Chapter Text
Haymitch Abernathy stood in the blistering heat of the square, the coal dust sticking to his skin like a second layer. The sun glared overhead, merciless, painting the entire district in harsh shades of gray and sweat. The day was too bright, too loud, and yet all he could hear was the sound of his own heart beating.
Seventeen today. His birthday. What a joke.
That morning had felt heavier than any other. He remembered his little brother, Sid, shoving something into his palm before the sirens sounded. “It’s for luck,” Sid had said, his voice trembling, even though they both knew luck never came to District 12. It was just a fraying red string, tied into a knot with the clumsiness of a ten-year-old’s fingers, but Haymitch had tied it around his wrist anyway.
Their mother hadn’t said much—she never did—but the way she’d hugged him before they left for the square made something twist in his chest. Her arms were tight, desperate, like she knew something he didn’t want to admit. “Stay safe, Mitch,” she whispered, her voice already cracking.
He didn’t answer, because there was no promise he could make.
Now, standing among the rows of grim-faced boys, he adjusted the string on his wrist like it might actually help him, like maybe it was stronger than fate.
He scanned the crowd automatically, his gaze pulling like a magnet until he found her.
Karma Delvine.
Sixteen. Brave. Beautiful. Stubborn to the core. Her coal-dark hair was braided tight, her sky-blue eyes fixed on the stage, refusing to look anywhere else. She hadn’t looked at him once all morning.
It still hurt. The fight they’d had the night before played on repeat in his head like a song he couldn’t stop. She’d walked away before he could say what he wanted to—what he should have said.
That he loved her.
The Capitol escort, with his lime suit and sickly sweet smile, tapped the microphone.
“Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be ever in your favor! Today is an historic day—the 50th Hunger Games, our glorious Quarter Quell! Four tributes will be chosen from each district!”
Gasps rippled through the crowd. Murmurs. Shock.
The square buzzed with disbelief. Haymitch felt his chest tighten.
“Ladies first,” the escort sang.
The sound of paper rustling made his jaw clench.
“Milla Fenn!”
The girl—only fifteen, rail-thin, with tangled brown hair—cried as she walked to the stage.
The escort reached for the next name.
“Karma Delvine!”
The world stopped.
Haymitch’s stomach lurched as if someone had knocked the air out of him. His hands clenched at his sides, nails digging into his palms.
Karma froze for just a second, her breath catching, but then she straightened. One glance at her family—her sisters already sobbing—and she stepped forward, each movement stiff but deliberate.
Haymitch couldn’t take it. Couldn’t breathe.
His mind spun in a blind panic, the knowledge crashing into him like a hammer:
“Now for the gentlemen!” the escort announced cheerfully.
Haymitch’s feet were moving before his brain caught up.
“Volunteer,” he muttered, shoving his way forward. His voice was low, shaky at first.
Peacekeepers stepped into his path, but he pushed harder, his voice rising, sharper now. “I volunteer!” he yelled, voice cracking.
“No!” Karma’s scream tore across the square. She spun around on stage, her face pale, eyes wide and wet. “No! Haymitch—don’t—”
He looked at her, chest heaving. He was shaking but he forced his voice to steady, even though it felt like the ground was dropping out from under him. “I can’t let you go in there alone.”
Her lips parted like she wanted to speak, but no sound came. She shook her head, tears streaking her face, pleading silently as the Peacekeepers grabbed his arms. She fought them with her voice, her sobs carrying across the square. “Please, no—don’t take him!”
The Peacekeepers dragged him forward, and he stopped fighting them only when he reached the stage. He brushed her hand briefly, grounding her—grounding himself—because the truth was burning through him now. This means I’m going to die. There was no coming back from this. But if Karma had to go, she wasn’t going alone. He wouldn’t let her.
The escort returned to the bowl with a flourish. “And our second young gentleman is... Jerel Tate!”
