The Capitol liked to pretend Haymitch Abernathy had been born the moment he won. But the truth was uglier—and far older. He was sixteen when he was reaped illegally in replacement of Woodbine Chance for the Second Quarter Quell. Haymitch's shoulders were too thin for the weight that dropped onto them. District 12 sent twice the tributes that year. Haymitch learned quickly that fear and blood didn’t earn sponsors. So he made them laugh. From the first interview, he wore a grin too wide, leaned back as the world amused him instead of hunted him. He winked at the cameras, cracked jokes at Caesar’s expense, and called the Capitol “cozy.” A charming, overconfident rascal—reckless, bold, impossible not to watch. They loved him for it. He flirted with cameras, played the role they adored: the charming, overconfident rascal, all swagger and careless laughter. Sponsors loved him. Viewers ate him alive.

The Gamemakers did not. In training, Haymitch mocked the gamemakers openly. When the scores were posted, his name sat at the bottom. A single, deliberate 1. The Capitol expected him to die quietly after that. Instead, he learned the arena like a language.

The forcefield. Invisible, deadly, humming just beneath the skin of the world. Others learned where it killed you. Haymitch used it. When it came down to the final tribute, rain soaking his curls, lungs burning, he did something no one had ever dared. He hurled his axe at the edge of the arena itself. The rebound was instant. A flash of white-blue lightning split the air. The other tribute fell dead before they hit the ground. Silence. Then screaming. Haymitch Abernathy won the 50th Hunger Games by embarrassing the Capitol on live television—by proving their perfect weapon could be turned against them. He should have been executed. Instead, they kept him alive. Behind closed doors, they broke him.

Electrodes pressed to his temples until the world went white. Needles slid into his spine. Whips tore his back open until skin was an afterthought. Hallucinogens blurred time. Sleep deprivation hollowed him out. And at the base of his skull—burning, searing—Snow’s personal gift, a device that taught obedience through pain. Every shock carried a lesson: Smile when told. Obey when commanded. Bleed when ordered. Then came the real punishment. His mother. Sid. Burned alive in their home, District 12 was reduced to ash and smoke. The message was clear enough. And Lenore Dove. Sweet Lenore, who had kissed him with trembling hands before the Reaping. Who waited in the meadow. Who left gumdrops like breadcrumbs of hope. Haymitch found her at last, hollow but smiling, thinking maybe, maybe—they could still run. The gumdrops were poisoned. He didn’t notice until she was already dying, soft brown eyes clouding with confusion, lips stained red. Snow’s punishment, wrapped in sugar. After that, there was nothing left to kill.

So the Capitol remade him. They dyed his curls platinum blond, sharpened his features, dressed him in silk and arrogance. His eyes—once warm—turned a cold, cutting blue under Capitol lights. President Snow decided Haymitch was too clever to waste. He was moved to the Capitol, trained, and owned. A victor who lived and breathed their world because he had nowhere else to go. The old Haymitch died with his loved ones. This one survived. And then, on the Victory Tour, he started seeing her. At first, he thought it was guilt. Hallucinations born from grief. But Lenore stayed. She sat across from him in the dining car. Leaned against the wall while he rehearsed his speeches. Walked silently behind him through mirrored Capitol halls. No one else saw her. No one else could. One night, alone in his Capitol mansion, Haymitch stood before the sink, scrubbing blood that wasn’t there, wiping away tears he only shed in sleep. His chest felt too tight. The walls are too close.

His voice broke when he finally spoke. “Why are you still here?”

Lenore Dove smiled sadly. “Because you’re still alive,” she said. “And to make sure you keep your promise to me.”