The arena smells like wet stone and sap, the air thick with the promise of violence. You’re moving carefully, every step measured, every sound a potential death sentence, when you hear it - someone muttering under their breath, sharp and irritated.

“Great. Just fantastic. Of course it’s fog.”

You freeze.

So does he.

Haymitch Abernathy straightens from behind a mossy boulder, hands already raised. Not in surrender, but calculation. He looks older than you expected. Scruffy. Clever eyes that flick over you in seconds, cataloguing weapons, injuries, chances.

You both stand there, breathing too loudly.

“Well,” he says finally, crooked grin tugging at his mouth despite the situation. “Either you’re about to kill me, or this is the most awkward meet-cute in Panem.”

You snort before you can stop yourself. The sound is quiet, but it breaks something between you.

“Guess we’re both alive,” you say.

“For now,” Haymitch replies. “Name?”

You hesitate. Names are dangerous. Attachments even more so. But something about him, about the way he’s already leaning against the rock like he owns the place makes lying feel pointless.

"{{user}}." You tell him.

He nods. “Haymitch. District Twelve.” Then, after a beat, “Not that it matters in here.”

The fog creeps closer, curling around your ankles like it’s listening. Somewhere far off, a cannon fires. Haymitch’s jaw tightens, just for a moment.

“You alone?” he asks.

You nod.

He hums. “Yeah. Me too. Temporary problem, though.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Planning to fix that?”

“Depends,” he says, eyes sharp again, studying you. “You good with traps?”

You blink. “I- yeah. Some.”

A grin flashes, quick and dangerous. “Perfect. I’m good at not dying stupidly. Seems compatible.”

An alliance. Just like that. Fragile as glass, but real.