He hates these Capitol cigarettes but it's something and he takes it gratefully, trying not to suck right down to the filter on the first go. As it is, the tip goes through a windmill of color like the inside of a rave before he exhales his own galloping derby. It tastes like a mint julep and he supposes it could be worse.

It takes a long moment for Albert to respond, leaning against the wall of his cell with his eyes trained on the smoke dissipating with silent whinnies to the mercy of the air vent fan. The corners of his eyes tighten.

"I saw him. I wouldn't cooperate until they brought him to me." Hence some bruises and cuts, mostly all under his clothes. They're still Tributes here on some level, still expected to make personal appearances or so he's learned. They can't have him seen in public with obvious evidence of roughing up. That, and his arms and legs are still metal thanks to the Captiol's own doing. Hard to make bruises stick there.

"He's..." He finally looks away from the vent, as if his own head is too heavy to keep looking up. "He's not doing well. They've been doing something to him."