Sixteen year old, Jerel stumbled forward, Haymitch’s eyes flicked briefly toward the crowd. He saw his mother holding Sid tightly, both of them crying. Sid’s small hands clutched at their mother’s dress, his face buried in her side, while his mother’s eyes stayed locked on Haymitch. She looked gutted, terrified, like she already knew she was about to lose another piece of her family.
The Justice Building loomed like a gravestone, cold and hollow, swallowing Haymitch and the other tributes as soon as the cameras cut. The heavy doors slammed behind him with a metallic clang that rattled through his bones.
They shoved him into a small room with whitewashed walls and a single table. It was meant to be a place for goodbyes. Meant for tears and whispered promises. He hated it already.
Minutes dragged by until the door finally opened. His mother stumbled in, Sid clinging to her hand so tight his knuckles were white. She looked smaller than he remembered, thinner, her dark hair streaked with gray and pinned back like she’d tried to look proper for this day—like that could help anything.
“Mitch,” she breathed, her voice cracking on his name.
Before he could say anything, Sid broke free and ran straight into his arms. “Don’t go!” Sid’s voice was shrill, panicked, as if his big brother could simply choose to stay if he begged hard enough.
Haymitch sank to his knees, hugging Sid so tightly he felt the boy’s ribs under his arms. “Sid… hey, look at me.” He gently tilted Sid’s face up, brushing away the tears streaking his cheeks with calloused thumbs. “I gotta do this.” His voice cracked, and he hated it. “I have to. For her.”
Sid’s lip trembled. “You’ll die.”
The words slammed into him like a punch. He swallowed hard, forcing a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Not if I fight. Not if I play it smart. You hear me? You gotta believe I’ll come back.” He tapped Sid’s chest with a finger. “But if I don’t…” He hesitated, throat tightening. “You gotta be strong for Mom. Promise me that.”
Sid shook his head violently, fresh tears pouring down his face. “No! I want you here! I want—”
Haymitch hugged him again, hard enough to hurt, because he couldn’t think of anything else to do. “I love you, kid,” he whispered.
His mother’s hand landed on his shoulder, trembling. When he stood, she pulled him into a hug so fierce it felt like she was trying to memorize him. She smelled like soap and coal dust, the scent of home.
“You’re all I have left,” she whispered against his ear. “Don’t let them take you from me too.”
Haymitch’s throat burned, but he nodded, even though it was a promise he didn’t know how to keep. “I’ll try, Ma.”
The Peacekeepers stormed in then, their boots stomping against the floor. “Time’s up.”
Sid clung to Haymitch’s leg, screaming, “No! Don’t take him!” as they pulled them apart. Haymitch reached out, fingers brushing Sid’s hair one last time before they wrenched him free.
“Sid! Be strong for me!” Haymitch yelled as they dragged him down the hall. His voice cracked again, echoing off the sterile walls.
The next few moments blurred—his boots scraping against the ground, the Peacekeepers’ iron grip on his arms, and the dull weight of reality pressing into his chest.
Before he knew it, they were hauling him onto the platform. The train to the Capitol waited like some monstrous thing ready to swallow them whole. He twisted his head once, just once, to catch a final glimpse of his mother and Sid outside the building, their faces pale and stricken.
Then the Peacekeepers shoved him inside, and the doors slammed shut.
Karma didn’t look at him once.
Haymitch didn’t blame her.
The train was too clean. Too soft. Too full of things that didn’t belong to people like them. The seats were velvet. The lights didn’t flicker. The air smelled like lemons and nothing.
Dinner was silver dishes and Capitol smiles.
Haymitch didn’t touch the food.
He sat at the end of the long table, head bowed, arms crossed, jaw locked. Karma was three chairs down. Close enough to feel, not close enough to touch.
She didn’t look up.
Neither did he.
But every time she shifted—every time she moved her hand or reached for her glass—he knew.
He always knew her.
Later, they were led to their rooms. Gently. Quietly. Like children being sent to bed after a funeral.
The door clicked shut behind him.
Locked.
Haymitch stood in the middle of the room, staring at the spotless bed, the untouched clothes, the polished floor.
