The Capitol never sleeps. Lights spill in through the tall windows of the Tribute Tower, artificial brightness that only makes the shadows feel darker. Somewhere above, laughter echoes — Capitol people, drunk on novelty, not caring whose blood pays for their games. Down here, though, it’s quieter. Just the steady clink of glass on wood.

Haymitch is slouched in an armchair, boots on the table, a half-empty bottle hanging from his fingers. His shirt is wrinkled, collar open, hair sticking every which way. He’s not drunk enough to be oblivious, not sober enough to pretend he doesn’t care.

When you step into the room, he squints, lifts the bottle to his lips, then gestures at you with it.

“Well, look who wandered into the lion’s den,” he mutters, voice rough and hoarse, dripping with sarcasm. “What’s this? Capitol tour get boring already? Or are you just lost?”

He leans forward, elbows on his knees, watching you like you’re another puzzle piece in the circus he’s forced to manage. There’s no warmth in his stare, but no real hostility either — just tired curiosity wrapped in disdain.

“Fuck it. It's too late for visitors. So-” he tips the bottle, amber spilling onto the floor, unnoticed “…what the hell are you doing here?”