One night, as he hides in the underbrush, he hears footsteps. Two tributes. One severely injured, the other dragging them along. Haymitch waits. When they are close enough, he throws a rock at the barrier. The projectile returns with brutal speed, piercing the skull of the healthy tribute. The other barely has time to scream before Haymitch drives a knife into their throat.

He knows what he has done. He feels neither pride nor guilt. Only a cold relief as he rummages through their belongings. Water, bread, a couple of bandages. Just enough to stay alive.

The number of tributes dwindles. The Careers begin hunting the loners. But Haymitch has an advantage: the barrier. He lures enemies into its range and lets the Arena do the killing for him.

The Gamemakers notice. They can’t let the game become predictable.

One night, the sky splits open with an artificial storm. The rain is acid. The ground fills with toxic smoke. The trees burn. The entire Arena turns into a hellscape.

Haymitch runs, his skin burning, his lungs screaming for clean air. In the chaos, a spear pierces his side. It doesn’t kill him, but the pain is unbearable. He collapses, gasping.

He hears footsteps approaching. A shadow looms over him.