There was a bottle on the nightstand.
Capitol liquor. Clean label. Clear. Strong.
He didn’t hesitate.
He uncorked it, dropped into the corner chair, and drank straight from the neck until his throat burned.
Then he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, eyes unfocused.
And he cried.
Their mentor was named Tavrin.
He saw everything. Sat at the end of the breakfast table, arms crossed, leaning just slightly forward, eyes scanning like a hawk waiting for the weakest one to stumble.
But he didn’t focus on the youngest. Not on Milla. Not on Jerel.
He watched Haymitch.
Then Karma.
Then back again.
His mouth twitched, just barely, into something that wasn’t quite a smirk. More like understanding.
“Something I should know about?” he said finally, voice rough from decades of Capitol smoke. His eyes flicked between the two of them. “You two got history?”
Karma didn’t answer. Her shoulders went stiff.
Haymitch said nothing either. His hand paused on his glass. He didn’t look up.
Tavrin raised an eyebrow. “Look, I don’t care what it is. Sweethearts, enemies, unfinished business—whatever. If there’s something between you, we can use it.”
Karma’s head turned sharply.
“No,” she said, quick. Too quick.
Tavrin didn’t flinch. “You sure? Capitol eats that kind of story alive. The tragic lovers. The long-lost bond. I’ve seen it before. You’d have sponsors lined up if you leaned into it—”
“I said no.” Her voice cracked this time. Not loud. Just… off.
Tavrin tilted his head. “Right. Of course.”
She didn’t realize how hard her hand was gripping her fork until her knuckles went white.
“There’s nothing between us,” Karma muttered, not looking at anyone. “Whatever we were, we’re not anymore.”
It was the kind of lie that didn’t even try to be convincing. The kind that stumbled on the way out. Brittle. Empty. Like if she said it hard enough, often enough, she might actually believe it.
No one at the table did.
Certainly not Haymitch, who still hadn’t looked up.
Still hadn’t said a word.
Karma’s throat tightened.
She stood, napkin falling from her lap onto the floor.
“If you’ll excuse me, I’m not hungry.”
She turned and walked out of the dining car with quick, quiet steps—like the moment might explode if she stayed another second.
Behind her, Haymitch finally exhaled, low and bitter, pressing the heel of his palm to his temple.
Tavrin leaned back in his seat and muttered under his breath, just loud enough for Haymitch to hear:
“Thought so.”
_
Karma didn’t flinch when the Capitol people pressed closer. She didn’t react to the roar of the crowd or the gleaming tower that rose like a blade in the sky. Her eyes were fixed forward. Jaw locked.
Like if she moved, the ground might crack open beneath her.
She barely noticed the guards on either side of them, or the way Milla clung to Jerel’s sleeve behind her, or how Cordella kept saying things like, “Stunning!” and “Such potential!” like they weren’t four kids marching toward slaughter.
What she did notice—what she couldn’t not notice—was the warmth of Haymitch’s hand brushing against hers for half a second as they stepped off the train.
It was gone now. But it lingered like a burn.
The doors of the tribute center opened with a hiss.
Inside was marble. Crystal. Velvet carpet. It didn’t look real. It didn’t feel real. It felt like a set on a stage someone had forgotten to dismantle. Too much white. Too much shine.
Too clean to be a place where children die.
They were led down a long hallway. Cordella chattered the whole way about stylists, prep teams, and the honor of being selected. No one responded.
Karma’s limbs felt stiff. Her chest tight.
She didn’t look at Haymitch. Couldn’t.
She knew if she did, she might lose whatever grip she had left on her composure.
Because the train didn’t kill her. The escort didn’t kill her. The crowd didn’t kill her.
But he might.
One word. One glance. One apology.
She didn’t think she’d survive it.
They were shown to a central room lined with couches and sleek windows that overlooked the Capitol skyline. Too high to jump from, Karma thought distantly.
Tavrin finally spoke.
