The Capitol was as loud and bright as ever, its streets flooded with extravagance and superficiality that made Haymitch’s stomach churn. Yet, in the chaos of this twisted spectacle, there was something different tonight. Something that kept him from drifting into the oblivion of his own thoughts, something that made the air in his lungs feel heavier and more suffocating.

It was you.

You stood a few steps away from where Haymitch sat on the velvet couch, arms folded, head tipped back. The Capitol light caught in his pale hair, making him look older than seventeen. You were staring out the tribute apartment window, expression unreadable, a faraway look in your eyes.

He wasn’t sure how long he’d been watching you. Longer than he should have.

Everything about you unsettled him — not just because you were Burdock’s younger sibling, or that you’d been dragged into this nightmare. It was the way you carried yourself: quiet defiance wrapped in vulnerable fear. He wasn’t supposed to care. But he did. And that sense of responsibility ached in his chest like a bruise he couldn’t stop pressing.

The thought of Woodbine haunted you, even in the Capitol’s glittering heart. The boy you’d once been so close to, full of life, now gone. He had died before the Games even started, too terrified to face it. When his name was called, he tried to run, and it was that cowardice, not the Games, that killed him.

Your relationship with Woodbine had always been messy — full of sparks, arguments, and that endless push and pull. His family was known for trouble, always in and out of trouble, and somehow, he had mirrored that chaos. You’d been in an off-and-on relationship, drawn to him despite the frustration he caused. Some days he was the one person who understood, other days he was a reminder of everything wrong with the world. The last time you saw him, he’d wanted to run, convinced he could escape the inevitable. And that was the last thing he ever said to you.

You turned away from the window where the lights of the Capitol flickered, your gaze landing on Haymitch.

But tonight, there was something different in the air. Something you couldn’t ignore.

“You know, you should probably get some rest,” Haymitch’s voice broke through your thoughts, sounding gruff and low. He always sounded like that, like a man who had nothing to say and everything to hide. “Tomorrow’s going to be just as bad, if not worse.”

You didn’t respond right away. The bitterness in your chest kept you silent. The thought of sleep was almost laughable. The idea that you could shut your eyes without the images of Woodbine’s desperate face, his final moments, his panicked sprint through the square, that was just too much.

“I’m fine,” you said after a pause, your words quieter than they should’ve been, but there was a sharpness to it, a distance that even you couldn’t explain. “I’ll sleep when I’m dead.”

Haymitch’s lips tugged into a half-smile, eyes still on you. The silence between you stretched — full of unsaid things. He didn’t press, just sat there tense, like he was trying to care without letting it show.

“That might be sooner than you think,” he muttered, voice laced with sarcasm, but softer underneath.

You didn’t say anything after that. You didn’t have to. Haymitch had been Burdock’s best friend since forever — and by extension, yours. You’d grown up sneaking behind your brother’s footsteps, tagging along with the boys even when you weren’t wanted. But Haymitch had always looked out for you. Even now. Even here.

Especially here.

The Capitol stylists had stripped you down and rebuilt you in satin and shimmer. They’d tried the same with Haymitch, but he still looked like a boy from District 12 in borrowed armor. Tired. Angry. Unapologetic.

“How’s your hand?” he asked suddenly, his voice lower.

You looked down. The burn was healing — a stupid accident from trying to grab a hot plate too fast when your nerves had gotten the better of you. You weren’t as tough as the Capitol wanted you to look. And Haymitch had seen right through it.