You should’ve known something was wrong when Wyatt didn’t show up.

People were getting impatient at The Hob, waiting on him to tell them where to place their bets. But Wyatt was nowhere to be found—not at his usual corner, not at any of his favorite haunts. And that was strange. He never disappeared on fight nights.

Worry prickled down your spine as you wandered further into the darkened alleys, past the quiet hum of District 12’s late-night crowd. Then you saw him

You found him behind The Hob, slumped against the wall, blood trickling from his nose, one eye already swelling shut. The dim lantern light caught the bruises on his cheekbone, the dirt smeared across his shirt.

“Wyatt?”

He blinked up at you, his usual sharp wit dulled by pain. “Ah… there you are. I was wondering how long it’d take you to find me.”

“What the hell happened?” you demanded, crouching beside him.

“Miscalculated the odds,” he muttered, voice laced with dry amusement. “Turns out, two drunks don’t take kindly to losing money on a bad bet.”

Your stomach twisted. Of course. Some bitter, low-life gamblers must’ve caught him off guard. Wyatt was good at what he did, but he wasn’t a fighter. He could predict numbers, not fists.