“You’ve got thirty minutes to settle in,” he said. “After that, you meet your prep teams. Stylists come after. Then the interviews start prep tomorrow. You’re tributes now. Act like it.”
His voice wasn’t cruel. It was worse.
Detached.
Karma sat on the farthest couch, tucking her legs under her carefully. Her hands were trembling again. She clenched them together.
Haymitch didn’t sit.
He stood by the window, arms crossed, watching the sky like it had answers.
She glanced at him—just once.
Just enough to see the bruise-colored hollows under his eyes, the stubborn set of his mouth, the way he didn’t meet anyone’s gaze.
And something in her chest ached so hard she had to look away again.
Karma was taken through one hallway.
Haymitch was taken through another.
Jerel and Milla split off behind them.
It was designed that way.
Isolation first.
Then humiliation.
Karma was led into a room brighter than the sun, all white marble and sharp corners, like being dropped into a snow globe that hated her.
And then they descended.
Her prep team.
Three of them, all Capitol-born and dripping with sequins, dyed hair, and the kind of forced smiles that felt like they belonged on wax statues. She didn’t catch their names—she didn’t care. They touched her too much, too quickly, all hands and fake pity.
“Oh, look at her skin! Gorgeous! But so dry—oh, the Districts—”
“No polish on the nails, no serum in the hair—honestly, what are they doing out there? Raising animals?”
“Stand still, darling, we need to de-fur you!”
She flinched hard when one of them reached for her sleeve, and the woman actually giggled. “Oh, shy! That’ll sell beautifully on camera.”
Karma bit the inside of her cheek until she tasted blood.
She let them strip her. She let them scrub her. She let them smear her with creams and scrape at her legs and pluck at her eyebrows like she was something broken that needed fixing.
She didn’t say a word.
Not once.
Not even when the stylist entered—grander, quieter, with lips the color of rubies and sharp, observant eyes. The room hushed at their presence. They circled Karma once. Twice.
Then: “We’ll leave the scars.”
The prep team blinked. “But—”
“She earned them. We leave them.”
Karma breathed—barely.
Down the hall, Haymitch was putting up a fight.
They tried to wax him, and he nearly broke a chair.
One of the stylists laughed. “Oh, he’s got fire. That’s marketable.”
He spit mouthwash into a silk sink and muttered, “You try sleeping on a dirt floor and see how well you exfoliate.”
They didn’t like him much.
But they cleaned him up.
They gave him new clothes. Tight. Expensive. He looked in the mirror once, and hated it.
Karma stepped out of the elevator, escorted by a Capitol woman who reeked of lavender and praise. The lobby was quieter now—dimmed lights, no stylists buzzing around just yet. Just the hush before the next storm.
She stood there, perfectly groomed and perfectly still, arms folded tightly across her chest. Like a statue made of steel and spite.
Her skin still tingled from the burn of the scrubbing. Her scalp ached. Her legs were bare under the sleek Capitol cloth they’d draped over her like an afterthought. But none of it stung quite as much as knowing he’d be here too.
Then the elevator dinged again.
Haymitch stepped out.
Clean.
Hair pushed back. Shirt crisp and dark, collar high. His face was still his, somehow—sharper maybe, but not lost yet. The Capitol hadn’t managed to scrub the bitterness out of his eyes.
And the second he saw her—he stopped.
His breath caught. It was small. Almost invisible.
But she heard it.
“Karma,” he said, low.
It wasn’t a question.
It wasn’t an apology.
It was just her name. Soft. Like it was the first time he’d let himself say it out loud since the reaping.
She didn’t look at him.
Her shoulders twitched, her spine locking like a steel trap. Her throat closed. The sound that escaped her was so faint she barely recognized it herself—a whimper. Quick. Unintentional. Vulnerable.
She crushed it.
Swallowed it like poison and pressed her mouth into a hard, silent line. Her eyes stared straight ahead. Through him. Past him. Into nothing.
Haymitch stepped closer. Not too close. Just enough.
