enough, this place would sand me down until i fit whatever mold they wanted.

capitol stylists descend on us immediately. they move fast, circling, murmuring to each other, fingers hovering just shy of touching like we’re art pieces in a gallery they’ve been dying to curate. one woman with metallic green lipstick tilts my chin up without asking, studying my face like she’s calculating how much of me she can change before i stop looking like myself.

“bone structure’s excellent,” she says to no one in particular. “strong jaw. eyes will photograph beautifully when angry.”

i don’t know how to feel about angry being my defining trait.

louella is whisked away first. two stylists crouched in front of her, voices syrupy and soft, promising no pain, no mistakes, no cuts. she looks back at me once, eyes wide, and i force myself to nod. to smile. to act like this is fine.

wyatt follows, already resigned, shoulders squared like he’s bracing for impact.

haymitch resists longer. “don’t touch me,” he snaps when someone with a zebra skin reaches for his arm.

there’s a pause—thick, dangerous. capitol people don’t like being told no. drusilla laughs too loudly. “oh, darling, they have to. it’s tradition.”

haymitch’s jaw tightens. for a moment, i think he might actually swing at someone. then mags steps forward, resting a hand on his arm affectionately. “just let them,” she tells him quietly. “we’ll still see you underneath.” something in haymitch flickers. not obedience. not acceptance. just exhaustion. he lets them take him.

when they come for me, i don’t fight. i let them guide me down a bright hallway into a private styling room that looks more like an operating room. mirrors line the walls. too many angles. too many versions of me staring back.

i strip out of my clothes and sit in the chair they point to, spine straight, hands folded in my lap like my mother taught me. i feel humiliated, exposed, sitting completely naked in a room full of three strangers. my heart is beating too fast, but my face stays still. if they want a volunteer who looks composed, i can give them that much.

“we’re going to clean you up first,” the green-lipped woman says cheerfully. “then we’ll talk concept.”

warm water runs over my hair in a basin that cradles my neck. fingers comb through the strands, careful and practiced. i close my eyes. this should feel nice. it doesn’t. it feels like erasure.

i think of my family's sweet shop—flour dust in the air, sugar under my nails, my sisters’ laughter echoing down the stairs. i think of maysilee’s braid, always just a little messy, and merilee’s quiet hum when she concentrates. i hold onto those images like anchors.

“you have such a striking intensity,” someone says behind me. “we’ll keep that. maybe sharpen it.”

my hair is dried and styled, smoother and glossier than i’ve ever seen it. my skin is scrubbed, treated, brushed with something that smells faintly of citrus. they remove the faint scar on my wrist without asking. i watch it disappear in the mirror. a part of me aches.

then comes the clothes. they dress me in something simple but sharp—tailored lines, deep charcoal coated fabric that hugs my shoulders and cinches at my waist. i'm handed a coal-mining hat and a faux pickaxe. for just a sliver of a second, i think of haymitch's dad. more specifically, his fate. i cross the room to meet my own reflection and barely recognize her. she almost looks like someone who might survive, if you ignore the accessories.

“perfect,” the stylist murmurs. “very quarter quell.”

they leave me alone for a moment, and the silence rushes in. my hands shake when i unclench them. i press my palms flat against my thighs, grounding myself in the feel of fabric, the weight of my body in the chair. i breathe slowly. deliberately. i will not cry here.

when i step back into the main hall, the others are already waiting. louella looks like a porcelain doll—hair brushed and braided until it shines, her cheeks softly flushed. she’s gripping wyatt’s sleeve like it’s the only real thing left in the room. wyatt himself looks sharper, cleaner, his merchant-side polish turned up to something almost regal.

haymitch looks furious. they didn’t soften him at all. if anything, they sharpened him too. his curls are tamed just enough to look intentional, his face scrubbed clean of soot but not his defiance. they dressed him in dark fabrics that emphasize his shoulders, his height, the coiled tension in his frame. we’ve both been carved into something for them.

drusilla claps her hands, delighted. “look at you all! absolutely radiant. the capitol is going to adore you.”

i don’t care what the capitol adores. i care that louella is trembling. i care that wyatt’s jaw is set too tight. i care that haymitch’s hands are clenched like he’s holding himself together with sheer will.

i move without thinking, stepping closer to louella, placing myself just a little in front of her. it’s a small thing. maybe meaningless. but it’s mine. haymitch notices—he almost always does. his eyes flick to where i stand, then back to louella. his expression shifts—not soft, not kind—but less sharp around the edges.

the parade is explained next. chariots, costumes, presentation, crowds. the list makes my stomach twist.

“district twelve’s look will emphasize resilience,” a designer says brightly. “coal tones, flame accents, something symbolic.”

symbolic of what? our inevitable deaths? i don’t ask. instead i listen, i memorize. this is survival now—not just in the arena, but here. learning when to speak, when to stay silent, when to bend without breaking.

drusilla calls us forward again. we’re ushered deeper into the building, toward fittings and rehearsals and cameras. every step feels heavier than the last. somewhere in the distance, i can hear music starting up—rehearsal for the parade, no doubt. bright and triumphant and cruel.

i straighten my shoulders. i volunteered for this. for maysilee. for merilee. for the girl trembling behind me and the boy calculating before me and the other boy snarling beside me and the life i refuse to lose without a fight.

the capitol can dress me up, sure, but it doesn’t get to decide who i become.

the parade staging area feels like standing inside the mouth of a beast. everything vibrates—music pounding from unseen speakers, the clatter of hooves against polished stone, the hiss of fire cannons being tested overhead. the air smells like oil and artificial smoke, sharp enough to sting the back of my throat. stylists dart in and out, making last-minute adjustments, brushing invisible dust from shoulders, tugging fabric into place.

wyatt and i stand beside our chariot, dressed in coal-dark fabric threaded with veins of glowing ember. heat coils beneath the material, not enough to burn, just enough to remind us what the capitol thinks district twelve is made of: fire and fuel.

across the wide staging floor, i spot the other chariot in which haymitch and louella will ride. louella looks impossibly small standing beside the horses, swallowed by her costume—coal-black silk with flickers of flame stitched along the hem. her hands are clenched so tightly at her sides her knuckles are white. haymitch stands just behind her, one hand hovering near her back, not touching but close enough to catch her if she tips.

my chest tightens at the view. i catch haymitch’s eye for half a second across the chaos. he looks wired, restless, jaw locked tight like he’s bracing for impact. when louella flinches at a sudden crack of sound overhead, his hand finally lands on her shoulder. she leans into him without hesitation. that sight hits me even harder.

“district twelve!” someone shouts. our part of the parade is starting.

wyatt and i climb onto our chariot first. the metal is warm beneath my palms as i steady myself, the horses snorting softly, muscles rippling beneath glossy hides. the crowd noise swells as we’re guided forward.

when we roll out into the avenue, the sound is immediate and overwhelming—cheering, screaming, laughter. thousands upon thousands of capitol citizens line the streets, waving, throwing glittering confetti into the air. camera drones buzz past my face, red lights blinking as they capture every angle, every expression. i school my features into something sharp and steady. not smiling, not scowling, but something in between.

wyatt lifts his chin, regal, composed. he looks like someone who belongs in this spectacle. i feel like prey dressed as a queen.

i bask in the unfortunate fame as people shout absurd praises at me. telling me i'm beautiful, brave. asking me to survive the games purely for them. i scoff at that comment.

that's when i hear it: a sharp, concussive crack—too loud, too close. a firework detonates overhead, showering sparks dangerously low. the horses behind us scream. i twist around just in time to see haymitch’s chariot. the horses rear violently, eyes rolling white, hooves striking sparks against the stone. handlers shout, scrambling. louella’s face goes slack with terror.

“louella!” haymitch shouts.

the chariot lurches. the wheels clip another chariot’s side. metal shrieks. the harness snaps. and then they’re airborne. haymitch’s body collides with louella’s as they’re thrown forward, his arm wrapping around her instinctively, like he can shield her from the ground itself.

they hit the pavement hard. haymitch rolls, slamming shoulder-first, breath knocked clean from his lungs. louella doesn’t move. her head strikes the stone with a sound i will hear for the rest of my life—a wet, hollow crack.

the crowd gasps—then cheers, confused, thinking it’s part of the spectacle. i scream. the sound rips out of me before i can stop it, raw and sharp and entirely unfit for capitol television. wyatt grabs my arm, hard. “don’t,” he hisses. “don’t—”

peacekeepers swarm the scene instantly, blocking the cameras, shouting orders. fireworks explode again overhead—too loud, too bright, deliberately distracting.

haymitch pulls at my heart, crawling to where louella landed. i see his hands, shaking and frantic, as he cradles her head. there’s blood. he looks up, face twisted with something feral and broken, and for one horrible second, his eyes meet mine across the avenue.

the parade continues. our chariot, and the twenty-two others in front of us, are ushered forward faster, the crowd roaring louder, the music swelling to drown out what just happened. wyatt doesn’t let go of my arm until my nails dig into his sleeve, undoubtedly leaving indents in his olive skin.

my vision blurs. the avenue stretches endlessly ahead. i don’t remember the rest of it. not the cheers. not the end. i only remember the sound. that crack.

the training center a half hour later is silent by comparison. too silent. we’re escorted through gleaming halls, ushered into elevators that whisper as they rise. the doors open onto the twelfth floor and everything is glass and light and wrong.

“your quarters,” drusilla announces brightly, like she didn’t just watch a child nearly die. “settle in. dinner in one hour.”

i turn to her, swallowing hard. "where’s louella?” she doesn’t look at me.

“where’s haymitch?” wyatt adds.

we receive no answer. mags’ mouth is pressed into a thin line. wiress is staring at the floor, fingers tapping erratically against her leg.

“go get ready,” drusilla says sharply. “you’ll be late otherwise.”

the rooms are obscene. my bedroom looks like something out of a dream—walls that shift color when i touch them, a bed that hums softly beneath my weight, a bathroom with mirrors that light up at my approach. i stand there, frozen, hands limp at my sides.

louella should be here already. she should be crying on the other side of the wall, asking if dinner is poison, asking if we can hold hands again.

i sit on the edge of the mattress and stare at the door. when the knock comes, i nearly jump out of my skin. dinner.

they arrive late. haymitch walks in first and something is visibly wrong. he looks empty. hollowed out. like whatever was holding him upright has been scooped clean from his chest. his eyes don’t focus right away, his hands hang useless at his sides. beside of him is louella. the relief that hits me is so sharp it almost hurts—like my body had been holding its breath since the crash and only now remembered how to inhale.

louella's smile is wide, her posture stiff. her eyes are glassy, unfocused, like she’s looking through us instead of at us. i tell myself it’s shock. i tell myself she’s been drugged for pain. i tell myself a hundred reasonable possibilities for her uncharacteristic behavior. my breath catches painfully in my throat.

haymitch doesn’t take a seat at the table. he remains standing behind louella's chair, fingers digging into the backrest so hard his knuckles blanch.

we eat in silence. i watch louella—i can’t stop. every movement feels slightly wrong, like the accident has stripped her of her heart and soul. the way she holds her fork, the way she doesn’t fidget, the way she doesn’t glance at me once. louella always looks at me.

my hands start to shake. i press them under the table and force my fingers still. force my face still. force my mind to stop reaching for the worst conclusion like it’s a bruise i can’t stop poking.

after dinner, when wyatt and louella are distracted by drusilla, i step closer to haymitch who is still pressed against louella's empty dining chair. "what happened?” i whisper, "after the crash."

