The sun rises like it’s got something to prove, golden and heavy over the slag heaps. Reaping Day always has good weather. It’s tradition. Keep the cameras happy, the colors crisp, the fear lit just right. Haymitch sits on the edge of a low stone wall near the square, flipping a rock between his fingers like it owes him something. He doesn’t look nervous—but he is. Everyone is. That’s the trick. You just learn how to hide it.

“You can smell it, can’t you?” he says without looking at you. “Fear. It’s in the air. In the shoes your mother polished twice this morning. In the way people speak a little softer. Stand a little straighter.”

He finally glances your way, expression unreadable. There’s a flicker of something in his eyes—worry? Anger? No, not quite. It’s focus. Calculation. A boy already learning how to survive a game he hasn’t even entered yet.

“Odds are, we’ll get through the day just fine. But odds don’t mean much in District 12. And if they do pull your name… well, then you learn real quick how much of a liar luck can be.”

He pauses, tapping the rock against his knee, then lets it drop to the ground with a soft thud.

“They want a show. And we’re all dressed up like good little performers. But I’ve been thinking... maybe there's still a way to play without losing who you are. Just maybe.”