“I—” He started again, voice cracking ever so slightly. "I'm sorry..."
He looked down. Then away. Then tried again. “I didn’t sleep last night. I—”
“Don’t,” she said.
It was one word. Small. Shaken. But final.
She didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t turn her head. But the tremble in her hands gave her away.
Haymitch’s mouth opened. Closed. No more words came out.
They stood there like that for a moment—two broken halves of something that used to be whole, dressed up like tributes, pretending they didn’t still belong to each other.
Then the door at the end of the lobby opened.
“Chariots are ready!” someone called, chipper and unaware.
The stables beneath the Capitol smelled like metal and nerves.
Haymitch stood in the dim light beside a tall black chariot, already harnessed to a pair of genetically modified white horses that looked more sculpture than animal. Their coats shimmered faintly under the glow of the sconces, heads held unnaturally high. The Capitol couldn’t help itself. Even its horses looked unnatural.
He adjusted the collar on his stylized uniform—not that it helped. The fabric itched, high-necked and sleeveless, exposing the new scars he’d collected just from prep. The whole outfit shimmered coal-black, with glints of embers down the arms and ribs, like he’d been forged instead of born.
Beside him… Karma.
They matched.
Not identical, but close—her outfit a dark, sculpted silhouette with subtle red threading down the spine and collarbone, catching the light like veins full of molten gold. Her hair had been braided back off her face, a single glowing ember pin tucked behind her ear.
She looked radiant. Unreal.
And untouchable.
Haymitch hadn’t said a word to her since the lobby.
She hadn’t looked at him since.
“Alright, sweethearts!” their stylist beamed, snapping the final clasp on Karma’s shoulder strap. “You’re going out last. Save the best for the end, yes? Make a statement.”
They were ushered up into the chariot.
Karma stepped first.
Haymitch followed.
The platform was high and cold. The crowd roared outside—miles of Capitol people screaming for blood and beauty. Cameras hovered on drones, buzzing like insects ready to catch every blink, every flinch.
The chariot wheels creaked. The horses pawed the ground.
Karma stood tall beside him in the chariot, body rigid, eyes locked straight ahead as the glowing tunnel of the Capitol stretched out before them. She didn’t wave. Didn’t smile. Didn’t blink. Just kept her hands clenched at her sides so no one could see how badly they shook.
She was fire and stone, armor polished to perfection. But inside?
She was breaking.
Not because of the Capitol.
Not because of the crowd.
But because of him.
Because he was beside her again.
And she was scared.
Every breath was a battle.
Every flash of light reminded her this wasn’t a dream. That this was happening. That she might have to watch him die, and the thought of that was louder than any of the Capitol cheers.
She hadn’t looked at him since they stepped onto the chariot. Couldn’t.
If she looked at him, she’d lose whatever fragile grip she had left on her composure.
But then—
Haymitch shifted beside her. Not much. Just enough to angle his head slightly, the way he did when he was trying to find his voice.
And softly—too gently for the Capitol noise to catch—he said:
“You look beautiful.”
Her breath caught like a punch to the gut.
And before she could stop herself—before the ache in her chest could collapse into a sob or an admission or a desperate “you too”—
She slapped him.
It wasn’t hard. Not really.
But it was sharp. Sudden. Real.
His head turned with it, not out of force, but out of shock.
He looked at her. Really looked at her.
And for the first time since the reaping, their eyes met.
Her face was still, but her eyes—God, her eyes were full of something unbearable. Not anger. Not hate.
Fear.
Fear and love and heartbreak pulled so tight together they couldn’t be separated.
She turned her face forward again instantly, jaw clenched. Shoulders locked. The crowd roared louder now, like they thought it was part of the performance.
Haymitch didn’t move.
He didn’t touch her. Didn’t speak again.
But his chest rose like he was holding something in, something sharp.
And he stayed quiet.
They rolled on through the tunnel of fire and cheers, side by side.
Two statues. Two survivors.
Two kids in love who didn’t have the luxury of saying it out loud.
