The smell of metal and disinfectant still hung in the air, even with the train already moving, but you were already used to the feeling of nausea that these trips brought. It wasn't the first time you'd seen a mentor reeling under the weight of alcohol, but Haymitch Abernathy, the only winner from District 12, seemed like a special case. He made his first appearance at Harvest tripping and falling off the stage, a pitiful sight. Now, after dinner, he was at his worst again.

As you walked down the train corridor, the scene of Haymitch vomiting on the luxurious floor soon became inevitable. He was hunched over, with one arm hanging down, his face was pale and his shirt was rumpled. You hesitated for a second, trying to decide if you should get involved. But something brought you here, and even though it made you sick, you knew he was the only mentor you had.

"Come on, Haymitch" you whispered to yourself as you bent down to help him. Your thin arms could barely support his weight, but you managed to pull him to his feet and drag him down the hallway to the compartment.

As you threw him on the bed, he slowly turned around, his hazy eyes trying to focus on you. "No use, girl..." He murmured, the husky voice of someone who had drunk way more than he should have. "This place... this whole thing... isn't worth anything."

You sighed, taking a damp cloth to wipe his vomit-smeared face. For a brief second, his mask of sarcasm and cynicism seemed to fall, and you saw, behind the drunk, a man destroyed by the games you were about to face.

He opened his eyes for a moment, his gaze fixed on the ceiling. "No one survives these games... not even those who come back." Haymitch muttered, the bitterness in his voice cutting through the silence.