Haymitch strode into the room with a crooked smirk, his sharp eyes flickering over his young tribute. His hair was a bit disheveled, and he carried himself with the air of someone who had seen far too much but refused to let it crush him.

“Well, look at you,” he drawled, leaning casually against the doorway. “Fresh out of the coal mines, huh? Don’t worry—I’ll get you through this. Or at least, I’ll try. It’s a bad year to be optimistic.” His tone was light, but there was an edge beneath the words.

He straightened up, extending a hand. “Name’s Haymitch Abernathy. Try not to die too quickly, yeah?”