The air outside the chariot tunnel was cooler, quieter—buzzing only with the low drone of cameramen packing up and Capitol officials barking orders through glitter-covered earpieces.
The tributes had just dismounted. Milla was shaking. Jerel looked like he’d throw up. But Karma? Karma was walking ahead like her spine was fused with steel. Like the slap never happened. Like nothing touched her.
And Haymitch followed a step behind, fists curled, silent as smoke.
They were halfway up the marble steps toward the private entrance when Tavrin finally caught up to them, boots clacking on the stone.
“Well,” he said, half-laughing, “That was something.”
Haymitch didn’t look at him.
Tavrin smirked. “Slap was a nice touch. Really sells the unresolved tension angle.”
Karma froze mid-step.
Haymitch stopped, too.
Tavrin stepped up beside them, eyeing Karma with amusement. “So what’s the story, little lady? Lovers? Enemies? Estranged soulmates about to fall back into each other’s arms and then bleed out on the same patch of dirt? Come on, I need to know which way we’re spinning this.”
Karma stayed stone silent. Eyes ahead. Not flinching.
Haymitch turned his head slowly.
“Shut up,” he said flatly.
Tavrin raised an eyebrow, clearly not taking it seriously. “Hey, I’m on your side here, kiddo. I can sell anything. Even heartbreak. Especially heartbreak. But I gotta know—are we leaning in, or do I keep the tragic tension just below the surface? The Capitol loves that—”
“I said shut up.”
Haymitch’s voice was louder now. His jaw was locked. Something dangerous in his posture.
Tavrin still didn’t back off.
“You want sponsors or not?” he snapped. “I can get you funded, Abernathy. You think they’ll send you medicine because they like your personality? They want a show. And if you two keep playing this ‘angsty soulmates on fire’ thing, I can—”
Haymitch punched him.
Fast. Brutal. One clean blow to the jaw.
Tavrin stumbled back, catching himself on the rail, a flash of blood from the corner of his lip.
Silence fell.
Cameras had turned—quick, efficient. A few Capitol bystanders gasped. But someone else—somewhere deeper in the crowd—cheered.
A burst of laughter. A few more shouts. Applause.
Then came the whirrr of a drone camera locking onto Haymitch’s face.
Karma turned away—fast—before anyone could catch her face.
Tavrin stood slowly, rubbing his jaw with a bitter chuckle. “You just gave them exactly what they wanted, kid.”
Haymitch stared at him, chest heaving.
_
He stood outside her door for a full minute before knocking.
The hallway was silent, all gold trim and soft lights, but his heart was pounding loud in his ears. He could feel the sweat at the base of his neck. The sting in his knuckles. The warm, bitter burn of Capitol liquor still curling low in his gut.
He’d taken three swigs before coming here.
Four, if he was honest.
Not enough to forget.
Just enough to steady his hands.
The bottle hung from his fingers now, half-empty and glowing faintly under the hallway lights like it was mocking him. Everything in the Capitol glowed. Everything except her.
He knocked once.
Soft. Barely a sound.
A few seconds passed.
Then the door creaked open.
And there she was.
Karma.
Hair still braided, cheeks flushed from too much scrubbing. Wrapped in one of those soft Capitol robes, pale and shapeless, like she hadn’t changed or moved since the world stopped turning.
She didn’t speak.
Just looked at him.
Her eyes locked on his—those stupidly bright blue eyes with flecks of gold that always saw through him, no matter how good he got at hiding. And he hated how much he needed her to look at him like that again. Like he was still him underneath all of this.
He tried to smile. It didn’t work.
His voice caught in his throat before it even came out.
All he could think was please don’t shut me out.
Please not tonight.
And then—she stepped back.
No words. No sighs. No dramatic gesture.
Just one small, quiet motion.
She let him in.
Haymitch held his breath as he crossed the threshold, afraid that if he moved too fast she’d change her mind. He didn’t let himself look too hard at her. Didn’t let himself reach out.
The door clicked shut behind them.
