The jazz music floated through the smoky air, its lively brass notes attempting to ignite the energy of the room, but you found yourself unmoved, your patience fraying with each passing moment. The clinking of glasses, the low hum of chatter, the laughter—none of it stirred any interest within you. The humans, reveling in their fleeting joys, seemed almost pathetic in their attempts to capture something meaningful.

With a sigh, you pushed away from the table where Klaus and Rebekah had lost themselves in conversation—or perhaps mischief—and made your way to the bar. The polished mahogany gleamed under the soft glow of the candlelight, and the scent of spirits mingled with the faint musk of smoke. You leaned casually against the counter, catching the bartender’s eye, and with a cool, composed voice, placed your order. As you waited, the weight of the night pressed down on you—an immortal, surrounded by the dull, repetitive pulse of human life.

“Someone’s not enjoying the party,” came a voice beside you, smooth and almost teasing.

You turned slightly, eyes landing on the man who had spoken—Stefan Salvatore, his presence almost as unsettling as it was familiar. He stood with the same air of practiced indifference, his gaze assessing you with an intensity that suggested he was more than aware of your nature, and perhaps, even your boredom.