he doesn’t answer at first. his jaw flexes like he’s chewing through iron. then, very quietly, like each word costs him something: “they killed her.”

my stomach drops so hard it feels like my insides shift. “what do you mean—” my voice cracks. i clear my throat and try again. “haymitch, she’s right there.”

his eyes flick to the girl across the room. there’s nothing in his expression. not confusion. not doubt. just this dead, furious certainty. “she died,” he says, voice flat. “on the pavement. and they—" his throat works like he’s swallowing glass. “they covered it up. wiped the footage. swapped her out for a girl from district eleven.”

i stare at him. my brain refuses to take the words in all at once, like if i fully understand them i’ll collapse. i look back at louella—really look now—and suddenly all the things i was trying not to notice slam into place. the stiffness. the too-bright smile. the emptiness behind her eyes. my chest caves in. that’s why it felt wrong. because it is. because it isn’t her.

haymitch’s voice goes lower. “they told me to forget.” his fingers tighten on the chair so tight i worry he might snap it in half. “so i didn’t.”

my throat closes around a sound. i can’t tell if it’s a sob or a laugh or something feral. i glance at the girl again—at the way she mirrors louella’s posture like she learned it from a script—and something cold crawls up my spine.

maysilee has a canary. its name is lou lou. the thought comes out of nowhere, bright and stupid and painfully tender. but suddenly i need to say it. i need to make a small thing true in a room full of lies. “we’ll call her lou lou,” i suggest without thinking, my voice shaking. “my sister has a songbird. that was its name.”

haymitch stares at me, like that is the stupidest idea he's ever had, but then something in his expression breaks. just a little. not enough to fix him—just enough to prove he’s still human under all that hurt. “lou lou,” he repeats. a small, almost-smile appearing on his pale face.

i quickly discover that the training center doesn’t sleep.

i do—barely—but it’s the kind of sleep that feels like drowning slowly. every time i close my eyes, i’m back on the avenue. the crack of louella’s skull against stone echoes through my head like a fault line splitting open. i wake with my heart already racing, breath caught somewhere between my chest and my throat.

the room hums softly around me. the walls glow faintly blue, reacting to my movement like they’re alive. i sit up, drag my hands over my face, and press my palms to my eyes until the pressure turns the darkness red.

this is real. i am here. tomorrow we train. that thought doesn’t scare me the way it should. what scares me is how quickly my mind slides into preparation; exits, angles, advantages, how many bodies could fill a room this size, how long it would take to cross the floor if someone charged me from the doorway. i hate that it comes so easily.

muffled movement drifts through the hall. footsteps. a voice too low to make out. someone pacing. i swing my legs over the side of the bed and pad quietly to the door, pressing my ear to the cool surface. i know without checking that it’s him.

haymitch must not be able to sleep either. some part of me wants to open the door. some part of me wants to pretend i don’t hear him falling apart just a wall away. i do neither. i stand there, forehead resting against the door, breathing slowly until the pacing stops.

when i finally crawl back into bed, lou lou’s too-bright smile flashes behind my eyelids and i have to bite my lip to keep from making a sound.

morning comes too fast. the alarm blares at dawn, loud and merciless. i’m already awake.

breakfast is quick and quiet. lou lou sits between wyatt and mags, smiling when prompted, nodding when spoken to. if i didn’t know better, i’d almost believe she’s okay. i don’t let myself linger on it. i don’t trust my hands not to shake if i do.

the only words that were truly said during the entire meal were wiress'. she had briefly asked us our combative skills, if we had any at all. she then urged us not to go to that station in training, to save that skill for the private showcase to the gamemakers. with the way she said it, this plan seemed like the most important thing she'd ever tell us.

the training center opens up like a cathedral built for violence. weapons gleam under harsh white lights. stations stretch in every direction—knives, spears, swords, axes, archery, snares, climbing, camouflage. tributes flood in from every district, voices overlapping, bodies jostling, alliances already forming in the way people cluster without meaning to.

careers move like they own the place: district one laughs too loudly, district two sizes everyone up like livestock, and district four pretends not to watch while watching everything.

wyatt drifts toward a numbers-based station with tributes from six and nine almost immediately, drawn like a magnet to people who think in patterns. lou lou is gently guided away by a trainer with pastel hair and a smile too wide, ushered toward basic survival drills.

that leaves just me and haymitch. we stand shoulder to shoulder near the edge of the knot tying station, not touching, not speaking. the air between us feels tight, stretched thin as wire.

“don’t follow me,” he mutters without looking.

“wasn’t planning on it,” i reply.

a trainer slams a basket of worn ropes down in front of us anyway. “pair up,” she says briskly.

haymitch exhales through his nose like the universe is personally mocking him.

i step forward first. the frayed rope feel familiar in my hands. my late grandfather taught where to place my fingers, how to fold the material perfectly and quickly, how precision saves effort.

i knot it when prompted, making it tight and enduring. i tie another—a bowline—and then another. both clean and efficient. no flourish. the trainer hums approvingly. “merchant kid,” she notes. “steady hands.”

haymitch watches despite himself. i feel it—his attention pressing against my back like heat. he steps up next, grabbing a slack rope with an unwavering clench. his knot is quick and perfect too, not budging as the trainer tugs on it.

“effective,” she comments carefully, haymitch's creation still in her hands.

we rotate the non-combative stations together, not because we want to, but because the room keeps folding us back into each other; climbing, camouflage, traps. it’s the last station that changes something. they give us wire, weights, and hooks.

“build something,” the trainer instructs. “something that stops someone bigger than you.”

my pulse picks up. i kneel, hands already moving, mind mapping space; tension points, leverage. haymitch hovers behind me, arms crossed, skeptical.

“you’re overthinking,” he says.

“you’re underestimating,” i shoot back.

i finish in silence. when the trainer triggers the snare, it snaps tight around a weighted dummy’s leg and slams it flat. haymitch goes still.

“again,” the trainer says.

i rebuild it faster. something shifts then—not trust. not forgiveness. just respect grinding its way into the space where hatred used to sit comfortably.

by the end of the day, my arms ache and my head pounds, but my mind is sharper than it’s ever been. as we file out, haymitch falls into step beside me. “you’re better than i thought,” he mutters, like it pains him to say it.

i don’t smile. “so are you,” i reply. it isn’t kindness. it isn’t peace. but it’s the first crack in something that’s been locked shut for years.

the next two days of training are the same. haymitch and i are grouped in pairs before we have a chance to protest, we move through the calmest stations together all whilst observing the other tributes. we spend our evenings with wiress and mags, learning our combative skills in private. i'm beyond handy with a knife, thanks to my father, and it turns out haymitch is too. we learn how to use a multitude of weapons in many different fashions. lou lou and wyatt pick up enough information and skill during these evenings that it almost gives me a small hope for their survival. but fact is still fact, and it's evident that if anyone from district twelve survives these games, it will be haymitch.

as the third day of training comes to a close, we are ushered to lunch where one by one each tribute is taken out of the cafeteria and to the showcase room. we each have five minutes to prove that we are worthy of a twelve, that we are worthy of sponsors, that we are worthy of living.

after over three hours, louella is finally called. then wyatt. then me. i leave the cafeteria without sparing haymitch a second glance.

the gamemakers sit high above the floor, beyond bored already. drinks in hand. laughter drifting down like static. i step into the circle and feel something cold settle in my spine. i don’t bow. i don’t smile. i just make a beeline for my knives and fist them in my shaky left hand.

i move fast—faster than in the gym. not flashy, not theatrical. controlled throws. tight arcs. blades embedding where i want them, when i want them. i adjust mid-motion, compensating for distance, for wind i can’t feel but know is there. it's one knife after another. no wasted movement.

when i’m done, the room is quiet. then someone claps. slowly and deliberately. i don’t look up to see who. i set the knives down, take a slow bow, and walk out without waiting for dismissal.

haymitch goes in after me. i instantly hear the snap of his voice, muffled but furious. i think he calls the gamemakers murderers. there's never a whip of a crossbow or the slash of a knife, haymitch only ever showcases his anger. when he comes back out mere minutes later, his eyes are bright with something dangerous and alive.

“they’ll hate that,” i say.

he grins, sharp and humorless. “good.”

by the time the day ends, exhaustion sits on my shoulders like a weight i can’t shrug off. my hands ache. my head throbs.

when haymitch falls into step beside me again, there’s still no insult waiting on his tongue. just that same quiet understanding. we’re not friends, we’re still not allies, but we’re no longer pretending the other is the enemy.

that night, the seven of us sit crowded around the sitting room, watching the hologram of the tribute's training scores play before us. there's not many perfect ten's. in fact, there's not many scores above a six.

haymitch included, whose rebellion in the showcase, earned him a one. wyatt received a six exactly and louella only received a three. i swallow my inhumane pride as the number ten displays itself underneath my name and picture.

it doesn't take long for me to realize that the interviews are worse than the training. training hurts your body but the interviews aim for something softer and more dangerous.

we’re woken before dawn again, ushered through showers and clothes and stylists who chatter like birds pecking at carrion. the preparation room smells like hairspray and heated metal and sugar—everything sweet layered over panic. my dress waits on a mannequin when i step inside, deep coal-gray silk that shifts silver under the lights, cut sharp at the shoulders and clean down my spine.

“strong,” one stylist murmurs. “defiant. very you.” i don’t remember ever telling the capitol who i am but they sit me in the chair anyway. brushes skim my cheeks. powder dulls the dark circles under my eyes. my hair is styled back from my face.

“remember,” drusilla says from behind me, crouching to meet my eyes in the mirror. “they don’t want fear. they want a story. give them something to fall in love with.” i swallow hard.

lou lou is dressed beside me in pale gold, all innocent and light. she smiles at her reflection. it twists something in my chest until i have to look away.

haymitch is across the room, half-turned from the mirror, fingers flexing like he wants to break something. they’ve dressed him in black with faint copper threading at the cuffs. he looks unrepentant.

the stage is blinding. lights crash over me the second i step out, heat pressing against my skin like a second sun. the crowd roars—thousands of voices crashing together into something monstrous and thrilled. my heartbeat stutters, then steadies. i lift my chin and walk like i belong here.

caesar flickerman beams from his chair, all bright suit and eager eyes. he looks younger than i expected. “district twelve’s volunteer!” he announces, voice booming. “give it up for y/n donner!”

applause slams into me. i sit, folding my hands in my lap, my posture impossibly straight.

“now,” caesar says, leaning forward, “you surprised everyone when you volunteered. tell us—why?”

the question lands like a trap—i could lie, i could perform, i could cry. i think of maysilee’s braid slipping loose in the wind; merilee’s hands clutching mine. “because my sister’s name was called,” i say simply.

the crowd quiets around me.

“just like that?” caesar prompts gently.

“just like that,” i repeat. “some things don’t need more explanation.”

there’s a beat—then applause again, louder this time. i don’t smile. i let them clap for the truth.

“you impressed the gamemakers with your outstanding eleven,” caesar continues. “knives, they say?”

i nod. “i grew up learning to be careful with my hands.”

“careful,” he echoes, amused. “yet here you are.”

i meet his gaze. “careful doesn’t mean afraid.” the crowd loves that. i can feel it—feel the shift, the interest sharpening. i tuck the sensation away, uncomfortable with how easily it happens.

“last question,” caesar says. “did you know your fellow tributes before the reaping?”

“up on the stage was the first time i met lou l—louella,” i catch myself, forcing a smile brighter than i feel. "they're both two years younger than me but i know wyatt and haymitch from school."

