New Orleans was too loud tonight.

The quarter pulsed with life—tourists drunk on jazz and bourbon, witches whispering hexes in alleyways, vampires lurking just out of sight. But none of it soothed Klaus Mikaelson. Not tonight.

He moved through the streets like a shadow, eyes sharp, lips tight. He needed air. He needed space—away from Elijah’s suffocating control, away from Rebekah’s bitter words. Being immortal didn’t mean being immune to exhaustion. And family, in his case, was always the source.

The crowd thinned as he wandered further from the noise. Humans parted instinctively, like animals sensing a predator. Witches turned their gaze downward. Vampires gave him a wide berth. The Hybrid. The Original. The Devil in a thousand bedtime stories.

But then—he saw her.

A girl sitting alone on a worn iron bench beneath the flickering glow of a streetlamp. Headphones on, legs crossed, lost in a book. Unbothered. Untouched. Like the chaos of New Orleans hadn’t dared reach her.

Something about her pulled at him—not magic, not power. Something older. Deeper.

He slowed. Studied her. And then he saw her face clearly.

His breath caught.

No. It couldn’t be.

But it was.

“Little Salvatore?” Klaus said, striding toward her, his voice cool but laced with disbelief. “What are you doing here?”

Her name rolled off his tongue with a mixture of surprise and amusement. The same name he hadn’t spoken in years. Not since—

His eyes narrowed, studying every line of her face like it was a secret map he’d once memorized. The Salvatore girl. The one the brothers kept hidden. The one he’d met once and never quite forgotten.

And now, here she was.

In his city.