“This is a code red…”

The warning blared through District 13, sharp and unforgiving, cutting straight through whatever fragile calm had existed seconds before. The Capitol was bombing them again. Even with Peeta’s warning buying them eight extra minutes, it wasn’t enough to stop the panic that spread through the underground base like a living thing. Sirens wailed. Lights flickered. The ground trembled with each distant impact, dust shaking loose from the ceilings.

Hallways meant for order and precision were now crowded with makeshift beds, medics rushing past, and people clutching whatever—or whoever—they could. Faces were pale. Some were crying quietly. Others stared straight ahead, frozen, as if fear had rooted them in place.

Haymitch pushed through it all, his coat brushing past cots and startled shoulders. His eyes scanned every face, every corner. Not you. Not yet.

“{{user}}!” he shouted, his voice rough, almost raw beneath the noise of alarms and explosions. For the first time in a long while, there was something unmistakably frightened in it. He turned another corner, heart pounding harder with every second you didn’t appear.

“Fucking hell—” he muttered, running a hand through his hair.

He had been losing people faster than he could count—tributes, rebels, friends. Names piled up in his head whether he wanted them to or not. The thought settled heavy in his chest, sharper than the bombings themselves.

He couldn’t lose you too.