"were you close?" cesar pushes instantly, before the syllables have truly left my breath.

i raise an eyebrow softly at his question, seeing through his intent. "we were not, no. i knew of them, rather than knowing them!"

"what a shame, you won't be able to get to know them now," he jokes, with a tight, toothy smile. the joke never lands though, it feels bitter and upsets me instantly. i don't let it show.

when i stand to leave, the lights dim slightly—my cue. i walk offstage without looking back.

haymitch goes out two interviews later, after lou lou and wyatt. he's the final interview of the forty-eight. the crowd is already buzzing when he steps into the light, tension crackling like electricity. he doesn’t wave, doesn’t bow, he just sits, one ankle crossed over his knee, daring them to try him.

“haymitch abernathy,” caesar grins, appearing a little nervous now. “you’ve been memorable this week.”

haymitch smirks. “i have that effect.”

laughter ripples through the audience at his comment. he sounds briefly like the haymitch i knew of from the seam—like the haymitch that cat-called me princess in the most venomous ways possible for three long years.

“tell us,” caesar says, leaning in close, “what’s your strategy?”

haymitch tilts his head, eyes glinting. “to survive longer than they expect.”

“and who do you expect to help you do that?” caesar presses.

haymitch’s gaze flicks, just once, toward the wing of the stage—toward me. “i don’t trust easy,” he says slowly. “but i trust people who don’t lie when it matters.”

the crowd erupts. my stomach drops.

caesar’s eyes light up. “ah,” he says delightedly. “sounds like an alliance forming.”

haymitch shrugs. “maybe.”

the cameras eat it up. i can almost hear the capitol spinning it already—fire and steel, merchant and seam, enemies forced together.

by the time the interviews end, my head is pounding. backstage, drusilla is radiant. “did you hear them?” she gushes. “they adored you. all four of you!”

mags squeezes my hand. wiress murmurs something about patterns aligning. haymitch catches my arm as we move toward the exit, his grip brief but grounding.

“you did good,” he says quietly.

i meet his eyes. “yea, you too.”

the capitol never really lets you rest. after the interviews, they herd us back to the twelfth floor like glass figurines that have survived a fall and need to be locked away before we chip. the hallways feel narrower than they did this morning, the lights a little harsher, the quiet louder. adrenaline drains out of me all at once, leaving something heavy and shaky behind.

lou lou is the first to break. the moment the door slides shut behind us, she sags—just a fraction—and mags is there immediately, guiding her to the couch with a hand at her back. wyatt hovers, unsure what to do with his hands, eyes darting between all of us like he’s waiting for the odds to rearrange themselves into something kinder.

“you did beautifully,” mags tells lou lou, voice low and steady. “you were very brave.” lou lou nods on cue, smile snapping into place a half-second too late. it makes my chest ache.

wiress paces the room, muttering to herself. “images are set. narratives are locked. sponsors respond to contrast, fire and restraint; opposites draw attention.” she glances at me, then at haymitch. “you two are loud without being loud.”

haymitch scoffs lowly. “is that supposed to be a compliment?”

wiress considers. “yes.”

drusilla claps her hands together. “all right! now that the public adores you—” she grins widest at haymitch, who does not look adored “—we need to talk practicalities. arena gear, supplies, what you can reasonably carry without tripping over your own feet.”

we gather around the table as a projection flickers to life above it, displaying rotating images of standard arena packs: water purifiers, rope, dried rations, knives, flint. the basics. the lies they tell you so you’ll believe preparation makes this fair.

“you won’t know the environment until launch,” mags says gently. “so you plan for flexibility. layers. nothing that slows you down.”

“weapons?” wyatt asks.

“whatever you can reach first,” haymitch replies before anyone more experienced else can. his voice is flat, tired. “don’t get attached to anything.”

my gaze flicks to him. there’s something brittle in the way he says it, like he learned that lesson early.

for the next few hours, time blurs. we talk through scenarios—what to grab, what to leave, how to read the opening seconds of the bloodbath. wiress sketches strange little diagrams on a pad, lines and angles and symbols that make my head spin but seem to calm her. mags listens more than she speaks, but when she does, everyone quiets.

lou lou drifts in and out, answering when asked, nodding when prompted. i keep an eye on her without meaning to, tracking the slight delays in her reactions, the way she mirrors wyatt’s posture when she’s unsure what to do with her own body.

mags and wiress have private conversations with each of us, just a minute or two long a piece. they tell us our strengths and how we can and should use that when we're out there.

they expect a lot from me. they think i am braver than i have ever considered myself even dreaming of being. i'm told to brave the cornucopia, to risk grabbing a knife and anything else i can safely manage.

when drusilla finally dismisses us, it’s late. too late. back in district twelve, the shop will have already been closed for hours now. i assume maysilee and merilee still lie awake though.

my room greets me with a soft yellow light and silence that feels almost kind after the noise of the day. i peel off the training uniform and change into the plain sleepwear laid out for me, my movements slow and automated. my reflection looks calmer than i feel. my eyes give me away.

i sit on the edge of the bed for a long time, hands resting uselessly in my lap. this is the last night before the arena. the thought lands without drama. no spike of fear. just a dull, heavy certainty. tomorrow is movement and noise and blood. tomorrow, something in me will have to harden whether i want it to or not.

i lie down and stare at the ceiling, listening. the training center hums. vents whisper. somewhere down the hall, a door opens and closes. there's a pad of footsteps. then silence.

i’m almost asleep when the knock comes. it’s quiet and hesitant. like the person on the other side isn’t sure they’re allowed to be here. my heart kicks hard against my ribs.

i slip out of bed and cross the room, opening the door just enough to see haymitch standing there in the dim hallway light. he looks wrecked, worn down to something raw. his shoulders are slumped, frizzy curls falling into his eyes, hands shoved deep into his pockets like he doesn’t know what to do with them.

“sorry,” he murmurs immediately. “i—i shouldn’t have—”

“it’s fine,” i cut in softly, stepping back to let him in. he hesitates, then crosses the threshold quickly. i close the door behind him. the room feels smaller with him in it. warmer, heavier.

we stand there for a moment, neither of us moving.

“are you okay?” i finally ask.

he huffs out a quiet laugh that holds no humor. “no.” he's honest, startlingly so. he rubs a hand over his face, dragging it down until his fingers catch at his jaw. “i can’t sleep. every time i close my eyes, i hear it again.”

i don’t ask what, i don’t need to.

“i almost knocked two nights ago,” he adds, eyes fixed on the floor. “i stood outside your door like an idiot for— i don’t know how long.”

my breath catches, remembering the shuffling in the hallway. "why didn’t you?” i ask.

he shrugs, a sharp, defensive motion. “i didn’t think you’d want me here.”

something tightens in my chest. “you could’ve,” i say. “you still can.”

the silence that follows is thick and fragile. slowly, he steps closer, like he’s afraid of breaking something if he moves too fast. he doesn’t touch me at all at first. he just stops in front of me, close enough that i can feel the warmth of him, the uneven rhythm of his breathing.

“i don’t know how to do this,” he says quietly. “whatever this is.”

“me neither,” i quietly admit, my voice cracking on my last syllable.

haymitch leans forward, his hand resting lightly against my shoulder, sliding down my chest just a sliver. the contact is gentle, almost tentative, like he’s checking that i won’t pull away—i don’t.

after an excruciatingly long moment, his arms come around me—not tight, not possessive. just there. i slide mine around his back almost immediately, pressing my cheek against his chest, breathing him in. he smells like soap and metal and something unmistakably human. his body trembles once. it's barely noticeable, like a shiver he didn’t mean to show.

we stay like that in the dark, holding each other silently in a painfully unfamiliar fashion.

eventually, he straightens and steps back before i can say anything, hands dropping to his sides like he’s putting his armor back on. “thanks,” he says, voice rough. “for not asking for more.”

i shake my head. “you don’t owe me anything.”

his mouth twitches, almost a smile. almost. then he turns and leaves without another word. the door clicks shut softly behind him. i stand there long after he’s gone, arms still wrapped around empty air, heart aching in a way that feels strangely steady.

the day of the games arrives without ceremony. no countdown. no dramatic knock. just a soft shift in the lights, a low hum in the walls, and the sudden understanding that there are no more rehearsals left.

i wake an hour before the alarm. my body feels strangely calm, like it has finally accepted what my mind has been circling for days. i shower quickly, mechanically, the water warm and scentless. when i dry off, the clothes are already laid out on the bed: my arena uniform.

i recognize it instantly—rough, practical, deceptively simple. fitted pants the color of pale stone, a black undershirt, a sleeveless vest with too many pockets and not enough padding. there's nothing ornamental about it; nothing kind. this is the kind of outfit that tells you survival is your own responsibility.

i pull it on piece by piece. the fabric is heavier than it looks. when i fasten the vest, it sits snug against my ribs, grounding me. i flex my fingers, steadying myself in the weight of my new clothes.

i stand in front of the mirror and let my hair fall loose down my back. it feels wrong to leave it untouched—too wild, too vulnerable—so i reach up and braid a thin strand on the left side, quick and practiced. maysilee’s braid. my throat tightens, but i finish it anyway, fingers moving with muscle memory. i tuck the end behind my ear and look at myself again.

this is who goes into the arena. not the older sister above the sweet shop. not the witty girl who argued in classrooms. not the volunteer everyone keeps calling brave. it's just me.

i was given the option to bring a keepsake with me into the arena. a necklace, a pin, a bracelet—anything small and important to me. i chose against it, maysilee's braid is enough of a reminder for me.

when i step into the common area, the others are already there. wyatt stands near the window, adjusting the straps on his vest. his face is pale but set, jaw tight in that familiar way—like he’s calculating something that refuses to give him good odds. lou lou sits on the couch beside mags, hands folded neatly in her lap. she looks composed, almost serene, like she’s been told exactly how to be and is determined not to mess it up. something in my chest aches when she smiles at me.

haymitch leans against the counter, arms crossed, eyes shadowed. his outfit, though identical to mine, looks like it was made for him. his curls are damp, pushed back from his face, and for a moment i have the irrational thought that he looks younger like this. more like sixteen than the hardened version the capitol wants.

his gaze flicks to my hair, to the braid. he doesn’t say anything but his jaw tightens, and then loosens again, like he swallowed a thought.

it appears that out of the four of us, haymitch is the only one to adorn something special to him: a c-shaped metal charm, with a snake and a bird on either side, that sits on a chain around his neck. i quickly wonder the story behind it.

drusilla claps her hands together, peeling me from my thoughts, the sound too bright for the moment. “all right, my darlings. this is it. final checks.”

wiress circles us slowly, eyes darting, fingers twitching like she’s listening to something only she can hear. “remember patterns,” she murmurs. “the arena lies. trust movement, not beauty.”

we all nod. i notice tears welling at the edges of lou lou's eyes.

wiress lands in front of me, putting her left hand firmly on my shoulder, "do not be afraid of the cornucopia, get your knife and go—that is important. food if you can, but hunger is easier than fear."

my breath catches in my swelling throat at her words. i don't respond, i just nod again.

mags steps forward next. she takes each of our hands in turn, squeezing gently, firmly. when she reaches me, her grip lingers just a second longer. “be clever,” she says softly. “and be kind when you can. even if it costs you.”

then we’re moving again, ushered through corridors i’ve never seen before, down into the heart of the building. the air grows cooler, heavier. doors open and close behind us with final-sounding clicks.

