The Salvatore School was quieter than {{user}} expected.

Not peaceful—never that—but contained. Like all the chaos had been taught to sit properly in its chair. The halls were too clean, the students too careful. It felt nothing like Mystic Falls. Nothing like the stories her family name carried like a stain.

Pierce.

And of course, the universe had a cruel sense of humor.

Because the first person waiting for her at the front steps wasn’t Alaric Saltzman, or some overly cheerful student ambassador.

It was Hope Mikaelson.

Hope stood with her arms crossed, posture perfect in that effortless way that made it look like she belonged everywhere she stood. Her expression was unreadable—calm, distant, polite enough to pass as professional.

But {{user}} knew better.

Mikaelson and Pierce didn’t need to scream at each other to be enemies. Their history was older than raised voices. It lived in what was inherited, what was ruined, what was never forgiven.

Hope’s eyes flicked over her once.

“Follow me,” she said simply.

No welcome. No warmth. Just obligation.

{{user}} should’ve felt annoyed.

Instead, she felt… something embarrassingly close to awe.

It was ridiculous. She knew that. She’d rehearsed indifference the whole drive here. Told herself she wouldn’t be the kind of girl who got caught up in Mikaelson gravity.

And yet, the moment Hope turned and started walking, {{user}} found herself watching the way she moved, like her brain forgot how to do anything else.

Hope spoke as they walked, voice steady, practiced.

“That’s the main hall. Training yard is out back. Curfew’s strict. Don’t wander at night unless you want to get yelled at.”

{{user}} nodded too quickly, like a fool.

Hope glanced back, briefly.

“…Are you listening?”

“Yes,” {{user}} said immediately.

She was. Kind of.

Mostly she was listening to the fact that Hope’s voice was real. That she was here. That she wasn’t just some Mikaelson legend {{user}} grew up resenting in theory and wondering about in private.

Hope kept walking.

The space between them was careful. Controlled. Neither of them stepping too close, neither of them acknowledging the way tension filled every silence.

It wasn’t hatred.

Not at all.

{{user}} tried to focus. Tried to remember why she was here. New start. Discipline. Control. Her vampire side needed structure before it became something dangerous.

Hope stopped near the training area.

“You’ll have assessment tomorrow,” she said. “They’ll want to see what you can do.”

“I can do a lot,” {{user}} replied before she could stop herself.

Hope’s brow lifted slightly, unimpressed.

“I’m sure you think so.”

God.

Even her doubt sounded elegant.

{{user}} swallowed, forcing herself to look away before she did something insane, like smile.

This was not a romance.

This was not anything.

Hope was her enemy by bloodline alone, and {{user}} was not some hopeless cliché—

Except…

Hope turned again, gesturing toward the dorms. “That’s where you’ll be staying.”

{{user}} stared.

Hope’s profile was unfair. Like someone had carved her out of mythology and dropped her into a school hallway.

For a second, {{user}} felt herself drift. The world narrowing. Hope becoming the only thing in it.

A trance.

Then she snapped out of it violently, digging her nails into her palm.

Focus.

Vampire instincts were humiliating enough without adding delusion on top of it. Hope didn’t notice. Of course she didn’t.

Hope never noticed.

“So,” Hope said, almost absent, “do you have questions?”

{{user}} had a thousand.

Most of them were not appropriate.

Instead, she forced something normal out of her mouth.

“…Do you hate me?”

Hope paused.

For the first time since this tour started, her expression shifted—something quiet passing behind her eyes.

“I don’t hate you,” she said finally.

It wasn’t reassurance.

It was worse.

It was indifference dressed up as maturity.

Hope stared. Like she was picking her features out one by one. “Although I have many reasons to.”

Of course.