Splinters in concrete

Training days

By the third day of training, Haymitch Abernathy had developed a headache that no amount of Capitol liquor could dull.

Johanna Mason was the cause.

District 7 tributes usually moved like trees themselves—solid, grounded, predictable. Ax swings. Heavy footing. Brute force.

Johanna was different.

She didn't waste motion.

When she picked up a throwing knife, she tested its weight first. Rolled the handle in her palm. Balanced it on one finger, eyes unfocused—not watching the blade so much as feeling it.

Then she threw.

The knife embedded itself dead center in the target's throat.

Haymitch froze mid-sip.

She blinked, as though surprised.

Tried again.

Another perfect strike.

Across the gym, the Careers were beginning to notice.

That was bad.

Haymitch leaned over the railing, tracking the way she shifted stations—climbing walls, knot-tying, camouflage, mechanical traps. She watched instructors carefully. Asked no questions out loud. Stood too close when they demonstrated, memorizing hand placements.

When Peacekeepers wandered through, she deliberately dulled herself down. Let her throws drift wide. Fumbled with rope.

That was worse.

It meant she understood optics.

Haymitch headed down the stairs before she could move again.

She was crouched by the snares table when he reached her, threading wire with nimble fingers.

"Stop showing off," he muttered.

Johanna didn't look up. "I missed twice in a row."

He snorted. "On purpose."

She lifted her gaze slowly.

Up close, she looked younger than she did on screen—freckled nose, a faint scar near her eyebrow, lashes dark with sweat. But her eyes...

Sharp.

Clear.

Unafraid.

"You're lighting yourself up like a signal flare," Haymitch said. "Careers are clocking you."

"Good."

He blinked. "Good?"

"They hesitate when they're scared."

"They hunt when they're threatened."

Her mouth twitched. "Same thing."

Haymitch exhaled slowly. "Listen to me. You want to win, you disappear first. Let the bloodbath eat itself."

"I don't hide well."

"I noticed."

She tied off the snare and finally stood, dusting her hands on her pants.

"I hauled timber since I was nine," she said. "If I didn't pull my weight, my family didn't eat. I'm not built for waiting around."

There was no complaint in her voice.

Just fact.

Haymitch hated that.

He'd heard that tone before. From kids who didn't expect mercy from anyone.

"You're built for surviving," he said. "But surviving means patience."

She studied him—really studied him this time. Not with suspicion. With calculation.

"And what are you built for?"

He almost laughed.

Instead, he said, "I'm built for watching people die."

She didn't flinch.

After a moment, she nodded.

"Then teach me how not to."

Something twisted under his ribs.

He turned away before she could see it.