the courtyard waits below. the transport ship squats in the center of it like some mechanical animal, sleek and black and humming with restrained power. one by one, we’re called forward.

lou lou is guided in first. she goes without hesitation, hands folded, posture perfect, like she’s been taught exactly how to walk toward her own fear. wyatt follows, his jaw tight, eyes scanning the floor like he’s memorizing every bolt and seam.

then it’s my turn. i pause at the edge of the ship, the wind tugging at my hair, the smell of fuel sharp in my nose. i look back once—at mags, at wiress, at drusilla’s fixed smile—and then, without letting myself hesitate, i step aboard.

the interior is cold and metallic. a medic waits inside, her face blank, her slender hands gloved. “left arm,” she says emotionless.

i don’t flinch as the tracker is injected just beneath my skin. the needle slides in clean and fast, sharp enough to bite. it burns briefly, then settles into a dull ache, like a reminder etched into my flesh.

haymitch boards last and the doors immediately seal behind him. for a sliver of a second, our eyes meet across the narrow space. he nods once, the outer corner of his eyes crinkle softly. i nod back and tear my eyes away from the sight.

the games

the ship lifts, smooth and silent, the ground dropping away beneath us. no one speaks. there’s nothing left to say.

when the transport finally slows, it’s not the arena that greets us, it’s a grand building. low, angular, made of smooth gray stone that blends too well with the surrounding landscape. it sits just outside the arena’s perimeter like a control node—close enough to feel, far enough to keep us from seeing anything that matters.

the four of us disembark with no goodbyes, no last looks. peacekeepers separate us immediately, guiding each tribute down identical white corridors that branch away from one another like veins. i don’t see haymitch again. i don’t hear wyatt’s voice. lou lou disappears behind a closing door without a sound.

my launch room is smaller than i would have thought, circular and bare with its smooth walls and bright lights. there's a single opening in the floor where the metal launch tube waits, sealed and silent. the platform sits at the center, perfectly still, ringed with faint markings that tell me exactly where to stand.

i step onto it. the floor beneath my boots vibrates faintly as it activates, recognizing my weight, my tracker, my pulse. cool air rises from below, carrying the scent of grass and something sweet that makes my stomach tighten.

a voice crackles overhead, emotionless. “tribute, stand still.” i listen.

the tube seals around me, walls sliding up until the world narrows to polished metal and artificial light. i can’t see anyone else, can’t hear anything but my own breathing.

i shut my eyes so tight they start to hurt.

this is it.

the platform hums louder beneath me.

day one

when i open my eyes again, the ceiling begins to slide away and a bright white light floods in and fades out—revealing a blue sky, a green meadow, flowers that are too bright to trust.

the cornucopia gleams at the center of it all, surrounded by a ring of other pedestals—forty-seven other tributes, forty-seven other lives about to shatter.

i lower my chin and breathe once, deep and steady. my platform locks into place and the countdown begins—ten. nine. eight—i spot haymitch across the circle. he’s already crouched slightly, coiled like a spring, eyes fixed on the metal pile at the center—seven. six. five—my fingers flex—four. three. two—i think of maysilee’s braid. of sugar-dusted mornings. of a boy pacing outside my door who didn’t know how to ask for comfort.

one.

the horn sounds like the world cracking open. for a split second, everything freezes—forty-eight bodies held in the same breath, the meadow so beautiful it almost convinces you this isn’t a slaughter. the flowers gleam like spilled paint. the air smells sweet, clean, wrong.

then the sound finishes echoing and the spell snaps. i run. not a careful run, not a smart one. i launch myself straight off the pedestal, boots tearing into grass slick with dew, lungs burning as the distance between me and the cornucopia collapses in a blur of color and screaming. i don’t look left. i don’t look right. i don’t look for haymitch.

if i stop, i die.

the cornucopia looms larger with every stride—metal teeth flaring upward, its shadow pooling dark and cold beneath it. bodies slam into each other around me. someone trips. someone else goes down. a career laughs, bright and thrilled, like this is exactly what they’ve been waiting for.

i hit the metal pile and don’t slow, wiress' instructions echoing through my brain. my hand closes around a set of knives—light, balanced, wrapped tight in leather. my other arm scoops a small satchel without even glancing inside. my instinct screams go, and i obey.

i barely get two steps in before a boy i recognize from district five stumbles into my path, eyes wide, mouth already opening—maybe to warn me, maybe to beg. i skid to a stop so hard my knees scream.

then a knife punches through his chest from behind. the blade erupts out the front of him, red and wet. his body jerks once—hard, puppet-sharp—before sagging. his weight collapses forward, almost into me.

i scream and shove him away at the same time, hands slipping on blood. i don’t wait to see who took his life, i don’t want to. i turn and sprint.

the first cannon booms. it's sound is enormous, concussive, shaking the air itself. it echoes off the meadow and slams straight into my bones. my stomach flips, bile clawing up my throat.

that's one.

i don’t stop running until the grass gives way to shadow and the forest swallows me whole. my lungs burn like they’re tearing themselves apart, but i keep going until the screams fade into something distant and unreal. only then do i skid to a stop at the tree line, chest heaving, hands shaking so badly i have to brace them against a trunk.

the meadow is still chaos when i turn back. the careers move like predators, cutting down anything slower than them, anything stupid enough to freeze in awe of the arena’s beauty. panache barker is unmistakable even from here, tall and brutal, leading the pack like he was born for this.

cannons keep sounding. two. three. four.

i scan frantically for familiar faces. for curls. for a stance i recognize. but i see no haymitch. panic spikes sharp and fast in my body.

then i see wyatt. he’s near the edge of the cornucopia now, already bleeding, already outmatched. lou lou is just behind him, frozen in place like her feet have grown roots. panache’s blade flashes toward her—wyatt steps in front of her without hesitation. the final strike lands. hard.

wyatt crumples, shielding her even as he falls, his body collapsing between lou lou and the blade meant for her. the cannon fires almost immediately. that's five. the sound tears a hole straight through me.

lou lou screams. a raw, broken sound that doesn’t belong in her throat. a pair of hands drag her away by the arm and she disappears into the chaos, still alive, still screaming. i don’t stay to see more. i know that if i do, i won’t leave.

i turn and run deeper into the forest, branches tearing at my uniform, tears blinding me as i sprint blindly until my legs give out and i slam to my knees behind a fallen log.

the meadow is gone now. the screams are muffled. but the cannons keep coming. six. seven. eight. i curl forward, pressing my forehead into the dirt, knife clutched so tight my fingers ache. i don’t cry—not really. it’s more like something inside me is screaming with no sound.

eighteen cannons ring out before the sun even shifts. eighteen lives erased in minutes.

when night finally falls, it does so all at once. the forest goes still, like it’s holding its breath. the anthem of panem rises. it pours out of the sky and the holograms flicker to life above the trees. faces bloom one by one, ghostly and bright.

wyatt callow, district twelve.

my chest caves in. i press my hand over my mouth to keep from making a sound as louella mccoy’s name does not appear. as haymitch abernathy’s does not either. they're both alive. i'm alive. for now.

the anthem ends. the faces fade. the forest exhales. i sit there in the dark, shaking, knives heavy in my lap, the satchel still unopened at my side; tears streaming down my face.

the forest doesn’t feel like shelter. it feels like a mouth that closed around me. i don’t stop crying, until the screams and cannons are nothing but echoes stitched into my ribs. i have wedged myself beneath a fallen tree tangled with vines and moss, the earth damp and cold beneath my palms. only then do i let myself breathe. only then do i open the satchel.

my hands still shake so badly i almost spill everything into the dirt. there's three bottles of water—two full, one empty. i press my forehead briefly against the plastic of one, grounding myself in its coolness. two mre packets, sealed tight. antiseptic, small but intact. there's nothing else. no flint. no rope. no luxuries. it's enough to keep me alive but not enough for me to get comfortable.

i slide the knife set inside the satchel and cinch it closed, tucking the strap across my chest like an anchor. then i crawl deeper beneath the log, curling onto my side, back pressed to bark, knees drawn in tight.

i don’t light a fire. i don’t eat. i don’t drink. i just sit there in the dark, eyes wide, listening. every snap of a branch sounds like footsteps. every rustle feels like breath on my neck. my body stays coiled, knife already in my hand, even as exhaustion drags at my bones.

the thought of wyatt keeps me upright through the night. i don’t sleep. i just survive the dark.

day two

morning arrives quietly. there's no alarms, no peachy announcements from drusilla, just light filtering through leaves, turning dew into glass. the forest looks almost kind in the daylight—green and soft and deceptively peaceful.

i ration immediately. taking a long sip of my water, half a bottle. nothing else. my stomach knots in protest, but i ignore it. hunger is easier than fear, wiress had said.

i move slow today. careful. every step deliberate. i mark my path with small, subtle signs only i would notice—a bent fern, a scuffed stone. i don’t stray far from cover. i don’t touch the berries, even when they look perfect and ripe and sweet. especially not then.

i hear things. footsteps, once—too heavy to be prey. laughter, distant and wrong. something screaming far enough away that i can pretend it isn’t real. i never do see anyone.

by midday, i find a better hiding spot: a shallow hollow formed by intertwined roots, partially hidden by low brush. it’s defensible, sheltered. invisible unless you know where to look. i tuck myself inside and let my muscles loosen for the first time since the horn.

that’s when the shaking starts. it comes out of nowhere—violent, bone-deep. adrenaline leaving my system like it was pulled out by force. i press my teeth into my sleeve to keep from crying out, breathing through it until it passes.

i eat half an mre. it tastes like cardboard and salt.

when night falls again, the anthem comes softer this time. the sky lights up; a boy from district six, a boy and both girls from district ten.

then louella mccoy. district twelve.

the world around me goes quiet. i don’t scream. i don’t cry. i just stare until the light fades, until her pale face and long raven braids dissolve into stars and nothing.

my heart aches for lou lou. for the real louella. for the both of their clueless families.

i stay curled in the roots long after the anthem ends, knife pressed flat to my chest, wondering how many names are left before mine appears.

day three

the morning is calm again.

my body feels heavy when i move, limbs sluggish from hunger and stress. i sip water sparingly and force myself upright. i can’t stay hidden forever. sponsors won’t bet on a ghost.

i follow the forest edge, careful not to break into open meadow, watching the ground as much as the trees. that’s when i see them: holly berries. bright red. perfect. glossy as candy.

i stop instantly. something about them feels wrong—not poisonous-wrong, not obvious-danger, but staged. deliberate. my skin prickles.

the berries move in half a second. they split apart with a wet, clicking sound. ladybugs crawl free from its shell. dozens. then hundreds.

they surge toward me in a living wave. i scream. it rips out of me before i can stop it—raw, panicked, animal. they swarm my legs, my arms, my neck. pain explodes everywhere at once—sharp, burning. i claw at the bugs, sobbing, slapping, my vision blurring as weakness floods my limbs.

“help—” my voice breaks into nothing. i keep slapping at my body, digging my nails into my skin carelessly in rushed attempts to rid of the muttations. i yelp as one crawls into a loose flap on skin. that's when a pair of calloused hands slam over my mouth. hard.

“quiet,” snarls in my ear. haymitch. he’s there suddenly—solid, real—hauling me backward, crushing my face against his chest as he runs. i feel him swatting at the mutts with brutal efficiency, i feel his breath hot and fast against my hair. “do you want them to hear you?” he hisses. “stay quiet.”

i can’t fight him. i can barely stay conscious.

he doesn’t stop running until the forest thickens again, until the air feels safer. he lowers me to the ground, immediately stealing my satchel and dumping the contents out, his hands moving fast, practiced.

