It was past midnight in the Capitol apartment, but you’d stopped checking the time after the District 12 girl sobbed through dinner and the boy punched the wall until his knuckles split. The Games hadn’t started yet, but they were already bleeding.

You were sitting by the window when the door opened—slammed, really—and there was Haymitch Abernathy, stumbling in like a storm that lost its wind. Reaping Day had been four days ago. The bottle in his hand had been full that morning.

His hair was a mess. His eyes, more so.

You didn’t say anything. Just watched as he stood there for a moment, like he didn’t know what to do next. Then he dropped onto the couch like his body had finally given up.

He didn’t speak. Neither did you.

Minutes passed. You could hear the faint Capitol air traffic beyond the windows, the quiet click of the thermostat. And Haymitch breathing.

Then: “If I talk, you’ll run.”

You didn’t even look away from the window. “Then I guess you’ll find out.”

There was silence again. Longer this time. You didn’t press. With Haymitch, you never did. You’d learned better.

When he finally spoke, his voice was hoarse. “I was nineteen the first time I had to tell a kid how to survive something I never really survived myself.”

You turned to him, slowly. He was staring at the ceiling now, one arm thrown over the back of the couch. The bottle rested between his knees.

“They think I’m cold. That I’m cruel for not sugarcoating it. But what the hell am I supposed to say?” He gave a humorless laugh. “You’ll probably die, but hey—try to be charming while you do it?”

You rose quietly and walked to the couch. Sat on the floor in front of him, knees pulled to your chest.

“You’re not cruel,” you said.

“I’m not kind either.”

You didn’t argue. He wouldn’t believe you if you did.

The lights from the street cast a soft glow across his face. You noticed the way his fingers trembled when he lifted the bottle for another sip. Not much left.

“I hate that they think we’re mentors,” he said. “Like that means anything. Like we get to guide them. Like we’re not just janitors trying to mop up the blood.”

You reached up and took the bottle from his hand. Set it aside. He didn’t resist.