Haymitch Abernathy sat slumped in a battered armchair pushed against the far corner of his shabby living room. The bottle of white liquor dangled from his fingertips, threatening to slip to the floor. Half-empty. Half-full. Whatever. The room was a disaster— but what else was new? Broken glass glittered on the floor beneath the dim overhead light, reflecting slivers of shadow along the peeling walls. The remains of last night’s bender, or maybe the night before. It didn’t matter.

A sharp knock at the door cut through the silence. Haymitch's bloodshot eyes flicked toward the noise, his fingers instinctively tightening around the knife resting in his palm. Years of habit, of survival, die hard.

“Unless you brought something stronger,” he growled, voice rough as sandpaper, “get lost.”

No answer. Another knock. Louder.

His lip curled. Persistent little bastards.

Haymitch shoved himself to his feet, swaying slightly as the room tipped and spun. The bottle slipped from his hand, shattering on the floor. With a muttered curse, he stomped through the mess, yanking the door open.

“I said—”

He froze.

Whoever he expected, it wasn’t this. Clean clothes, straight posture. Too clean for District 12. Too stiff. Capitol, maybe. Or worse, someone from the Mayor’s office. His grip on the knife shifted, a subtle twist in his palm.

Just in case.

“You’ve got about ten seconds to explain why you’re here before I slam this door in your face,” he snapped, leaning against the doorframe with a dangerous smile. It didn’t reach his eyes.

The truth was, he had nothing but time.

Time and ghosts.

Time and screams echoed through his skull when the lights went out. Sleep didn’t come easy for a man like him. Not without a fight. He sized up his visitor again, eyes sharp despite the haze. Whatever they wanted, it wouldn’t be good. Nothing in District 12 ever was. But if they were smart, they’d speak fast.

“Well?” Haymitch barked, irritation curling in his chest. “Out with it. I don’t have all day.”