“you’re bleeding,” he mutters. i look up at him. there's three red marks scattered on the left side of his pale face. they're shiny, blistering. i try to raise a finger up, to warn him of his small ladybug-berry injuries but my arm is limp.

i feel completely and utterly useless as he pours my water over my skin, scrubbing the bugs away, pressing antiseptic into the bites while i gasp and shake, pain and relief tangling together.

i look up at him through hot tears. this is the first time i’ve seen him since the horn. he's alive. his hands don’t stop shaking even after the last of the insects are gone.

the antiseptic stings like fire, but the pain is sharp and clean now, not the hollow draining ache from before. my skin burns, throbbing in angry patches, but i can feel my fingers again. my legs respond when i flex them, weak but obedient. it's just temporary. i cling to that fact like a lifeline.

haymitch presses a wad of cloth against the worst of it, jaw clenched so tight i can see the muscle jump. he doesn’t look at my face. he doesn’t say anything comforting. he just works—efficient, focused—like if he stops moving, something inside him will crack open.

then there's voices. close. too close. haymitch freezes beside me. his hand comes up instantly, firm against my shoulder, guiding me backward into the shadow of a fallen tree. he pulls me in tight, positioning my body flush against his chest, one arm wrapped across my shoulders, the other braced against the ground like a barrier. i don’t resist. i don’t even breathe.

boots crunch through leaves not even ten feet away. “thought i heard something,” a boy says—lazy, amused. a career. district two, maybe.

“probably mutts,” another replies. “this place is crawling with them.” there's laughter. low. confident.

i feel haymitch’s breath warm against the crown of my head. i feel the slow, deliberate rise and fall of his chest as he forces himself calm. his chin dips, almost resting in my hair, like we’re just another tangle of roots and bark and shadow. his grip tightens—not painful, but grounding. stay still, his body tells me. my heart slams so hard i’m terrified they’ll hear it.

“we’ll sweep the meadow later,” someone else adds. panache barker’s voice. i recognize it from the bloodbath—too smooth, too pleased.

footsteps move on. branches snap farther away. only when the forest swallows their voices completely does haymitch loosen his hold—not all at once, but slowly. like he’s making sure they’re really gone.

in one swift motion he completely pulls away. the space between us feels cold immediately. he doesn’t meet my eyes, doesn’t ask if i’m okay, just pushes the satchel back into my hands and nods toward it once.

“you’ll be sore,” he says quietly. “drink, only water from your bottles. eat something. don’t touch anything red again.”

i swallow. my throat burns. “thank you haymitch.” he stiffens before me. for a moment, i think he might say something—anything—but he just shakes his head once, sharp and final.

“stay hidden,” he adds. “they’ll come back.” and then he’s gone. no goodbye. no explanation. just the sound of him melting back into the trees like he was never here at all.

i sit there long after, fingers curled tight around the satchel strap, skin aching, heart still racing. somewhere deep in this forest, a boy i’ve spent years hating just saved my life and disappeared without claiming it.

that night, the anthem plays again. four more faces rise into the sky—ampert latier was unfortunately one of them—leaving twenty-one of us.

i stare at nothing in front of me, letting the involuntary tears fall from my swelling eyes, saying a silent prayer that haymitch comes back to me.

day four

pale light bleeds through the trees, thin and cautious the next morning, like the arena itself is holding its breath. i wake slowly, every muscle stiff, every bite from yesterday still tender but dulled. the antiseptic did its job. haymitch did his job.

i drink some—only from what's left of my water bottle like haymitch instructed. i eat some. i move quick.

i don’t know why i walk in the direction i do. instinct, maybe. or the fact that i haven’t stopped thinking about the way haymitch vanished into the trees without a word. about how close the careers were. about how his hands shook while he saved me.

i keep to the forest’s edge, circling the meadow without stepping into it. the open space feels wrong now—too watched. too exposed. i don’t want to go to the cornucopia again. i don’t want the ghosts still clinging to it.

the forest edge narrows where the trees press closer to the meadow, roots snarling beneath the soil like they’re trying to trip me on purpose. i move slow, eyes up, knife already loose in my grip.

i hear her before i see her. a breath. sharp. panicked. close. i stop instantly, lowering my center of gravity, every sense tightening. the sound comes again—someone clearly trying not to cry.

“please,” a voice whispers. female. young. “i don’t want to—” she stumbles into view from behind a cluster of ferns, nearly colliding with me. district eight. i recognize the fabric scraps woven into her sleeve, the thinness of her frame, the way her eyes dart everywhere but my face. we both freeze. she’s holding a short blade, but her grip is wrong—too tight, knuckles white, elbow locked. fear, not training. “don’t,” she says immediately, voice breaking. “don’t come closer.”

i don’t move. my heart is pounding so loud it feels like a betrayal. “i’m not,” i say quietly. “i won’t.”

she swallows hard, tears tracking down her cheeks. “i can’t do this,” she whispers. “i haven’t eaten since the cornucopia. i thought—i thought if i followed the trees…” her eyes flick to my satchel. then back to my face. shame floods her expression instantly. “i don’t want your things,” she rushes. “i just—i just don’t want to be alone when it happens.”

the words hit harder than any blade could. i take a careful step to the side, angling my body so i’m not blocking her path. “you don’t have to stay here,” i say. “you can keep going.”

she shakes her head, frantic. “they’re everywhere. i hear them laughing at night.” careers. she takes a step toward me without realizing it. too close.

something in her eyes shifts then—not aggression, not courage—just desperation tipping into panic. her blade lifts and my heart sinks.

my body moves before my mind catches up. i step in. fast. close enough to smell her sweat, her fear. my knife finds her ribs because there’s nowhere else to put it, because hesitation is how you die here.

the resistance is awful. she gasps, a sharp, startled sound, more surprise than pain. “i’m sorry,” i breathe, even as my hand keeps moving, even as i know apologizing doesn’t undo anything.

her blade clatters to the grass. her knees buckle. i catch her instinctively, lowering her so she doesn’t hit the earth too hard. her blood soaks into my sleeve, hot and slick.

her green eyes find mine. “thank you,” she whispers, so soft i almost miss it. then those eyes go empty.

i kneel there longer than i should, hands shaking, my knife still buried where i put it. the cannon sounds overhead—loud, final—and i flinch like it hit me instead of the sky.

i pull the blade free and stumble back, bile burning my throat. i wipe my hands on the grass, on my pants, on anything that isn’t her. this is real, i think numbly. this is what it costs.

i don’t take anything from her. not her blade. not her pack. i turn away instead, moving fast, breath coming too shallow, my chest aching like something inside it cracked open. the forest doesn’t care. it closes behind me like nothing happened.

my legs carry me forward on instinct alone. i walk a yard or two numb, not thinking, not strategizing, just moving my body one step at a time. i instinctively hike a leg over a fallen log, suppressing the pain that tugs at the still-blistering skin on my thighs.

that's when i see him. haymitch is crouched near a stand of trees i haven’t explored yet, back half-turned to me, backpack resting against his knee while he studies the ground intently. he looks different out here—leaner, sharper, carved down to survival and stubbornness. not bleeding, not frantic, just set. like someone who’s already lost everything and refuses to lose anything else.

i freeze. for one horrible second, i consider turning around. disappearing again. pretending yesterday never happened. pretending he didn’t save me, didn’t hold me still while death passed us by, didn’t walk away like it meant nothing.

then a branch snaps underneath my boot. his head comes up instantly. blue eyes lock on mine. no surprise, no relief. just recognition. “you’re alive,” he says flatly. it’s not a question. it’s not even warm. it’s just fact.

“so are you,” i answer.

he nods once, like that settles something, then pushes himself to his feet. he doesn’t tell me to leave. he doesn’t invite me closer. he just turns and starts walking, deeper into the forest, like he expects me to follow. after a beat, i do.

we move side by side, not touching, not looking at each other. the silence between us is thick but not hostile anymore. it’s the kind of quiet that comes after screaming, when there’s nothing left to say except the truth.

the walking almost distracts me from the girl from district eight—how she was ready to die but also ready to kill, how blood spilled from her chest, how i vomitted all over her and her belongings.

after a while, i say it, what's been on my mind for two days: “lou lou died.”

the words fall flat between us, a statement shaped like a wound. haymitch doesn’t stop walking when he opens his mouth. “i know.”

i swallow. my throat burns. “they showed her face.”

"yeah," he exhales slowly through his nose. “they do that.”

my steps falter just a little. “you were with her.” it’s not a question. i know the answer from his uncharacteristically witty comment. i just need him to say it.

“since the bloodbath,” he starts, “she found me after. wouldn’t stop following me. wouldn’t stop apologizing for breathing too loud.” my chest tightens. "she kept asking if she was doing it wrong,” he continues, voice rough but steady. “sleeping. walking. surviving. like there was a rulebook she missed.”

i look at the ground so i don’t have to look at his face and those red blisters on his face, his consequence for saving my life.

“she was tired,” he says. “they kept steering her. drugging her. every time she tried to sit down, she’d get confused. scared. said the flowers were singing.” my fingers curl into fists. “by the second night,” he adds, quieter now, “she couldn’t walk anymore.”

we stop near the stump of a tree. he sets his axe down on top of it, staring at it like it might answer for him.

“i stayed,” he says. “i didn’t let them take her right away.” my heart sinks for him. for lou lou. for louella. “i held her hand until she stopped shaking,” he finishes. “then i made it stop.”

the arena feels too big around us suddenly. too open. too cruel. “i’m so sorry,” i whisper.

he snorts, sharp and bitter. “don’t.”

“i mean it.”

“i know you do,” he says. “that’s the problem.”

we walk again. i almost tell him about the life i took but decide not to. i'm not sure i trust him not to do the same to me. that thought makes me want to vomit again.

after a while, the anger creeps in, quieter than before but heavier. “you hated me,” i say suddenly. “before all this.”

he lets out a short laugh. humorless. “yeah.”

“why?"

he doesn’t answer right away. when he does, it’s like pulling splinters from bone. “you had a roof that didn’t leak,” he says. “food that didn’t disappear. sisters that didn’t look at you like you were already dead.”

i flinch. “that’s not—”

“i know,” he cuts in. then softer, “i know. but i didn’t then.”

i swallow. “you called me a spoiled princess.”

“you called me a charity case,” he fires back.

the words hang between us, ugly and old.

“i didn’t know about your dad yet,” i say.

“i know,” he replies. “doesn’t make it hurt less.”

we stop again. this time, we face each other.

“i hated that you saw through me,” he admits. “that you weren’t afraid of me. that you looked at me like i was something.”

my heart stutters. “and i hated that you thought i was pretending,” i say. “that everything i had meant i hadn’t earned anything.”

he looks at me then. “stupid,” he mutters.

“yeah,” i agree. “really stupid.”

something settles after that, an understanding pressing its weight down on both of us.

“you’re not doing this alone anymore,” he says eventually.