They stood there a moment.
Still.
Both of them just breathing.
It hit him like a hammer—being this close to her again. The way her presence anchored him, even in the middle of all this chaos. Even now, when death was practically scheduled.
He clutched the bottle tighter.
“I shouldn’t be here,” he mumbled, voice rough, low.
But what he meant was I can’t be anywhere else.
He turned his head slightly to look at her—not directly, just enough to catch the outline of her face in the moonlight through the window.
God, I’m gonna lose her.
The thought gutted him.
Because it wasn’t if, not in his mind. Not really. He’d done the math a hundred times already. He didn’t have a plan. He didn’t have a future.
But she did.
She had to.
So maybe—just maybe—if he fought hard enough, stayed close enough, smart enough, brutal enough—he could buy her a few extra hours. A few extra days. Just enough time to make it to the end.
He didn’t expect to win.
But he would die making sure she did.
Even if she never forgave him.
Even if she never looked at him the same again.
Even if this night was the last quiet moment they ever got.
He glanced at the bed. At the silence sitting heavy between them.
Then at her again.
“You want me to go?” he asked, barely above a whisper.
He didn't breathe when she stepped toward him.
Didn’t move.
Just stood there like a man on the edge of something deep, watching her as if the slightest noise might send it all crashing down. She didn’t speak. Didn’t look angry. Just… tired. Hollowed out by fear and silence.
And then—her fingers brushed his.
She slid the bottle from his hand, slow and careful, like she was touching something sacred. His fingers resisted for half a second out of instinct, but he let go. Let her take it. Let her take something.
Karma lifted it to her lips and took a long, desperate pull—like she needed the fire just to stay upright. Like it might burn a hole clean through everything she was holding inside.
Haymitch watched her throat move as she swallowed.
When she set the bottle down on the nightstand, the clink of glass against wood sounded louder than it should’ve.
Then her hands were on him.
Both palms cupping his cheeks. Her thumbs trembling. Her touch warm and shaking all at once. He froze, breath catching hard in his chest, his hands hovering uselessly at his sides.
And then she looked at him.
Really looked.
Their eyes met and didn’t break.
And her tears came.
Not quiet this time. Not hidden. They spilled freely, trailing down her cheeks, glinting in the low light, soaking the corners of her mouth and jaw and hands. She didn’t try to stop them.
Haymitch felt something crack so violently in his chest he thought it might kill him.
He reached up, finally, slowly—one hand settling gently over hers, the other just barely touching her wrist like he couldn’t believe she was real.
“Karma…” he whispered.
But he didn’t finish the sentence.
Because what was left to say?
They were here.
Together.
Doomed.
And still holding on like fools.
His forehead dropped to hers without thinking. A soft thud. Eyes closed. His breathing shallow and ragged as hers.
Their foreheads stayed pressed together for a long time.
Neither moved.
Haymitch was holding her wrists now—not tight, just steady. Grounding. Like if he let go, the world would start crumbling again. Karma’s tears soaked the space between them, slick and warm against his skin.
And then, finally… she spoke.
Her voice was cracked. Barely a breath.
“I’m scared.”
He didn’t flinch. Didn’t interrupt. Just breathed. Waited.
“I keep pretending I’m not,” she went on, her voice cracking in new places, like pieces of her were breaking as she spoke. “I thought if I didn’t say it out loud, maybe it wouldn’t be true. That if I stayed quiet enough, still enough, brave enough... I wouldn’t feel it.”
She pulled in a shaky breath. “But I do. I do, Haymitch. I’m scared of dying. I’m scared of the pain. I’m scared of waking up every day and knowing it’s one less we get. And I’m scared of you seeing me like this—like I’m weak.”
She pulled her hands away from his just long enough to press her palms to her face, wiping tears that wouldn’t stop. Her next words were a sob.
“I didn’t want you to see me fall apart.”
He reached for her again.
Slow. Careful. But with no hesitation.
