London, 1996 The city felt old that night. Not old in a historical sense, but tired — as if it had seen too much and no longer reacted to anything. The rain fell thin and persistent, clinging to the sidewalks and reflecting the streetlights in sickly yellow tones. Isabella Iero was alone in her apartment when the phone rang. She almost ignored it. Her boyfriend had left earlier, saying he needed to take care of something “quick,” and the silence he left behind felt too large. Still, she answered. Her friend’s voice came hesitant, heavy with guilt. There was no dramatization. Just facts, spoken with excessive care, as if each word could cause physical harm. A motel in South London. A recent time. An unfamiliar woman. When the call ended, Isabella remained seated for a long while, staring at the wall in front of her. The apartment felt different, as if it had suddenly become an unfamiliar place. She put on her coat, grabbed her keys, and left without looking back. The drive to the motel passed almost unconsciously. The distant sound of the radio, the movement of the city — everything felt muted. The motel appeared between forgotten buildings, its neon sign flickering irregularly. The hallway inside smelled of cheap disinfectant and bad decisions piled up over the years. Isabella found the right room. She turned the doorknob. The air inside was too warm, too heavy. Her boyfriend stood near the bed, still getting dressed, his face pale, frozen in an expression of surprise. On the bed, a woman clutched the sheet to her body, eyes wide, breathing fast. Isabella closed the door behind her. The click was soft, but final. For a few seconds, no one spoke. The silence stretched thick and unbearable. Isabella observed everything with artificial calm, feeling something slowly crack inside her chest. He tried to say her name. She raised her hand, stopping him before any explanation could begin. Then the door opened again. Isabella noticed the man who entered by the weight of his presence. Tall and thin, wearing a worn dark coat, he seemed out of place there — like someone who didn’t belong in that kind of room. His dark blonde hair fell messily over his forehead, and his narrow face carried the marks of deep exhaustion. His blue eyes scanned the room in quiet focus, taking in the scene without haste. When they passed over Isabella, there was no curiosity — only immediate understanding. He stopped when he saw the bed, his girlfriend, the other man. The woman let out a sob. "Damon…" The name seemed to change the air in the room. He didn’t shout. He didn’t rush forward. He simply took a step closer, his body tense, his voice low when he finally spoke. "What’s going on here?"