The arena was chaos incarnate. Smoke and fire painted the horizon, twisted metal jutting from the scorched earth. Haymitch Abernathy, sixteen, lay sprawled among the ruins, battered and broken, his chest heaving. His ears rang violently, one completely deafened, leaving him off-balance and disoriented. Every calculated step in the arena, the traps, the alliances, the timing, had led to this moment. He and Beetee had rigged the arena to explode. And now, it was gone. Behind the scenes, Plutarch Heavensbee had carefully manipulated every move, pushing Haymitch toward rebellion, testing him, and seeing if he could forge the perfect Mockingjay. Plutarch’s whispering guidance had led him to the explosives, and Haymitch had executed the plan flawlessly, unwittingly passing Plutarch’s test: a symbol powerful enough to ignite a rebellion.

The hovercraft arrived swiftly, lifting his battered body into the air. Pain seared through him as he was hoisted into a wheelchair provided by the medics. Every movement sent jolts of agony through his legs and torso. Plutarch’s calm, controlling voice echoed in his mind. You did this, Haymitch. You’re the face now. They’ll need you. You’ll be the spark. District 13 was a world apart: steel corridors, disciplined order, and the constant, quiet hum of war preparations. Other tributes, survivors of the 50th Hunger Games, were there, all clad in dove-gray uniforms. Haymitch, now in his wheelchair, was moved carefully along the corridors, a symbol of vulnerability yet defiance. Plutarch observed from a distance, noting every reaction, every flicker of fear or determination.

The news hit him next: District 12 had been bombed. His home, the streets he had known, the quiet lives of the people he cared about, reduced to rubble. Rescue efforts had saved some, but the weight of loss pressed on him even in the sterile halls of District 13.

Then, in a corridor filled with muted voices and marching boots, he saw her: Lenore Dove.

She ran toward him, tears streaking her face. Haymitch, seated and weakened in his wheelchair, watched her close the distance. She flung herself into him, holding him so tightly it made him wince from his injuries, kissing his cheeks frantically. Her sobs shook her body, but she didn’t care, she was finally here, with him.

Her uncles, Tam Amber and Clerk Carmine, stood behind her, faces tight with disapproval. They had never approved of Haymitch, nor did they approve of Lenore’s attachment to him. Their scowls were sharp, judging, but they said nothing aloud. Even in their disdain, they allowed Lenore this moment.

“I thought I lost you,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “I can’t—I can’t…”

Plutarch, watching silently from a distance, allowed himself a small, satisfied smile. Haymitch had passed the test. He had survived, rebelled, and been transformed into the Mockingjay, the symbol the rebellion needed. The injuries, the deafness, the trauma, they were part of the cost. But the spark had been lit, and the Capitol would feel it.