"neither are you.”

he nods once. we turn and walk together, side by side, into an unfortunately beautiful part of the arena neither of us has seen yet.

he tells me about how he almost died of poisoned water thirty minutes into the games; about lou lou's flower bed; about his mutt portal mission with ampert, following my ladybug injuries; about ampert's death; about the three lives he's taken already.

i tell him i'm sorry again, despite how much he hates it.

day five

the forest smells different when i wake—sharp, metallic, like rain that hasn’t fallen yet. or maybe it's just the arena shifting its weight, reminding us it isn’t done.

haymitch is already awake. he’s crouched a few feet away, back to a tree, axe across his knees while he sharpens the blade with slow, methodical strokes. the sound is steady. controlled. too calm for how close danger feels now.

eight more tributes lost their lives last night. leaving haymitch and i versus thirteen others. thirteen fighters.

i sit up quietly, stretching stiff legs, rolling my shoulders to work out the soreness that never quite leaves. the bites from the mutts still ache if i move too fast, but they’re fading. temporary. everything here is temporary one way or another.

“you hear that?” he asks without looking up. i pause, listening harder. at first there’s nothing—just birdsong and the soft breath of the trees—but beneath it, something else. a distant rumble. low. constant.

“no,” i say. then, after a beat, “wait. yeah.”

he nods once. “mountain.”

my stomach tightens. we haven’t gone near it yet—not really. it’s been looming in the distance since the games began, white-capped and harmless-looking, like it belongs on a postcard instead of in an arena built to kill us.

“it wasn’t making noise yesterday,” i say.

“nope.” he finishes sharpening the axe and stands, testing the weight in his hand. his movements are efficient, practiced. like he’s already adjusted his expectations.

i sling my satchel over my shoulder, checking the strap automatically. “are we moving?”

“yeah,” he says. “but not toward that.” he jerks his chin away from the mountain, deeper into the forest, angling north. toward terrain we haven’t touched yet. something about the way he says it, decisive and final, sets my teeth on edge.

“why?” i ask.

“because whatever’s waking up over there,” he replies, “isn’t something i want at our backs.”

our. the word lands heavier than it should. we start walking, side by side again, boots crunching softly over leaves and brittle twigs. the forest feels tighter today. less forgiving. branches snag at my clothes like hands that don’t want to let go.

after a while, i notice the pattern. haymitch keeps drifting a half-step ahead of me. keeps taking the outside edge when the ground narrows. keeps positioning himself between me and every open sightline.

i let it go once. then twice. the third time, i stop. "hey.”

he takes another step before realizing i’m not with him. he quickly turns back, irritation already flashing across his face. “what?”

“stop doing that.”

“doing what?”

“that.” i gesture between us. “you’re not a shield.”

his jaw tightens. “i didn’t say i was.”

“you don’t have to.”

he scoffs quietly and turns away again. “we don’t have time for this.”

i follow, but my voice sharpens. “you keep moving us away from food. from water. from visibility. you volunteered to scout last night. you took point again this morning.”

“someone has to.”

“not like this.”

he stops abruptly, spinning on me. “like what?”

“like you’ve already decided how this ends,” i snap. my words hang there, raw and dangerous. for a moment, i think he’s going to explode. instead, something in him goes still.

“watch your step,” he says coldly.

“no,” i fire back. “you don’t get to shut me out now. not after—”

“after i saved your life?” he cuts in.

that hits. hard. i swallow, anger flaring bright enough to hurt. “after you chose to stay.”

silence stretches between us, thick and brittle. the forest seems to lean in, listening. haymitch drags a hand through his hair, pacing once like a caged animal. “this isn’t about feelings,” he mutters. “this is math.”

“don’t,” i warn. wyatt callow flashes in my brain at the word math.

“one of us makes it farther if the other draws attention,” he continues, voice roughening. “that’s just how it works.”

my chest tightens painfully. “so you’re planning to be the distraction.” he doesn’t answer and that’s answer enough. i step closer, lowering my voice, each word precise. “don’t turn me into someone who survives by letting you die.”

he finally looks at me then. i see something crack through the anger—fear, sharp and unguarded. “you think i don’t know that?” he snaps. “you think i don’t wake up every morning counting how many ways this ends with your name in the sky?” my breath stutters. “you still have a reason to live,” he adds. “don’t make me pretend i do.”

the words cut deep, because i know where they come from. “you’re wrong,” i say quietly. “and you don’t get to decide that for me. or for yourself.”

he shakes his head, bitter. “you don’t understand.”

“maybe not,” i admit. “but i understand this: if you disappear on me, i won’t forgive you. not in this arena. not ever.”

there's another long silence. the distant rumble rolls again, louder this time, vibrating faintly through the ground beneath our boots. ash drifts from somewhere unseen, dusting the leaves like gray snow.

haymitch exhales slowly, like he’s letting go of something he’s been gripping too tight. “we move together,” he says at last. “no heroics.”

he turns and starts walking again, slower this time. matching my pace. the mountain growls loud behind us. its sound rolls through the arena like something ancient stretching its spine, deep and resonant and wrong. the ground beneath our boots shivers again—not enough to knock us off balance, just enough to make the hairs on my arms rise.

haymitch stops mid-step. his head tilts, listening. “that’s not a warning,” he says quietly. ash drifts through the trees now, thin as dust at first, clinging to leaves and catching in my hair. it smells sharp and chemical, not like smoke from a fire, but something manufactured. something designed.

“the forest,” i say.

“already headed there,” he replies.

we don’t run yet. running draws eyes. running makes noise. instead we move fast and deliberate, angling deeper into the woods as the light shifts from green-gold to sickly gray.

we're barely in the denser portions of the wood before the mountain cracks open. the sound is deafening—a violent rupture that tears the sky in half. lava fountains upward in brilliant orange arcs, beautiful in a way that makes my stomach churn. heat washes over us even from this distance, the air growing heavy, oppressive.

“go,” haymitch snaps. we break into a sprint. branches whip at my face, roots snag my boots. the ash thickens, clinging to my skin, coating my tongue with bitterness. i hear screams—distant, panicked, cut short far too quickly. cannons start firing in uneven succession, each one a punch to the chest. one. two. three. “don’t breathe it in,” haymitch shouts over his shoulder. “it burns.”

i pull my dirtied sleeve over my mouth just as the ash changes texture—no longer powdery, but slick, gel-like. it splatters against my arm and i hiss as my skin flares hot, chemical pain blooming instantly.

“rain,” haymitch says, almost to himself. “they’ll send rain.” as if the arena heard him, the sky darkens. clouds roll in unnaturally fast, and then the downpour comes, heavy and sudden. the gel dissolves on contact, melting away like sugar, hissing softly as it breaks down.

we collapse beneath a dense stand of trees, gasping, soaked through. the rain cools my burns almost instantly, leaving behind angry red patches but nothing deeper. temporary. again. cannons echo on—seven by the time it slows. we don’t speak while it happens. we just listen, each boom another life erased somewhere beyond these trees.

when the rain eases, the forest looks pristine again. leaves washed clean. air crisp. the mountain quiet once more, like it never tried to kill anyone at all.

“liars,” i mutter.

haymitch lets out a breath that sounds like a laugh scraped raw. “welcome to panem.”

we move again once the ground steadies, circling wide around the mountain’s reach. it’s then we start noticing the pattern—the way the trees thin unnaturally near the northern edge. the way the ground slopes too cleanly, too evenly.

the hedge maze rises out of nowhere. dense, towering, clipped into sharp angles that don’t belong in nature. it forms a wide v-shape, hedges so thick i can’t see through them at all.

haymitch slows, eyes narrowing. “end of the world,” he mutters. i step closer, peering at the leaves. something glints faintly—a small brass plaque nailed low into the hedge.

we follow the hedge line instead of trying to breach it, boots crunching over dry earth that feels wrong underfoot. we walk until the land just stops. a cliff yawns open ahead of us, sheer and brutal, jagged rocks far below. my stomach drops at the sight. “that’s it,” i whisper. “the edge.”

haymitch crouches, scooping up a stone. he tosses it forward. the rock flies maybe ten feet before it slams into nothing—ricocheting violently back toward us. haymitch jerks me aside just in time as it whizzes past, skidding harmlessly into the dirt behind us. a force field.

we stare at each other. something dangerous lights in his eyes. “they bounce,” he says slowly. “everything bounces.”

i feel it then—the shift. the arena isn’t just killing randomly anymore. it’s showing us its teeth. its rules. daring someone smart enough to use them.

the anthem sounds that night while we’re still tucked near the hedge, hidden in a pocket of shadow. faces bloom across the sky—more than i want to count. none of them are us and that's all that matters.

we sit shoulder to shoulder, close enough that our arms brush. neither of us pulls away.

“we're still here,” he mutters eventually.

day six

haymitch is on his feet early the next morning. he’s standing at the edge of our cover, staring toward the mountain with his head tilted, listening again. it’s quieter today. no groaning. no warning tremors. just silence stretched thin as wire.

my throat feels raw when i swallow. my skin is tight where the gel touched it, faintly tender but healed enough to move.

“it’s done for now,” he says.

we’re careful packing up. slower than before. there are fewer sounds in the arena now—less movement, less panic. fewer people left to make noise. it makes everything feel closer. heavier.

six. that number sits between us like a third presence. “four others,” i say quietly, like if i don’t say it out loud it might ambush me later. “careers.”

“yeah,” he replies. “and they’re hunting.”

we move anyway. there’s no choice but forward now. no more circling the edges. no more pretending we can wait this out. the arena has started tightening its grip, and we can feel the pull of it everywhere—in the way paths funnel, in the way the forest thins, in the way open space dares us to cross it.

we keep to the hedge line again, moving north, then west, then back south in a slow arc. haymitch keeps glancing at the cliff like it’s a thought he doesn’t want to finish having.

eventually, i stop. “you’re thinking about it.”

he doesn’t ask what i mean. “yeah.”

“about throwing something.”

“about making them throw something,” he corrects.

my stomach flips. “that’s dangerous.”

he finally looks at me. “everything left is.” we walk in silence for a while after that, the kind that hums instead of rests. i keep replaying the ricochet in my head. the way the stone snapped back like the arena itself had teeth. “if it comes to it,” he says eventually, voice low, “you run.”

i stop short. “no.” my stomach sinks, it's like he either forgot our almost-argument yesterday or he simply does not care.

“i’m serious.”

“so am i.” i step into his space, close enough that i have to tilt my head up to look at him. “we already did this yesterday.”

his jaw tightens. “this is different.”

“it’s not,” i say. “it’s just closer.” the thought of haymitch dying protecting me is somehow worse than the thought of one of us having to kill the other if we are the final two.

for a second, i think he’s going to argue again. instead, he exhales hard, like the fight drains out of him all at once. “i hate that you make sense,” he mutters. i almost smile. almost.

the afternoon stretches long and tense. we hear the others before we see them—distant voices, laughter sharp with nerves, boots snapping twigs without care. panache's voice carries easily. he sounds confident. like he thinks the arena already belongs to him.

we drop lower, moving through undergrowth, careful not to leave signs. once, we flatten ourselves into a shallow ditch as footsteps pass close enough that i can smell sweat and metal. haymitch’s hand brushes mine in the dirt—brief, instinctive. when they’re gone, we don’t speak about it. we just breathe, heavy and needed. i lean back against the hedge, exhaustion finally sinking its claws into me. haymitch sits beside me, knees drawn up, axe resting across his thighs.

“if we make it to morning,” i start softly.

“we will,” he replies, too quick.

i glance at him, forgetting the end of my thought. “don’t lie to me.”

he’s quiet for a long moment. then, honest in a way that hurts, “i don’t know how this ends.” that’s the closest thing to fear i’ve heard from him.

