(A/N:) After finishing Sunrise on the Reaping, I was left utterly devastated and heartbroken. In an attempt to process these emotions, I began writing this one-shot. I know I can never replicate Suzanne Collins' brilliant writing, and that is not my goal. Instead, this piece is my way of paying tribute to her artistry and the world she brought to life. I dedicate this story to Haymitch and to the burdens he's carried, the losses he's endured, and the unexpected victories he's found along the way.

There are spoilers for SOTR in this story, so please do not read it if you haven't finished the book or want to avoid any spoilers.

Disclaimer: I do not own the Hunger Games books, movies, or any of its characters, nor do I own any dialogue from the books.

Haymitch's POV-

The sun rises over District 12, spilling crimson and gold into the sky—an explosion of color so vibrant, so achingly beautiful, it feels like an open wound in a world too broken to heal. It's too pretty for a place like this, where ash coats the streets, where hunger gnaws at the bones and carves hollows into the faces of the desperate. The dawn mocks us with its splendor, as if beauty itself is apathetic to suffering. As if it has any right to grace a place like this.

Another Reaping. Another year of pain, as though I needed reminding. Happy birthday to me.

I begin my morning the same way I always do, my hand fumbling for a bottle of moonshine that offers nothing but temporary numbness. It cascades down my throat like molten fire; too harsh to savor, yet essential to survive the hours looming ahead. The burn is fierce. Familiar. One that I've learned to endure. Its acrid aftertaste remains long after I swallow, a bitter indication of how far I've fallen, of all the things I've lost.

In the solace of my bedroom, early light spills through the curtains, bathing the room in a warm, golden hue. The light dances across the walls, casting playful shadows that seem to tease the emptiness I feel inside. Outside, birds call to one another, their cheerful melodies weaving a tapestry of sound, a hopeful song of morning that seems so out of place. They welcome the day as though it could be like any other. But I know better. Today is anything but ordinary.

The people of the Capitol, of course, cannot comprehend what today truly means. To them, it's nothing more than another event, another chance to indulge their insatiable thirst for spectacle. They'll adorn themselves in elaborate costumes, as garish and excessive as their ever-expanding appetites. A day of anticipation, a day of perverse enjoyment. To them, it's a game. An ornate, glittering farce; and they will cheer, laugh, and revel in the cruelty, heedless to the torment that festers just out of sight, hidden behind the façade of their entertainment.

Today, twenty-four lives will be irrevocably changed. Twenty-four children will be chosen to fight for their lives in a brutal contest that offers nothing but misery and loss. The Capitol will applaud, the crowds will beam with delight, and those unfortunate kids will be slaughtered like lambs; sent to their deaths, oblivious to the true cost of the Capitol's warped amusement. While the Capitol basks in its pageantry, the weight of what's to come presses down on me, a heavy, blatant reminder of the tribulation that lies hidden beneath the glittering surface of their so-called celebrations.

Here in District 12, the narrative remains the same. A boy and a girl will stand before the Capitol, helpless, their destinies sealed by an inhumane twist of chance. Both victims of an uncaring system far beyond their control or comprehension. And me? I'm supposed to help them. However, no motivational speeches or hastily delivered words of advice from me can change their outcome. In the arena, survival is a fleeting illusion, one that will be proven with every violent moment they face.

Memories of past tributes cling to the district's overgrown fields, where their graves are scattered like spectral remnants of lives long lost. Each grave marker serves as a quiet testament to the ruthless nature of the Games and the crushed dreams of a world that has long since forsaken hope.

I know what the townspeople think of me. They whisper, judging me for drowning myself in alcohol, for seeking an escape from the pain. They think I could do more if only I cared enough. They believe that if I tried harder, District 12 might see another victor. They don't know the truth. The undeniable truth that no one here will ever win again. Not while Snow's iron grip wraps tighter every day, tightening like a noose around the necks of every last one of us. No amount of rebellion or defiance will change that. I know this better than anyone.

Names blur in my mind, faces fading with time and regret. My Ma, Sid, Maysilee, Wyatt, Louella, Ampert, Lou Lou, and countless others. They're gone, and every one of their deaths bears the mark of my failure. I feel their presence with me always. If I could go back, if I could change anything, I would save them all, even though I know that wish is just a pipe dream.

With another chug of the liquor, the biting vapor momentarily obliterates that thought, and I'm able to forget the horrors of my past. The sharp burn of the liquid is a welcome distraction, soothing the jagged edges of memories that relentlessly claw at my consciousness. The room around me dissolves into a whirlwind of radiant colors, swirling together like a painter's palette, as I am drawn into a soothing haze. This is the final refuge I have left, the only sanctuary from the persistent ache deep within that threatens to swallow me whole.

The hours slip by in a cloud of intoxication, each tick of the clock a warning that the moment I dread is creeping closer.

Eventually, the bells toll outside, their ringing piercing and relentless, reverberating through the town, urging the people to gather in the square. I try to rise, but my legs give out, my body refusing to cooperate. I collapse back onto the bed, the sheer burden of it all dragging me down against the worn mattress. It would be so easy to stay here, to let the peacekeepers come and take me away. No one would care. No one would notice my absence. No one would mourn the death of someone who had never truly mattered.

