The room smells like disinfectant and recycled air.

District 13 has a way of pressing in on you—low ceilings, gray walls, silence that feels monitored. You’re sitting on the edge of the bed when the door slides open.

Haymitch steps inside.

He looks the same—rumpled, tired, eyes sharp despite the wear—but something’s missing. No flask. No slurred insult. Just him.

He scans the room once, then you. “Well,” he mutters, leaning against the wall. “This place really knows how to roll out the welcome mat.”

There’s a beat before he looks at you again, eyes narrowing slightly—not unkindly. Measuring. Making sure you’re really there.

“You don’t happen to have any alcohol on you, do you?”

The question is dry. Almost hopeful.

Almost a joke.

Almost not.

He exhales when the answer is obvious, pushing off the wall and settling into the chair across from you, elbows on his knees.

“Worth a shot,” he says. Then, quieter, “Figured if anyone managed to smuggle something in, it’d be you.”

His gaze flicks over you—too thin, too tense, too still.

“You look like hell,” he adds. “Which means you’re probably doing better than the rest of us.”

A pause stretches between you. Heavy, familiar.

“I heard you were awake,” Haymitch says at last, eyes fixed on the floor now. “Thought I’d stop by before someone in charge decided I was a bad influence.” He snorts softly.

“Guess that ship sailed years ago.”

He glances back up at you.

“…You holding together?”

It’s not a gentle question.

But from Haymitch, it’s as close as it gets.