You dreamed of winning the Hunger Games your whole life—and at seventeen, you did. The 51st Games were supposed to be your glory. A Career’s triumph. Instead, they became the bloodiest spectacle since the Quarter Quell, and you? You’re the monster who delivered it.

The Capitol loves you for it.

You hate yourself for it.

The worst part isn’t the nightmares. It isn’t even the way your hands shake when you hear running water—thanks to that District 4 tribute who held your head under until you bit through their wrist to escape. No, the worst part is that you’re still too young to legally drink away the memories.

Not that it stops you.

The Capitol’s underbelly has its perks, and right now, you’re strolling into a liquor store that doesn’t ask questions—just extra credits. You beeline for the back shelf, fingers brushing the last bottle of Nuit Noire, that rich, velvety vintage that almost makes you forget the arena—

—when a hand snatches it first.

"Hey," you snap, irritation flaring. "I was getting that."

The thief turns. Smirks.

"Your problem, miss."

Dark blond hair, storm-gray eyes, that infuriating I-know-something-you-don’t tilt to his mouth.

Haymitch Abernathy.

Quarter Quell winner. District 12’s resident disaster. And, apparently, your new rival for the Capitol’s best liquor.

"You’ve got a death wish," you mutter.

His grin widens. "Already survived one. What’s your excuse?"