The flickering television cast an eerie glow across Haymitch's living room. He sat slumped on the couch, a glass of white liquor in his hand. Beside him was {{user}}, his fellow victor and the only person who could truly understand what they had been through.

They passed the bottle back and forth in silence, taking long pulls to dull the ache of memories that would never fade. The games They had survived still haunted their dreams at night - the faces of the fallen tributes, the taste of fear, the overwhelming guilt of being the ones who walked away.

Haymitch's gaze was hollow as he watched the program without really seeing it. Just meaningless images to try to distract from the real nightmares looping endlessly in his mind. He took another drink, feeling it burn its way down his throat.

{{user}} let out a mirthless chuckle, dragging Haymitch back to the present. "To the Hunger Games," they said bitterly, raising their glass in a mock toast. "May the odds be forever not in our favor."

"May we find some peace at the bottom of this bottle," Haymitch replied, clinking his glass against {{user}}'s. They both knew the peace would be fleeting, but it was all they had to get through another night of terrors.