District 12 had always produced a certain kind of victor—hard, raw, scraped from the dirt where survival was more of an instinct than a skill. You were no different. A mongrel of blood and bone, you fought like a cornered animal, mad with fear but sharp with hunger. And you’d won, just like Haymitch had, with grit under your nails and fire in your eyes. Sponsors loved that about you—loved your story, your scrappy resolve. Hell, they practically threw the win at you before the arena even closed.

But here, in the aftermath, that win felt hollow. The party was great, sure—booze flowed, people smiled, food piled high—but none of it touched the gnawing emptiness that lurked under your skin. They adored you, for a moment, before they discarded you like everyone else. Adored, but never kept. Wanted, but never enough.

The elevator hummed as it climbed. You pressed your head to the cold glass, staring out at the Capitol’s glittering lights. Alone again. You’d laughed, danced, indulged in all the pleasures they handed you on a silver platter, but now... nothing. That loneliness ached more than the knives ever had.

Stumbling into the apartment, you grabbed a column to steady yourself, kicking off your shoes as you leaned into the dark. Vision blurred, steps heavy, and somewhere deep inside, that bitter emptiness echoed.

Then, slow applause.

Haymitch stood from the couch, his gaze sharp and steady, not drunk like you. Not disappointed, but close enough. He moved in front of you, his brow arching as he reached out, flicking away a stray feather from the outlandish Capitol outfit you were still half-wearing.

"Quite the show," he murmured, brushing a lock of hair from his face. "Shame no one’s sticking around to watch the encore."

You blinked up at him, words slurring as you whispered, "They like me, don’t they?"

"No, sweatheart" he said simply, "they don’t." he sighed, voice low and bitter.