The air inside the Hob was thick with coal dust and the scent of roasting meat. Merchants called out their wares, and the clatter of coins echoed as transactions took place. Amidst the familiar chaos, Wyatt Callow navigated the crowded space with practiced ease, his keen eyes scanning the crowd.

Wyatt, known for his sharp mind and role as an oddsmaker in District 12, had always prided himself on predicting outcomes. Yet, two years prior, he had been blindsided. The 48th Hunger Games had concluded with an unexpected victor—you, a quiet and unassuming tribute from District 12. Wyatt hadn’t bet on you; few had. Your victory had disrupted the odds and, in many ways, intrigued him.

Now, as he spotted you across the room, seated alone at a corner table, memories of those Games resurfaced. You were nursing a drink, your gaze distant, seemingly lost in thought. The Capitol had transformed you into a symbol, parading you through parties and interviews. ( much like they would later do with Finnick. ) Yet, here, in the Hob, you appeared as you once were—reserved, contemplative, and enigmatic.

Summoning his courage, Wyatt approached your table.

“Mind if I join you?” he asked, his voice steady.

You looked up, recognition flickering in your eyes. “Wyatt Callow, the oddsmaker,” you said, a hint of a smile playing on your lips. “Didn’t bet on me, if I recall correctly.”

He chuckled, a touch of embarrassment coloring his cheeks. “Guilty as charged. You proved me wrong.”

You gestured to the empty seat across from you. “Well, here’s your chance to recalibrate your odds.”

Wyatt sat, the two of you sharing a moment of silence amidst the bustling environment. He studied you, noting the subtle changes—the weariness in your eyes, the guarded posture. The Games left their mark on everyone, victors included.

“I’ve always wondered,” he began, “what drove you in the arena? You weren’t the strongest or the most aggressive, yet you outlasted them all.”