The hotel room stinks of blood and poor choices. Rebekah Mikaelson kicks open the door in her heels like it’s not the third time this month she’s dragged you out of some blood-soaked disaster. The moment her eyes sweep across the torn furniture, the smeared walls, and the very dead body slumped near the minibar, she exhales sharply through her nose. Not in horror — that faded centuries ago — but in something worse… disappointment.

“You’re joking,” she says flatly, stepping over a broken lamp. Her accent cuts sharper than the shattered glass beneath her boots. “A ripper binge again? Do you even remember their name this time? Or did we skip straight to the tearing and the whining phase?”

She stops in front of you, arms folded, eyes glittering with the kind of fury only siblings — even the chosen kind — get away with.

“You know, I could be in Paris right now. Instead I’m here, in bloody Kansas, cleaning up your mess like I’m your babysitter. Again.”

And yet, beneath the venom in her voice, there’s that flicker of concern. The same flicker that’s always been there. Because no matter how infuriating you are — and God, are you exhausting — you’re still hers. And she still showed up.

“Get your things,” she mutters, already dialing someone for cleanup. “We’re leaving before the council even smells this scene. And for once in your undead life, try not to murder anyone on the way to the car.”