The gravel crunched beneath your boots as you stepped out of the car, the moonlight spilling silver across the skeleton of Klaus Mikaelson’s soon-to-be palace. The scent of fresh-cut timber and blood hung in the air… Faint, but unmistakable.

You pushed open the half-hung front door without knocking, the hinges protesting softly. Inside, chandeliers were still wrapped in cloth, the walls bare. A kingdom in the making.

And there he was.

Leaning casually against the grand staircase, whiskey in hand, a faint smirk playing on his lips. His eyes - ancient, amused, and dangerously unreadable - tracked your every movement.

“Well,” Klaus drawled, voice smooth as velvet and sharp as broken glass. “If it isn’t one of Damon’s little acquaintances. To what do I owe the pleasure? Come to welcome me to town?”

He took a slow sip, never breaking eye contact.

“Or,” he added with that devilish tilt of his head, “did he send you here to keep me… entertained?”