But then that old promise surfaces, the one I made so long ago; the one I told myself I would keep, even if I no longer believed in it. It's a thread of resolve, pulling me inch by agonizing inch toward something resembling action.

With arduous effort, I finally manage to stand, but as I strive to straighten my posture, my body betrays me once again, swaying like a fragile sapling caught in a turbulent wind. I lean heavily against a wall, the seconds stretching out interminably until I finally summon the strength to move. Grabbing the empty bottle of moonshine, I hurl it across the room, watching dispassionately as it shatters against the floor, scattering shards that gleam like diamonds in the light.

While most mentors would be carefully choosing their attire, preparing to present an image of dignity and grace, I can only manage a hurried change into clothes that are barely presentable—a dark, wrinkled shirt and frayed pants that hang loosely on me. My face will soon flash across numerous screens in the Capitol and the districts, but I owe no one the courtesy of appearing respectable for their sake.

The bells chime louder, their tones acting like an anthem, a final summons for the townsfolk to abandon their homes and converge in the square.

I leave my house and step into the austere glare of the midday sun, wincing as its blinding rays temporarily rob me of my sight. I stumble forward, colliding with clusters of people streaming past, only to be met with cold, icy glares. There is no warmth to be found in their eyes; I expected as much. I do not seek their sympathy, nor do I believe I deserve it.

It's been twenty years, but I can still see her...Lenore, her eyes alight with laughter, her smile genuine as I fed her those blood-red gumdrops. The memory clings to me like a curse, a ghost that refuses to release its grip. If only I'd seen it then, if only I'd known the truth behind that candy. Maybe if I had been sharper, if I had recognized the signs, or if I hadn't been so desperate to be close to her again, Lenore might still be here. She'd be laughing at me, telling me I worry too much, teasing me for never being able to let go of the past. We'd be sitting on a porch, a house of our own, the world quiet in the early morning, and it would still be whole.

Instead, all I have are these memories, and they choke me every day. I can still see Lenore's face, that moment when the joy drained from her eyes, when we started to realize too late that something was wrong. I can still feel her trust in me. How she believed I could protect her, keep her safe from everything, even from Snow's sick, twisted games. But I failed. I couldn't save her. Not from that.

If Lenore were here now, if she could see me as I am currently, broken and hollow, I know she'd turn away. She wouldn't recognize this version of me, the man who is just an empty shell, a ruined mess too afraid to face what he has become.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering,

fearing,

Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream

before;

But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no

token,

And the only word there spoken was the whispered word,

"Lenore?"

Lenore is gone, yet her name lingers like an eerie melody, a repressed refrain intricately woven into the fabric of my being. The townspeople tread lightly around her memory, as though speaking her name might stir her fragile spirit from its slumber. Even I hold my tongue, terrified that uttering her name aloud will shatter the delicate sanctity of her memory, precious and fragile as it is in this dim, oppressive world.

Silence overtakes me, but the ballad dedicated to her churns in my mind, its lyrics a poignant reminder of a love that once burned with the intensity of a thousand suns; intense, passionate, and all-consuming. A love torn away too soon, leaving only the echo of its absence. Every verse is etched into my heart, a tribute to the girl I loved and lost. The one who, like everything else good in this world, was ripped away by the Capitol's merciless hand.

As I draw nearer to the town square, my feet falter on the cobblestone streets. The square pulses with life, but it's the kind of life that feels like a slow, suffocating death. I hear people crying, commands being shouted by Peacekeepers, and the relentless grind of it all. It's the same every year. The same despair, and the same hopelessness.

At the center of it all is the stage, an eyesore draped with weathered banners praising the Capitol. Its gilded lies hang like a mockery overhead. I should be climbing those steps. I should be standing up there, doing my part, playing my role. But instead, I freeze. The sight of the children and teenagers standing before me, their bodies trembling at the thought of their grim futures, binds me in place. A chill spreads through my chest, a nagging certainty that nothing will ever change, that we are forever trapped in this cycle of depression.

This year, the burden feels worse than before. I am once again expected to guide two young souls through the hellish spectacle that awaits. The harrowing memory of last year's tributes, named May and Julius, left a profound dullness in its wake at their deaths. I wonder if I'll feel that same detachment again, or if this time, the reality will break through, cutting deeper.

Mentors are supposed to keep their distance, stay detached. Don't get too close to the kids, don't let them matter. But how can you stay indifferent when you're staring into the wide, innocent eyes of kids who look to you for help, knowing full well you're powerless to do a damn thing?

At the podium on the stage, the mayor drones on, his voice laced with authority as he recites the history of the Hunger Games. He speaks of its significance to society without acknowledging that it's a cruel sham, a ritual that reinforces the Capitol's control. But who among us would dare speak out? His words are worthless, meaningless, and I let them wash over me until he mentions the "honor" of District Twelve's victors, cueing my moment to step onto the stage.