“neither do i,” i say. “but i know how i don’t want it to.” he nods, once. agreement without words.

the fire did more damage than we realized at first. entire stretches of forest are gone—charred trunks, brittle ash underfoot, the air still faintly acrid. the nearest waterfall is visible now through the dead trees, white and tempting and completely useless with its poisoned contents.

we don’t go near the cornucopia. not with four others still breathing. not after the volcano stripped the forest raw and left the open meadow feeling like a stage with too many sightlines. the metal pile glints in the distance like it’s mocking us, daring us to be stupid. we aren’t.

haymitch watches the waterfall for a long time. then he looks away. “not worth it,” he says, clutching his stomach.

“no,” i agree. my voice comes out hoarse. “it’d kill us slower than the others would.”

we sit with the thirst instead. let it settle. let it gnaw. my burns itch under my sleeves—angry, healing, still tender. the ladybug bites have faded to bruised constellations along my skin, but they ache when the heat rises. haymitch hasn’t complained once about the blisters on his hands from the axe, or the burns on his forearms. he just keeps flexing his fingers like he’s reminding them they still belong to him.

the arena is quiet in that dangerous way—no screams, no cannons, no obvious threat. just the sense of being watched and weighed.

the sky hums. we both look up at the same time. two silver parachutes bloom overhead, drifting down slow and deliberate, like the capitol wants us to savor it. haymitch is already on his feet, scanning the perimeter, axe loose in his grip. i stay still, eyes tracking the descent.

the boxes land a few yards apart with soft thuds. we wait a full ten seconds. then another. finally, haymitch approaches the closer one, crouching, checking for wires, triggers, anything that might turn generosity into a joke. he flips the lid.

water. two full bottles. clear. real. for a moment, he just stares. there’s a folded slip of paper tucked beside them. he picks it up, hesitates, then opens it. his mouth twitches.

“what?” i ask.

he hands it to me without comment.

drink. think. don’t die doing something stupid —m & w

it’s barely a note. barely handwriting. but my chest tightens anyway. the other box is closer to me. i kneel and open it carefully. antibiotic cream. one thick tube. more than i would have expected. much more than i deserve. another folded note waits underneath.

you were right to survive —m & w

that’s it. no flourish. no advice. i blink hard and close the box before my eyes can do anything embarrassing.

haymitch hands me one of the water bottles without ceremony. our fingers brush briefly—calloused, warm, real. “take small sips,” he says.

the water tastes like nothing and everything. it burns going down. i want to cry with relief. i don’t.

we ration. we put the cream on one another's burns. we wait silently. the sun inches lower. and for the first time since the volcano, my skin stops screaming; for the first time since the ladybugs, my muscles unclench just a little.

the arena settles around us, pretending to sleep. somewhere out there, four tributes sharpen their weapons, thinking they’re the last fighters standing—they’re wrong. we’re still here.

haymitch doesn’t sleep. neither do i. we take turns keeping watch, backs to the hedge, eyes on the shadows. every sound feels intentional now; every pause too long.

day seven

the first cannon sounds sometime after midnight i presume. it cracks through the air sharp, rattling my ribs. i flinch before i can stop myself, fingers digging into the dirt. haymitch exhales slowly. “one,” he murmurs.

the forest settles again, deceptive in its quiet. minutes drag. maybe an hour. i’m starting to wonder if that was it—if the arena’s done thinning the herd for the night—then the second cannon fires.

my heart slams hard enough it hurts. i press my hand to my chest, breathing shallow, listening for movement that doesn’t come.

haymitch closes his eyes briefly. not in relief. not in mourning. just acknowledgment. “that leaves four,” he says. the number lands heavy. four of us are left. me, him, and two others.

i stare up through the branches at the empty sky, trying to picture faces that aren’t there yet. trying not to imagine weapons, trying not to imagine blood.

“careers,” i whisper.

“yeah,” he says. “has to be.”

i swallow. my mouth tastes like ash and adrenaline. “they’ll come at first light.”

“probably,” he agrees.

we don’t say anything else after that. there’s nothing left to plan tonight. no moves to make in the dark without tipping the balance the wrong way.

eventually, exhaustion wins in fragments. i drift in and out of shallow sleep, the ground cold beneath me, the hedge solid at my back. every time i wake, haymitch is still there—silent, coiled, watching the arena breathe.

morning comes thin and gray. the forest looks almost innocent again, washed clean by night dew. birds stir cautiously. light creeps through leaves like it’s unsure it’s welcome.

three names are left to fill the sky. my body shivers at the thought. i sit up slowly, muscles stiff, heart already racing. “we don’t know who they are,” i say.

haymitch shakes his head. “not until they show themselves.” somewhere out there, two tributes are waking up too, sharpening their blades, thinking they’re the last obstacle standing between themselves and victory.

i look at the hedge, at the cliff beyond it, at the invisible wall that bounced a stone back like a warning shot from the arena itself. whatever happens next won’t be subtle.

“stay close,” haymitch says. i nod.

we head south first. the forest thins that way, slopes gentler, less theatrical. i keep my eyes on the ground, my ears open, every sense stretched tight.

there's a disturbance in the air. it starts with heat. not the honest kind, not sun-on-skin warmth, but a sudden pressure change that makes my lungs feel too full. the air thickens. candy pink birds scatter all at once, exploding from the canopy like something spooked them from below.

haymitch stops dead in his tracks. “don’t,” he says, already turning. “don’t look back.” i don’t need to. the smell hits next—burning sap, chemical sharpness, smoke that doesn’t belong to any natural fire. there’s a roar behind us, fast and hungry, and when i risk a glance despite his warning, my stomach drops.

flames. not creeping, not cautious, but a wall of fire tearing through the forest like it’s being pulled by wires. trees ignite too cleanly, their leaves flashing bright before blackening, collapsing inward with sharp cracks.

“they want us north,” i gasp.

haymitch grabs my wrist, hard. “run.”

wind bites at my face, smoke burns my throat, heat licking at my back like teeth. the fire moves wrong—too fast, too purposeful, changing direction when we do. my lungs scream. my legs feel like lead.

don’t become someone you hate, my brain whispers uselessly as panic claws up my spine.

the trees thin abruptly and light floods in: the meadow. we burst out of the forest together, stumbling into open space just as the fire roars to the edge of the tree line and unnaturally stops. flames rear and curl, frustrated, before dying back fast, leaving only scorched trunks and smoking earth.

i drop to my knees, coughing, my chest on fire. haymitch stays standing, axe raised, eyes sweeping the open field. the cornucopia gleams ahead of us, obscene and familiar, metal catching the sun like it’s proud of itself. the grass is trampled now, stained darker in places i don’t let myself look at too closely.

voices carry across the meadow; laughter; slow clapping. “come on, abernathy,” a boy calls, voice smooth and sharp-edged. “don’t tell me you ran all this way just to hide again.”

another voice joins in. “we’re bored.”

haymitch’s jaw tightens. i feel it even without touching him, like tension radiating off his body.

“they’re close,” i murmur.

“yeah,” he says. “they want a show.”

a loud speaker crackles to life overhead, sound reverberating through the open space until it feels like it’s inside my skull.

“attention, tributes.” the voice is calm and practiced. my heart starts pounding hard and sputtered. “due to the exceptional circumstances of this year’s quarter quell, the capitol has authorized a final amendment.” i watch glossy-eyed as haymitch’s grip tightens around his axe, his knuckles turning white. “there may be two victors, provided they are from the same district.”

the words hit like a physical force. for a heartbeat, the arena tilts. i stare straight ahead, pulse roaring in my ears. i don’t look at haymitch. i can’t. the thought is too fragile, too dangerous to touch directly. hope is a blade here—sharp, tempting, ready to cut you open if you hold it wrong.

across the meadow, the laughter stops. “well, i’ll be damned,” the boy calls, delighted now. “hear that? looks like it’s personal, abernathy.”

the other voice—female, low and taunting. “guess we’ll have to break you and your little lover up.”

haymitch exhales slowly through his nose. when he finally looks at me, there’s something different in his eyes now. not anger, not fear, but calculation. “they want us desperate,” he says quietly. “they want us to turn on each other.”

i nod once. “we won’t.”

his mouth twitches—not a smile, not quite—but something steadier. “good.”

the grass ripples as a breeze cuts through the meadow, carrying the faint scent of smoke behind us and blood ahead of us. the arena feels smaller now. like it’s closing its fist.

we don’t get time to plan. they move first.

silka sharp comes out of the tall grass like a nightmare pulled upright—too tall, too solid, axe already swinging in a lazy, confident arc that whistles as it cuts the air in front of me. six feet of muscle and intent. she grins when she sees me, eyes flicking over my knives like she’s already decided i’m manageable.

i dart forward instead of back. the first knife leaves my hand before my brain finishes the thought, spinning low and fast. silka jerks aside just in time; the blade slices fabric and skin along her ribs. she snarls, surprise flashing hot across her face.

“feisty,” she laughs, adjusting her grip. “i like that.” i don’t answer. i don’t waste my breath. i circle, knees bent, weight light on my feet, knives flashing between my fingers like extensions of thought. the world narrows to distance and timing and the way her shoulders tense before she swings. she’s strong, but she’s slow.

i throw again. then again. one knife embeds in her thigh. another skims her forearm. blood beads bright against her skin, stark and shocking against all that confidence. she stumbles half a step, growl turning sharp and furious.

behind her, panache laughs. “careful, silka,” he calls easily. “donner bites.”

that’s when silka gets visibly angry. she roars and charges, axe coming down hard enough to split bone. i roll, barely clearing it, dirt exploding where i’d been a second before. the shock rattles my teeth. i come up low, slicing, driving another knife into her calf. she howls this time—real pain, real shock.

i feel something fierce bloom in my chest. i can do this. i can—there's pain. white-hot, blinding, catastrophic pain.

panache moves faster than i thought. his sword hacks backward in a brutal, careless motion, steel biting deep into my hip. the impact is like being struck by lightning and crushed at the same time. i scream—i can’t stop it—as my body folds, legs giving out beneath me.

the pain isn’t sharp anymore. it’s everything. it floods me, swallows me whole, radiating outward in sickening waves. my spine lights up, nerves screaming like they’ve been ripped open and set on fire. my spine goes numb instantly, dead weight dragging uselessly behind me. i taste blood. i can’t tell if i’m biting my tongue or just breaking apart.

i hit the ground hard, breath tearing out of me in a sound that doesn’t even feel human. i can’t move. i can’t feel half of myself. panic claws in next, cold and suffocating. i try to push up—nothing. my hands slip in the grass. my vision blurs, tears spilling hot and helpless.

haymitch roars my name. the sound cuts through the pain like a hook. i see him only in flashes—him slamming into panache, axe coming up hard, the flat of the blade cracking into panache’s waist with a sickening thud. panache goes down, sword slipping from his hand, breath knocked clean out of him.

i wait for the sound of the cannon but it never comes. he's not dead, just knocked unconscious.

i want to scream at haymitch to finish it. to run. to win. to leave me. instead all that comes out is a broken sound, wet and shaking. he turns back to me for half a second—just long enough for our eyes to meet. i see it there. terror. fury. devotion so sharp it hurts to look at.

then silka is on him. she’s bleeding badly now, limping, axe heavy in her hands—but she’s still standing. still dangerous. she swings with everything she has left, driving haymitch back step by step.

he has no choice but to fight defensively now. his axe is buried in panache’s lower torso and he doesn’t dare turn his back to retrieve it. he grabs my satchel instead, yanking it toward him with one hand while blocking silka’s strikes with the other, movements tight and desperate.

