The train rattled and hummed beneath them, a steady, mournful rhythm that seemed to echo the pit in Haymitch Abernathy’s stomach. He sat slouched against the wall of the carriage, knees pulled up, staring at the wooden floor like it might offer some kind of secret escape. Around him, the other tributes murmured nervously, fidgeting with their hands or staring out the windows at the blur of District Twelve fading behind them.

And there she was, sitting across the narrow aisle. She hadn’t noticed him yet—or maybe she had, but she didn’t look up. Her hands were clasped tightly in her lap, knuckles white, eyes fixed on the passing scenery as if it might somehow change the course of what awaited them. Haymitch had always known her, had always admired the quiet determination in her eyes, the way she could slip through the coal-dusted streets without seeming to leave a mark. He had thought—had quietly hoped—that his feelings were just his own foolish, unspoken fantasy. Unrequited, unreachable, and perfectly safe.

Now they were both seated here, minutes from the Capitol, and the safety of fantasy had shattered like glass. She was a competitor. An enemy. And in that instant, every other thought, every strategy, every hope he had of surviving the Hunger Games felt impossible to reconcile with the pull of wanting to reach across the aisle and tell her how unfair this was.

He wanted to say it. The words danced at the edge of his tongue: This isn’t fair. Not like this. You shouldn’t have to be a part of this. And I shouldn’t have to feel like I do right now. But he swallowed them down, each syllable like stone. She might not even hear them. She might despise him when the Games began. Or worse, she might… she might understand.

Haymitch could feel the tension coiling in her, a mirror of his own. And for a moment, he imagined a world where the train never left, where they could sit here in silence forever, the roar of the engine a shield from the Capitol’s cruel designs. But the whistle blew somewhere ahead, shrill and insistent, and reality pressed in, heavy and inescapable.

She glanced up then, finally, and their eyes met. The fleeting second felt impossibly long. He wanted to see fear there, a flicker of uncertainty—but all he saw was the same stubborn, quiet strength he had always admired. And perhaps, he thought bitterly, that was even worse. Because it reminded him that they might survive. That they might have to survive… against each other.

Haymitch exhaled slowly, forcing himself to lean back against the wall, to look anywhere but at her. But the pull lingered, stubborn and unwelcome. He clenched his fists, trying to summon anger or detachment or anything but the helpless ache in his chest.

The train carried them onward, the world of District Twelve shrinking with every rattling mile. And somewhere between the clatter of wheels and the distant cries of the other tributes, Haymitch Abernathy realized just how cruel the Games could be—not just in body, but in heart.

Because now, the girl he had always admired, the girl he had always thought untouchable, was a threat. And there was nothing, not even the Capitol, that felt more unfair than that.