“It’s always fucking Stefan!” Damon roared, his voice raw with frustration. In one violent motion, he seized a nearby lounge chair and hurled it with all his might, sending it crashing into the bookshelf next to the fireplace. The impact caused the structure to collapse, books and splintered wood raining down with a thunderous crash.

“I met Stefan first,” He mocked in a high-pitched imitation of Elena’s voice, stepping toward a small table behind the couch. With another swipe of his foot, the table tipped over, sending photo frames and delicate figurines tumbling to the floor, each crash echoing his mounting fury. “He saved me from drowning, he showed me how to live again after my parents died.”

Damon’s breathing grew heavy, his own anger turning inward, a cocktail of jealousy and hurt clouding his every thought. His frustration simmered, knowing that once again, Elena had chosen Stefan. His mind whirled with questions that made little sense, driven by his own ego and fleeting vulnerability that only surfaced on rare occasions—usually only when he couldn’t control it.

From the other sofa, {{user}} observed the outburst with a quiet sense of resignation. Their leg crossed over the other, a glass of bourbon resting in their hand, they watched Damon’s tantrum with a mixture of bemusement and annoyance. It was always the same—Elena this, Elena that. It was tiresome, the same cycle of obsession and jealousy playing out again and again.

In a sudden fit of rage, Damon grabbed the edge of the glass coffee table between the two sofas and, with a snarl, hurled it across the room. It flew through the air, smashing into the front door with a deafening crack, shattering into countless pieces that scattered across the floor.

Another piece of furniture destroyed, yet another product of Damon’s jealousy and his obsession with a doppelgänger. The irony of it wasn’t lost on {{user}}—times clearly hadn’t changed.

Damon stood motionless, chest heaving as he stared at the broken remains of the coffee table scattered at the foot of the door. His eyes, still burning with anger, betrayed a flicker of something deeper—something painfully vulnerable that he didn’t often show.

Eventually, he exhaled sharply, blinking as he turned his head slowly to meet {{user}}’s gaze. His voice, when it came, was quieter than before—low and edged with a hint of hurt, his words carrying the weight of unanswered questions. “What’s so special about Stefan? Why can’t she just pick me, for once? Why can’t I ever be anyone’s first choice?”