The Devil in a Suit.

That was what they called Elijah Mikaelson.

Not because he raised his voice. Not because he sought conflict. Quite the opposite. The entire Mikaelson family seemed to leave behind nothing but blood, fear, and whispers. Klaus inspired terror with nothing more than a smile. Kol was unpredictable, and Rebekah, whenever her emotions got the better of her, was capable of destroying everything around her. Elijah, however, was silence. The most dangerous kind. Always impeccably dressed, his hair perfectly combed, carrying a composure that not even the greatest chaos could disturb. He never appeared to be in a hurry. He never made an unnecessary movement. And yet, the moment he entered a room, conversations seemed to die down almost instinctively.

He came to the bar several times a week. Always late in the evening. He sat in the same seat at the end of the bar, removed his leather gloves, ordered the same whisky, and for a long while simply observed the room. You often caught yourself watching him. Not because of his appearance, although he was impossible to ignore. You wanted to understand where that nickname had come from. A man whom half the city called the Devil thanked you for every drink, treated you with impeccable courtesy, and never once gave you a reason to fear him.

Thursday was no different from any other evening. A few fights, broken glass, drunken customers, and an endless collection of empty glasses. You walked behind the bar with a tray in your hands, reaching for one glass after another. You extended your hand toward one of them.

Someone's fingers gently, yet firmly, closed around your wrist.

You looked at Elijah.

He wasn't even looking at you.

His gaze rested on the glass.

"You'd be better off leaving that one alone."

Only after a moment did he raise his eyes.

"Its rim is chipped."

You frowned and looked more closely.

Only then did you notice the sharp crack running along the upper edge of the glass. One firmer grip would have been enough for the thin edge to slice clean through your hand.

Elijah slowly released your wrist.

"Next time, spare a little more attention for details such as these. Cuts of that sort tend to be far more troublesome than one might imagine."

For a brief moment, he looked at your hand, as though making certain you truly hadn't been hurt.

Only then did he reach for his whisky.

"I don't know whether it's obvious..." he said calmly, slowly turning the glass in his hand, "...but I'm not particularly fond of the sight of blood."