His hands cupped her face this time, thumbs brushing fresh tears away as he finally looked at her—not like a tribute. Not like a symbol. But like the girl who once laid in the grass with him and talked about what kind of food they’d never get to taste.
His voice was low. Steady. Certain.
“You’re not weak.”
Karma’s lip trembled.
“You’ve never been weak. Not once. You’re the strongest person I’ve ever known, Karma.”
He leaned in, forehead pressing to hers again, softer this time.
“And I’m not gonna let them kill you.”
Her breath caught.
“I don’t care what I have to do. Who I have to lie to, hurt, bleed for—” his voice dropped into something ragged, shaking now “—I’m gonna make sure you win this.”
That broke her.
It was a clean crack, like glass finally giving under pressure. Karma let out a sob so full of grief it hurt to hear. She wrapped her arms around his neck, buried her face in his shoulder, and cried like she hadn’t since the reaping.
“I don’t want to win if I have to lose you,” she choked out. “I don’t want you to die, Haymitch. I can’t lose you.”
His arms tightened around her instantly, pulling her in so close it felt like he was trying to shield her with his whole body.
The Next Morning –
The room was gleaming white marble, too bright, too cold. Everything Capitol-designed to look elegant and clean—like this wasn’t a place where children were being sorted for slaughter.
Karma sat stiffly beside Haymitch at the long curved table. Their hands weren’t touching, but their knees brushed under the table once. Neither moved.
Cameras lined the walls. Red lights blinking. The Games hadn’t officially begun, but the show already had.
Their mentor Tavrin sat at the end, one eye on the camera crews, the other on the door.
Then it opened.
And everything stopped.
President Snow entered the room with the gliding ease of someone who had never known fear. His white suit made the blood in his teeth look brighter. He smiled like he always did—slow, soft, practiced.
“Good morning, tributes,” he said, voice oily-smooth, echoing slightly. “And welcome to the 50th Hunger Games—our second Quarter Quell.”
Haymitch swallowed hard, his jaw clenching.
Karma kept her eyes forward, back straight, pulse thudding in her throat.
Snow walked behind the tributes’ chairs, trailing his fingers lightly across the tops of them like he was admiring fine animals in a stable.
“We know what the Quell means,” he went on. “Twice the number of tributes. Twice the tragedy. And perhaps… twice the opportunity.”
That’s when he stopped walking.
Right behind Karma and Haymitch.
He placed one hand on the back of their shared seat, eyes gleaming.
“This year, as a special celebration of our nation’s strength and unity, the Capitol will offer something… unprecedented.”
The room stilled.
The camera drones leaned in. You could feel the Capitol audience holding their breath through the screens.
Snow’s smile widened.
“For the first—and only—time in Hunger Games history… two Victors may be crowned.”
A pause. A heartbeat. A shiver down the spine of every person at the table.
“But only,” he added with that venom-sweet edge, “if they are both from the same district.”
Karma’s breath hitched.
Haymitch’s fingers twitched against the table.
The drone camera zoomed in close enough to catch the shared look that flickered between them—a flash of fear, of disbelief, of hope—before they both looked quickly away.
Snow straightened again, brushing nonexistent lint from his sleeve. “Let the Games begin.”
And then he was gone.
Just like that.
The second the doors closed behind him, Tavrin barked a dry laugh.
“Well.” He stood, brushing his coat off like it had collected dust. “Looks like the show’s been upgraded.”
Neither Karma nor Haymitch said anything.
Tavrin raised an eyebrow. “You two hear that, yeah? You’ve actually got a shot now.”
Karma’s throat was dry. Her heart pounded in her ears.
She had a chance.
They had a chance.
A tiny, terrifying, real chance.
Tavrin clapped his hands together once. “So. You might want to start acting like it. Audience eats that shit up. And now that there’s a prize on the table?” He gave them a pointed look. “Trust me. They’re gonna want to believe in a love story.”
Haymitch didn’t even blink.
He reached under the table and gently, deliberately, took Karma’s hand.
She let him.
And her fingers curled back around his.