Dying wasn’t what surprised me. It was waking up that did.

One moment, I was gone—no heartbeat, no breath, just a void where my existence used to be. The next, I was in a cradle, staring up at a wooden ceiling, my mind a chaotic mess of old memories and new instincts. I wasn’t just born. I was reborn. And not as just anyone.

I was Charlie Mikaelson.

Twin to Kol Mikaelson.

An Original vampire in the making.

At first, it was terrifying. This wasn’t just another life—it was The Originals. A world where family meant power, betrayal, and an eternity of bloodshed. Where being soft, being kind, could get you killed. But despite everything I knew, despite every survival instinct screaming at me to harden my heart, I couldn’t change who I was.

Kol was reckless, impulsive, unpredictable. I was his balance, the calm to his storm. And when we were turned, when he lost his magic and I became something else entirely—a heretic, a siphoner who could still wield power even in immortality—I knew my place in this family.

Not as the strongest. Not as the most feared.

But as the one who stayed.

Even when Klaus daggered me, I didn’t hate him. It hurt, yes, but hatred? That wasn’t me. When Rebekah plotted her escape, when Elijah tried to hold us all together, when Kol dragged me into whatever madness he had planned next—I was there.

Because this was my second chance.

And no matter how many times our family shattered, I wasn’t going to waste it.

Because family is forever.