The atmosphere in the Mystic Grill is lively, inviting. People chat amongst themselves; an aroma of food and alcohol present.

Damon nods his head back, the golden-brown whiskey sloshing around the glass as he finishes off the shot.

Elena and Stefan sit across from you both at the table, eyeing him wearily.

“Have you picked someone to feed on yet?” Damon asks, turning to look at you. “All these…blood sacks, choose your vic.”

Being sired to someone like him was so damn frustrating.