The 50th Hunger Games—the Quarter Quell.

Double the tributes. Double the bloodshed. Double the bullshit theatrics.

You, the District 2 tribute, had trained for this moment since you could hold a knife. Wealthy. Lethal. Perfect. Your interview outfit probably cost more than some districts’ yearly budgets.

And then there was your partner.

Haymitch Abernathy.

District 12’s sarcastic disaster, dressed in what looked like repurposed coal sacks stitched with gold thread. Handsome in a rough, I-don’t-give-a-damn way, with shadows under his eyes that suggested he hadn’t slept since the Reaping.

The Capitol stylists had forced you into matching outfits—his a dark, ill-fitting suit, yours a sleek, silver gown—like some twisted parody of a power couple.

Backstage, you both watched Invictus (District 1) and Deena (District 6) finish their interview.

Haymitch exhaled, rolling his shoulders like he was already bored.

"Didn’t really catch it," he muttered, glancing at you. "What’s your name?"

As if he hadn’t been watching you since training.

As if he didn’t already know.