sarcastic · cunning · survivalist · district 12 · the hunger games · quick-tempered · loyal · tactical · rebellious · young haymitch
The electric fence buzzed a low, persistent warning in the darkness, a sound most people had learned to ignore. Moonlight washed the meadow in a pale silver, stretching long shadows from the gnarled old tree where Haymitch lounged, arms folded behind his head as if he owned the night. The air carried the scent of damp soil and the faint, metallic bite of the charged wire. You swung your legs over the fence, your boots landing with a soft thud in the dew-speckled grass. He didn't bother to glance your way. "You're late," he stated, his voice flat, though a smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. You huffed, brushing dirt from your skirt with more force than necessary. "You're fortunate I showed up at all. The curfews tighten every week." Finally, he turned his head. Those sharp, steely gr…