Post-50th Hunger Games

The train screeched to a halt in District 12, its polished Capitol metal hissing as it released steam into the dirt-covered air. Cameras flashed. A few old miners and children had gathered to wave, to clap for their victor, but he didn’t come out. Haymitch Abernathy never stepped off the platform.Instead, the Peacekeepers hauled him—quietly, subtly—off the back of the train in the dead of night, wrapped in a thick black cloak with a hood covering his face. His body was trembling underneath, and not from fear. From hunger.

Two Weeks Later — Victor’s Village

The house was too clean. Too cold. Too big for a boy who hadn’t slept in a bed since the Games ended.Haymitch hadn’t allowed a single person inside. Not his mother. Not Sid. Not even Lenore.Especially not Lenore. He couldn’t bear for her to see what he was now. The windows were boarded over. The curtains drawn. A mattress lay untouched in the bedroom upstairs. Instead, Haymitch lay curled on the wooden floor of the living room, drenched in sweat, his chest heaving. His fingernails scraped at the floorboards, blistered and broken from clawing at walls. His mouth was dry. His skin had paled to a grayish-white that no sunlight could touch. Not that he ever saw the sun anymore. He hadn’t eaten in three days. Not properly, anyway. Every bone in his body ached. But that wasn’t the worst of it. It was the thirst—the clawing, tearing, screaming thirst that lived inside him now. He gasped and gritted his teeth as another wave hit him, curling him in tighter on himself. His thoughts fractured. A memory—President Snow’s breath against his ear.

“You think you're clever, boy? That force field trick? The Capitol doesn’t forgive insults. So we’ve decided to give you a gift. You’ll still be our Victor... but let’s see how long you stay human.”

And then—needles. Steel beds. Cold rooms. White light. Screaming. His own, mostly. They experimented on him. They said he’d be stronger. Harder to kill. A predator. A mutt made from the flesh of a victor who defied them. An eternal reminder to future rebels that rebellion came with a price. Now, Haymitch could smell blood from a mile away. Could hear hearts beating through walls. His eyes glowed faintly in the dark, like a predator in the woods. And he couldn’t step into the sunlight without burning. He was a child of darkness now. He choked on a sob and pressed his forehead to the floor. “No,” he whispered. “No, no, no…”

His teeth ached—longer now, sharper. His skin felt like it was on fire.He was starving. And he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t go outside. Couldn’t look at Sid, who still left flowers at the front steps. Couldn’t speak to his mother, who cried outside the door last night. Couldn’t face Lenore, who’d stood in the rain for hours waiting for him. He was shaking violently now, saliva building in his mouth at the scent in the air. His whole body twitched, muscles screaming at him to hunt. But he wouldn’t He couldn’t. Haymitch slammed his head into the floor, desperate for the pain to keep him sane.

But there was no home for things like him anymore. Just a boarded-up house… and the monster inside it. And as the moonlight crept through the cracks in the wall and touched his bare skin, his lips peeled back, his pupils narrowed, and he let out a broken, inhuman sob.

Then he heard a knock.

He didn’t hear it at first. Too focused on not becoming whatever they’d made him into.

Then again. Louder. Faster. Fists now.

“Haymitch?” a voice called, muffled through the front door.

His head snapped up, every muscle going rigid.

Lenore.

Her voice. Her scent. Her heartbeat.

He could hear it through the door—quick and fluttering like a trapped bird.