i watch through tears, chest heaving, pain pulsing in nauseating waves that make the world tilt. every heartbeat sends another bolt through my spine. i feel like i’m coming undone at the seams.

i don’t want to live like this. i don’t want him to die because of me. please, i think wildly, stupidly. please let it be him.

a cannon booms—panache—the sound punches through the air, final and merciless. silka screams, raw and feral, grief and rage tangled together as she rips her axe free and hurls it with everything she has left. i see it spin end over end, gleaming, beautiful and terrible.

haymitch dodges it swiftly. clean, instinctive—perfect. the axe sails past him and slams into the invisible wall behind. the force field, our discovery, hums as the weapon ricochets.

i see silka’s eyes widen just before the axe buries itself in her chest, right where her heart should be. the impact lifts her off her feet. she collapses without another sound. the cannon fires again. silence crashes down, heavy and unreal.

my vision tunnels. the edges go dark. the pain is unbearable now, overwhelming, like my body is trying to eject me from itself. i sob openly, broken, gasping, half-aware of the anthem swelling overhead, triumphant and cruel.

i don’t want to see my face in the sky. i want him to win.

haymitch is suddenly here—knees in the grass, hands on my face, on my shoulders, everywhere at once. he’s shaking harder than i am, breath coming in sharp, ragged bursts. “hey—hey—stay with me,” he begs, voice breaking. “don’t you dare—don’t you dare—”

i cling to him weakly, fingers fisting in his ruined shirt, pain and relief and terror blurring together until i can’t tell where one ends and the other begins.

above us, the voice returns, colder now. edged with something like resentment. "the capitol hereby announces the victors of the fiftieth hunger games, the second quarter quell.” my hearing fades in and out. “from district twelve—”

haymitch’s forehead presses to mine. his breath is warm. he's real. he's alive.

“—haymitch abernathy and y/n donner.” the anthem crescendos and the sky burns bright.

the last thing i feel is haymitch holding me like he’s afraid the world will take me if he lets go.

the victors

i wake up breathing. that’s the first thing i notice. not pain, not panic, but the steady rise and fall of my chest, smooth and uninterrupted, like nothing ever went wrong.

the ceiling above me is white. not the harsh arena-white. not the fluorescent glare of the capitol hospital. this is softer, warmer. familiar in a way that makes my stomach twist; the training center.

my fingers twitch. they respond immediately. there's no delay, no tremor. i sit up too fast, heart slamming, waiting for the agony to hit—for my hip to scream, for my body to remind me what it went through. nothing happens.

i look down at myself. i’m clean. spotless, really. my hands are manicured, nails painted a pale, shimmering color i’ve never chosen for myself. my skin is smooth, unmarked. no burns, no bites, no blood or dirt beneath my nails.

i slide off the bed and nearly trip on fabric pooling at my feet. a dress. long, blue, elegant, capitol-perfect. the kind of thing designed to distract the eye, to erase history with silk and sparkle.

i stagger toward the mirror. the girl staring back at me looks nothing like me, she looks like a victor. my hair falls over my shoulders in soft curls, styled within an inch of its life. my makeup is already done—dark lashes, shimmering lids, lips painted a deep rose.

i lift the hem of the dress with shaking fingers, breath caught painfully in my throat. my hip is flawless with no stitches, no bruising, no scar. there's not even a hint of discoloration where a sword should have ended me.

they cut me open while i slept; fixed me, perfected me, erased the proof that i bled for their entertainment.

the door opens quietly behind me. i spin, heart lurching. an avox dressed in crimson stands there, head bowed. it's a woman, much older than me. her eyes flick up briefly—gentle, sad—before she gestures for me to follow. she doesn’t speak. she can’t. i don’t either.

the hallway feels wrong under my feet. too quiet. too clean. like the building is holding its breath. every step echoes with memory—training, laughter, shouting, fear. a week ago, i was here pretending i wasn’t already dead.

the avox stops at the twelfth floor. the elevator door opens and she quickly steps aside.

haymitch is there.

for half a second, my brain refuses to process it. he’s clean. dressed in a tailored suit the same deep navy as my dress. his curls are clean and coiled. his face is unmarked, healed, whole. alive.

he crosses the room in three long strides and crashes into me, arms wrapping tight around my shoulders, my back, my waist—everywhere at once. i slam into his chest, fingers fisting in the fabric of his suit like i’m afraid he’ll disappear if i let go.

he’s shaking. so am i. we don’t cry, not really. we press our faces into each other’s shoulders and breathe, chests hitching, holding on like the world might tear us apart again if we loosen our grip even an inch. he smells like soap and something expensive and wrong, but underneath it all, it’s still him.

“you’re here,” he murmurs, voice rough. “you’re—”

“i know,” i whisper. “i know.”

the door opens again. drusilla sweeps in first, already dabbing at her eyes dramatically. mags follows, slower, steadier, her smile soft. wiress lingers near the door, watching us like she’s memorizing the moment.

haymitch loosens his hold, just slightly, swallowed by the cluster of women suddenly surrounding us. hands on shoulders. murmured reassurances. relief layered over grief.

i hug mags. then wiress. drusilla presses a kiss to my cheek that smells like powder and perfume.

“my darlings,” she says brightly, voice trembling despite herself. “you did it. you did it.” i open my mouth to ask—about the arena, about my family, about what happens now—but drusilla cuts me off with a gentle clap. “no time, love. we mustn’t be late. caesar is waiting.”

waiting. the word makes my stomach twist.

the stage is blinding. brighter than before. louder. everything amplified now that we’ve survived. caesar flickerman beams at us like we’re his favorite miracle. everything around me is a blur of lights and applause and voices that feel too loud in my skull.

“panem,” he announces, voice ringing, “please welcome your victors of the fiftieth hunger games!” the following applause is deafening. it rolls over us in waves. i sit beside haymitch, knees close enough that our legs brush.

“now,” caesar says, leaning forward eagerly, “you gave us something truly unprecedented. two victors.” he smiles wider. “tell me—did you believe it was possible?”

haymitch answers first. “no,” he says plainly. the crowd laughs, startled. “but i believed we weren’t done yet.”

caesar turns to me. “and you, y/n? when did you realize you might both make it out?”

i swallow. my voice comes steady anyway. “when i realized i trusted him more than the arena.” the applause swells again.

“brave,” caesar sighs. “romantic, even.” i don’t correct him.

i keep my eyes forward, focusing on a random woman in the large sea of people. she has neon pink skin. i stare at her so hard i worry holes might burn into her figure. i refuse to look at the screen behind us showing highlights of the games. i don’t need to.

cesar asks about the final fight; about silka and panache; about the force field; about loyalty. "how did it feel,” he asks lightly, “to watch your final opponent fall?”

my chest tightens. “it didn’t feel like winning,” i say. “it felt like surviving.” the room quiets.

next come the crowns. gold circlets, heavy and cold as they’re placed on our heads. haymitch stiffens at the contact. i barely feel it at all.

my mind keeps slipping sideways—back to the girl from eight, to louella’s face in the sky, to wyatt’s body on the grass. to haymitch’s hands shaking as he held me together.

to the life i took. to the lives i couldn’t save.

our hands are forced and raised together. cameras flash, lights explode. we smile because we’re told to, because everyone is watching.

we're pulled aside immediately after the crowning—hands adjusting our fancy clothes, angling our faces, directing us closer.

“closer,” a voice insists. “arm around the waist. yes. smile.” haymitch’s hand settles at my lower back. his fingers flex once, like a warning, like reassurance.

there's a flash. it stings my eyes.

“look at each other!”

i turn my head. our smiles don’t reach our eyes. flash.

“beautiful,” someone comments. “absolutely beautiful.”

when it’s over, when the lights and cameras finally dim, i feel hollowed out. like something essential was taken and replaced with glitter.

the victory tour passes in fragments as well. districts blur together—faces, names, speeches written for us and memorized like prayers. dinners where we sit at the head of tables we don’t belong at, talking about courage and sacrifice while parents stare at us with hollow eyes. i say the names of the dead. i bow my head. i keep my voice steady.

haymitch stands beside me every time. solid. silent. a presence i anchor myself to. we save twelve for last; the capitol comes first.

snow’s mansion glows like something unreal—white and perfect and full of laughter that doesn’t belong to us. the party is overwhelming. music, color, movement. hands grabbing, voices congratulating.

wine is pressed into my hand. i don’t drink it. haymitch, however, downs half of his immediately. people congratulate us left and right like we won a game, not a massacre.

then president snow appears at my side. his smile is thin and polite—deadly. “miss donner,” he says softly. “how extraordinary.”

“thank you, sir,” i reply automatically.

his eyes flick to haymitch. then back to me. “you and abernathy,” he continues, “were not the intended outcome.” my heart stutters. “silka sharp and panache barker. they were meant to be the story. but,” snow adds, leaning closer, “stories can change.” his smile sharpens. “just remember who edits the ending.”

he steps away like he’s said nothing at all.

at some point—i don’t remember how—haymitch and i slip away to a secluded bedroom. enormous and quiet. the door clicks shut behind us and the silence rushes in like water. we don’t speak at first. haymitch leans against the wall. i sit on the edge of the bed. the space between us hums with everything we haven’t said yet.

“i don’t know how to go home,” he says finally.

the words land softly. honestly. “me neither,” i admit, thinking of our new home back in twelve: the victor's village; nothing like the merchants area, nothing like the same.

"i don’t know how to be a victor.”

“you don’t have to be anything,” i reply. “not with me.”

his breath catches. “i was ready to die out there,” he admits. “i wasn’t ready to come back.” he looks at me then, his eyes darker than i’ve ever seen them. “they’re going to expect things from us. smiles. gratitude. mentorship.”

“we don’t owe them that,” i say.

his mouth twitches. “no. but they’ll take it anyway.”

something shifts in me then. a quiet, terrifying clarity. i realize i don’t just care if haymitch survives—i care if he’s alone. i care if he breaks. i care in a way that has nothing to do with the arena or an alliance, but everything to do with who he is when no one’s watching.

“haymitch—” i start.

he crosses the room in two steps. both of his hands come up to my face, warm and sure, thumbs brushing my jaw like he’s grounding himself. like he needs to feel something real. "please tell me to stop, princess,” he murmurs.

i don’t.

when he kisses me, it’s desperate. hungry. years of fear and anger and restraint collapsing into one moment. his mouth is firm against mine, breath uneven, hands cradling my face like i might shatter.

i kiss him back with the same urgency, fingers sliding into his curls, pulling him closer, closer, closer. the world narrows to heat and breath and the way he presses into me like he’s afraid i’ll disappear.

his hands slide down my back, anchoring me. my lips part. he groans softly, like it’s been locked in his chest for weeks.

for a few more minutes, nothing else exists, but then there’s a knock. we break apart, breathless.

“you’ll want to see this,” drusilla calls—softer than i've ever heard her—from the other side of the door.

the door swings open after a beat and a yell of assurance from haymitch; maysilee is there. merilee. my parents. willamae and sid abernathy.

they rush forward all at once, arms wrapping around me, around haymitch, around each other. it’s messy and overwhelming and perfect. i bury my face in my sister’s hair and breathe her in. i feel sid’s arms around haymitch’s waist. i feel my mother’s hands on my back, solid and warm.

haymitch’s hand finds mine in our crowd of loved ones. our fingers lace together without a twitch.

for the first time since the reaping, something like peace settles in my chest. not happiness but gratitude. and love. and the knowledge that even after everything—after fire and blood and loss—some things survived. so did we.

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