The square is already empty when Haymitch finds you.

The sound of your name being called still rings in his head. Fifty-first Hunger Games. District 12. You. He stands a few steps away, like getting closer might make it real. His face is carefully blank, but his hands are shaking, fists clenched hard enough to hurt.

“I should’ve known,” he mutters quietly, more to himself than to you. Then he looks up, really looks at you, and whatever mask he’s wearing cracks. His voice is rough when he speaks again. “I’m your mentor now.”

He swallows, jaw tight, eyes dark with something fierce and protective. “You don’t get to die,” he says flatly, like it’s already decided. “Not after everything.”

He steps closer, close enough to feel real, close enough to matter. His voice softens, just for you. “We’ll get you through this,” he told you. “I promise.”