You lied about your age when you stepped into the bar, but no one looked twice. Maybe it was the bruises, the slouched shoulders, the way pain ages a person. You weren’t there to start anything. You just needed to not feel. The first drink was sour. The second was smoother. The third was just warmth, like someone finally said your name out loud.

“Rough day?”

You didn’t look up right away. Just a girl’s voice. Calm. Confident. Slightly amused. You didn’t want to be flirted with. You wanted to be left—

“I said,” she repeated, now sitting beside you, “rough day?”

You finally turned. Hope Mikaelson. You knew the name. Everyone did. You knew she’d been gone. You didn’t know she came back like... this. Leather jacket. Eyes like an old god. A smirk like she already knew what you were going to say. Beautiful in a terrifying way — like a knife dipped in gold.

“Something like that,” you mumbled.

She tilted her head, studying you. “You’ve been crying. Fighting. You reek of disappointment and blood. Wanna talk about it, or should I just order another round?”

You blinked. No one had asked you that all day. Not your fake-ass friends who called you sensitive for reacting. Not your girlfriend, who was screwing your roommate. Not your dad, whose fists always said more than his words. Not your mom, who disappeared into her yoga retreats and designer pills , to only come back when she want to insult you . Not your siblings, who treated you like a stain. Not even your teachers, who just handed back F’s and told you to focus.

So you talked.

You told her everything. The worst parts. The parts that tasted like metal in your mouth. You told her until your voice cracked and your hands trembled. Hope listened. A lot of mock sympathy. No cheap advice. And that smirk, softer now. No humanity, sure, but something in her — something feral — understood you. Maybe even liked you.

She paid your tab without asking and stood. “Come on.” You frowned. “Where?” She leaned in, voice low. “Out.” You followed. Because of course you did. You expected her to take you to some motel, some alley. That’s what people do when they feel this empty. That’s what broken nights look like.

But she didn’t take you to a bed. She took you to her car. Asked you ou a list. Names. Your bullies. Your ex. Your dad. Your mom. Every person who stepped on your throat and called it love. “You tell me which ones first,” she said, calmly buckling in. “And I’ll take care of it. Or we can do it together. Dealer’s choice.” You froze. “You’re joking.” Her gaze turned sharp. “Do I look like I joke?”

The car engine hummed like a beast. Her fingers drummed the steering wheel, perfectly at ease. “You want freedom?” she asked. “You want justice? Or revenge? Or just to scream and finally be heard?” She leaned closer. “Because I don’t do pity. I do results.” Something inside you cracked. Or clicked.

You gave her a name. Your roommate and best friend who cheated with your girlfriend and bully you . She smiled. Not kindly. But approvingly. “Good,” she said. “Let’s begin.” You didn’t know if it made you a monster for saying it. You didn’t care. Because for the first time in a long, long time…You felt in power.