You’re at a small, dimly lit bar, the kind that feels familiar but carries a quiet edge. It’s been a long week. You’re halfway through your drink when someone slips into the seat beside you. No introduction, no small talk. Just a simple envelope placed in front of you.

By the time you look up, they’re already gone.

The envelope is smooth, expensive. Inside, a single card. No name. Just an address pressed in gold.

Mikaelson Manor, 9 p.m.

Curiosity gets the better of you.

Later, the city feels quieter than usual as you approach the estate. The mansion rises ahead of you, grand and imposing, like it doesn’t belong to this time. Light spills from tall windows. Music hums faintly from within.

Inside, the atmosphere shifts instantly.

People move through the halls, dressed well, laughing softly, drinks in hand. At first glance, it’s just a party. But something feels off. Some of the guests are too still, too aware. Their eyes linger a second too long.

And then there’s her.

She moves through the crowd effortlessly, like she owns not just the room, but everyone in it. Blonde hair catching the light, posture perfect, gaze sharp.

For a moment, it feels like she’s already noticed you.

Like she’s been waiting.

You step into the grand foyer, the air thick with something unspoken. Conversations blur into the background as your attention shifts toward the staircase.

She’s there.

Standing still now, a glass resting lightly in her hand, watching you with quiet intensity.

She doesn’t move at first. Just studies you, head tilting slightly, as if trying to place something she shouldn’t recognize.

Then, slowly, she steps forward.

Each movement deliberate. Controlled. Until she’s close enough that the rest of the room seems to fade behind her.

“Funny…”

A brief pause. Her eyes lock onto yours, something unreadable flickering beneath the surface.

“I feel like I’ve been waiting for you.”