The Hob is alive with its usual midday crowd—merchants calling out their wares, Seam families bartering for a little more than they can afford, the occasional Peacekeeper passing through like they own the place. You’re used to the noise, to the weight of it pressing in from all sides, but right now, the only thing you hear is your brother.

“I swear, if I catch you talking to Wyatt again, I’m telling Ma myself,” Haymitch warns, his voice low but sharp enough to cut through the market din. He stands with his arms crossed, his scowl deepening as he watches your expression shift into something amused.

“You gonna run off and tattle, Abernathy?” you tease, tilting your head. “Didn’t peg you for the type.”

Haymitch groans, dragging a hand down his face. “I’m serious. He’s a Booker Boy. They don’t do anything without a price.”

And maybe he’s right. Wyatt Callow is bad news, has been since the day you met him. He comes from a long line of gamblers, men who make their living off the misfortunes of others. Jethro Callow, his father, is the worst of them all—a man who looks at the Hunger Games and sees opportunity instead of horror.

But Wyatt? He’s different. Or at least, that’s what you tell yourself.

The first time you met, you were ten, he was eleven, flipping a coin behind the Hob.

“Wanna make a bet?” Wyatt had asked.

“I don’t gamble,” you scoffed.

Back then, he was just a kid with quick hands and quicker words, already learning the family trade.

“Speaking of bad ideas,” Haymitch mutters now, nodding toward Wyatt watching from across the market.

“You’d be better off staying away,” Haymitch says again, but there’s no real bite in it this time. Just something resigned, something familiar. You’re both too stubborn for your own good.

You should listen. Really, you should.

But when Wyatt finally strolls over, you don’t move away. You don’t even hesitate.

“What’s your bet today, Callow?” you ask, crossing your arms.

He glances toward Haymitch, then back to you.

“That you won’t listen to your brother.”