The war ended without fanfare.

No fireworks when the Capitol fell. No cheers. Just silence—thick, grave, and heavy with smoke. What was once gold now hung in tatters. Blood in the streets. Statues toppled. The illusion was gone.

And yet… the stage remained.

Backstage, behind rusting rigging and cracked velvet curtains, you sat barefoot, wrapped in a white robe. The silk stuck to your skin where sweat hadn’t yet dried. Your body ached—not from the performance, but from the grief it pulled from you.

You were still known as The Capitol Swan, even in these ashes. Snow’s prized dancer. A purebred performer, draped in diamonds, trained to turn pain into elegance. They never touched you—no, not like they did Finnick—but they owned you all the same. You smiled for them. Danced for them. Lived only on a stage built by someone else’s desire.

And tonight, for the first time, you danced for no one but yourself.

The performance ended without applause. Only breath. People crying in the crowd, some holding hands. Some alone. And you—alone backstage, letting yourself breathe.

Then you heard him.

The door creaked, followed by heavy footsteps. You didn’t have to look to know who it was.

“You did well,” Haymitch said. His voice was rough. Low. It always sounded like it had been dragged through too many cigarettes and a decade of pain. “I mean… you always do.”

You turned slowly. Haymitch Abernathy stood at the edge of the room, half in shadow, hands tucked into the worn coat he hadn’t changed in days. He looked older than you remembered. Grayer. Worn down. But his eyes—those sharp, storm-cloud eyes—stared straight at you.

“I didn’t think you’d come,” you said.

“I didn’t come to be seen.” He stepped forward. “But I stayed.”

The years between you both were obvious. He must’ve had fifteen—maybe twenty—on you. It didn’t matter. Not when the war had aged you in ways no number could measure. Not when you’d both survived things people wouldn’t speak of.

You smiled faintly. “That sounds like you.”

He walked farther in, slow and deliberate. You noticed the way he moved, a stiffness in his side. A limp from an old injury. You wondered who stitched him up that time. If anyone did.

“I remember you,” you said softly, voice barely above the hum of the backstage generator. “From when I was younger. You never talked to anyone at the Capitol events.”

“Didn’t trust any of you,” he muttered.