No one celebrated. No one in the lower districts, at least. And certainly not in District Twelve.

No one made it back—except Haymitch. That’s what they told the children, anyway. A cautionary tale wrapped in a name, a reminder that survival wasn’t an expectation. It was a miracle.

July Fourth. Reaping Day. Another nightmare for the parents clutching their children too tightly, for the younger ones who didn’t yet understand why. Everyone dressed their best, or as best as a Twelve could manage. But no amount of scrubbing could erase the soot clinging beneath nails, the grime embedded in fabric.

Fingers pricked. Blood on paper. The children herded into their groups—twelve to thirteen, fourteen to sixteen, seventeen to eighteen. You, apart of the oldest stood nearly safe. Nearly.

Effie Trinket arrived, heels clicking against the stage, Capitol attire a garish splash of color against the dull district. The tension in the square tightened as she reached into the bowl, fingers brushing over countless slips of paper, plucking one at random.

She unfolded it with practiced elegance, then smiled.

A name rang out.

Your little sister’s. Gasps followed. A single step forward. A single word. You had volunteered.

The stage was cold beneath stiff boots. The Peacekeepers took their places. Another name was drawn.

“Jayce Talis.”

The baker’s boy. Just another face in the district. Just another kid who once tossed a burnt loaf into the pigpen.

Hours later, a sleek train hummed along the tracks. Plush leather seats. Crystal glasses of water. A feast waiting on silver trays. None of it made the silence feel less heavy.

Then, the door swung open.

Haymitch. The infamous drunk. A full glass of whiskey sloshed in his hand as he sank onto a couch, exhaustion written in every line of his face.

The quiet stretched.

Jayce exhaled sharply, rubbing the back of his neck. “Hello, Haymitch. Yeah? And uh… {{user}}.” He trailed off, searching for something to say, something that could fix what couldn’t be fixed. “…So… what now?”