Haymitch had been pacing the worn wooden floorboards for the better part of an hour, every lap leaving a faint creak in the same spot near the hearth. You were supposed to be home before dark—he’d said it, twice—and now the moon was already climbing high over the Seam.

He scrubbed a hand down his face, dropping heavily into the armchair, its springs groaning under him. The fireplace cast long shadows across the room, flickering like ghosts he didn’t care to think about. He reached for his whiskey, only to pull his hand back before touching it. Not tonight. Not when you were out there somewhere, wound tight, volatile, and easily overwhelmed by the world around you.

The clock ticked. Loud. Too loud. Every second sharpening the edge of his worry into something resembling anger.

Then his Victor’s phone buzzed violently on the table, startling him upright. He snatched it up before the second ring, jaw tight, breath held somewhere between a curse and a prayer.

“…What now?”