I take a long, steadying breath, force my legs to move, and step up. The moment my feet hit the platform, my chest tightens, and I feel that familiar surge of nausea. I don't know what I'm trying to say, but the words spill out anyway, rushed and jumbled. When I finally sit down in the vacant chair that waits for me, I feel the weight of it all settle on my shoulders. I'm supposed to be here for these kids, to be their mentor. But all I feel is exhaustion.

The crowd erupts into forced applause, but I don't hear it. I don't see them. Instead, I see Effie in her ridiculous, colorful dress that is striking against the muted tones of the district's people. I move toward her, arms open, hoping for something, a sign that I'm not alone in this, but she stiffens, pulling away from my touch. I don't blame her. I've never been good at the whole "affection" thing.

I turn my gaze back to the crowd, dreading the moment the names will be called. My stomach churns. Which of these faces will be chosen this year?

Moments later, Effie takes the mayor's place at the podium, her smile bright but her words seeming to drift far from the realities of our struggles as she addresses the crowd with a rehearsed elegance. After delivering a speech that feels painfully out of touch with the common folk's plight, she reaches into the glass ball filled with the names of the district's girls. With a practiced flourish, she draws a name, and without a moment's pause, she declares, "Primrose Everdeen."

The name hangs in the air, and the square goes deathly still. A quietness settles over the crowd, broken only by the soft murmurs of disbelief and distress that ripple through the gathered masses. The sheer injustice of a twelve-year-old girl being reaped sends a wave of unease through the crowd.

The children step back reluctantly, revealing the girl in question. She tries to project an exterior of bravery, but the quivering of her lips and her frightened eyes betray her true emotions. Her blond hair is braided, the brassy tones the same as her mother's, and in that moment, I can understand the profound heartbreak that must be consuming Astrid as she watches her daughter face this unjust fate.

Just as the girl takes a few steps toward the stage, a familiar figure breaks through the sea of faces. It's Katniss, Primrose's elder sister, her brave spirit emanating from her as she strides forward with unwavering determination. Without a moment's hesitation, she reaches for the shaking girl, pulling her protectively behind her. Katniss's dark eyes flare with a burning intensity. Her courage stands out against the backdrop of fear, a bold declaration of love as she steps forward to volunteer in her sister's place.

My heart stirs with admiration for her audacity. How long has it been since anyone dared to stand against this system, to risk everything for someone they loved?

Effie exclaims with a flurry of words about the nuances of volunteering, her voice high and agitated, but the mayor's words silence her. He permits Katniss to stride to the stage, where the unforgiving glare of cameras awaits her. She is prompted by Effie to introduce herself to which she does. Effie requests everyone to applaud Katiness, but they do not. Rather than the applause that Effie anticipates, the crowd remains motionless, a heavy hush enveloping them as they raise their hands in a solemn gesture of respect, a tribute to Katniss's bravery that carries an air of defiance to the Capitol. I attempt to make the gesture, but the haze of alcohol dulls my mind, leaving my hand fumbling and uncooperative.

I stand up from my chair to approach Katniss, wanting to express how remarkable she truly is. She embodies everything that President Snow stands against, and that alone deserves recognition. As I draw closer to her, I see Louella reflected in her. The long braid, the defiant features...Katniss is a mirror of Louella's spirit.

"Look at her. Look at this one!" I holler while putting my arm around Katniss's shoulders. "I like her! Lots of..." I search for the right word to describe her, and suddenly it comes to me. "Spunk!"

"More than you," I add, releasing her to stride toward the filming crew, a smirk playing on my lips. "More than you," I conclude.

I stagger toward the cameras, my gaze fixing on one at random. The red light is blinking like a cold, unblinking eye, watching me with an intensity that pierces through my fogged mind. An overwhelming desire swells within me, a desperate need to surge forward, to break through that glass barrier and scream directly at the Capitol, to expose the atrocities they've inflicted upon us all. But the words remain lodged in my throat, heavy and unformed, as though they're bound by some unseen force. Before I can grasp them, before I can make sense of anything, I lose my balance. My legs betray me, and in a heartbeat, I tumble off the stage.

The ground rushes up to meet me, and for a fleeting moment, I barely register the harsh thud of impact. A swirling darkness encroaches around the edges of my vision, but amidst the disorienting swirl, one thought pierces through the murk with the precision of a lightning strike.

Katniss. There is something undeniably raw and untamed within her; a flame that flickers relentlessly, refusing to be extinguished no matter the storm she faces. A spark that remains unscathed, no matter the force hurled at her. I know with absolute certainty that the Capitol will stop at nothing to shatter her spirit, to break her into submission. They will throw every weapon in their arsenal at her, every ounce of their malice, yet I am equally certain that they will never, truly break her. I know with an unwavering conviction that just as the sun rises without fail every morning, so too will Katniss rise above it all, unyielding, untouchable, and unbroken.

(A/N:) Thank you so much for reading! I truly hope you enjoyed this story and that it resonated with you in some way. Writing it was a cathartic experience, and I'm so grateful for the opportunity to share it with all of you. If you liked it, feel free to leave a comment. I always love hearing your thoughts. Until next time, take care!