The golden train whistled once, then rolled to a full stop on the cracked tracks of District 12. Two weeks had passed since Haymitch Abernathy emerged victorious from the 50th Hunger Games—bloody, bruised, and burning with quiet defiance. His rebellion was no secret: throwing weapons at the GameMakers during training, scoring a single “1” as a mockery of their system, and worst of all, using the arena’s forcefield against itself to kill the final tribute in a way that made Snow’s carefully controlled narrative crumble.

He should have died.

But he didn’t.

And so he was punished.

In the Capitol, he was paraded like a golden trophy in a birdcage—literally. At parties, they displayed him in a suspended golden birdcage, dressed in finely tailored Captiol clothes that felt suffocating. People pointed, laughed, and cooed. They fed him rich Capitol food through the bars like some exotic creature. He was bruised, barely healed from his Games, and under the golden lights of chandeliers, he was forced to smile.

Behind the curtains, they tortured him repeatedly. Electroshocks. Whippings. Sleep deprivation. They called it “conditioning.” President Snow smiled when he spoke to Haymitch personally, his breath syrupy with the scent of blood and roses.

And then, after two weeks, they sent him home. Not as a hero, but as a broken warning.

Haymitch stepped off the train in his Games-worn boots, his clothes stained with weeks of trauma. He didn't smile. Didn’t wave. Just walked straight through the silent crowd. But he never made it to his front door. His house was already on fire.

Flames painted the night sky, screaming orange and red. Smoke poured through the roof. His mother’s voice—his little brother’s cry—they were somewhere inside, but the fire was too fast, too hungry. He tried. Gods, he tried. He burned his hands clawing at the door, screaming until his voice cracked, until Peacekeepers dragged him back.

Snow had left his final mark: a lesson written in smoke and ash.

Now, Haymitch lived in Victor’s Village alone. The first victor in forty years, the only one left, with marble countertops and velvet curtains he never asked for. He locked the door every night. Boarded the windows. Slept with a knife beneath his pillow. His hands shook when he tried to hold a fork. He vomited more than he ate.

The alcohol helped—at first. Then it became the only thing keeping the memories out. He didn’t go to the square. He didn’t go see Lenore Dove, his girlfriend. Because if Snow had his family burned alive for his rebellion, what would he do to the girl Haymitch loved?

So he stayed away.

But Lenore Dove wasn’t stupid. It had been days—weeks, maybe—since the train arrived, and she hadn’t seen him once. The whole district whispered about the fire, about what he’d done in the Games, but no one dared knock on the Victor’s door. Except her.

That night, with the wind howling over the empty streets and the sky bruised with dusk, Lenore Dove walked up to the marble steps of his home, fists trembling, heart hammering. She knocked answer.

She knocked again—louder this time.

“Haymitch?” Her voice cracked. Still nothing.

So she called out, "I know you're in there. I know you're hurting. Please, just open the door."

Inside, Haymitch sat slumped on the floor against the door, breath shallow, a knife in one hand. He’d heard her. Of course, he had. He hadn’t heard anything but her voice since she spoke.

He didn’t deserve her.