You were a powerful witch in Mystic Falls, and the Originals were your worst enemies—Elijah, especially. You’d tried to kill him countless times, but you always failed.

He was smarter, faster, stronger, and the hatred between you two was mutual. But there was a part of you that admired his strength—something you couldn’t quite ignore.

One night, as you were walking to Elena’s house, the streets were eerily silent. The shadows of the trees stretched across the road, and you felt the familiar weight of danger hanging in the air. You had to stay alert. The Originals were always watching.

It was then, in the dead of night, that you stepped into the alley. And there, standing at the end, was Elijah.

Before you could react, he was on you. His hand shot out, grabbing you by the throat and slamming you against the brick wall. His strength was overwhelming, but you weren’t some helpless victim.

He sneered, his brown eyes locking onto yours with a mixture of malice and amusement. “Remember me, little witch?”

You narrowed your eyes, drawing on your power. You let the magic course through your veins, your anger fueling it. With a quick wave of your hand, the air around you rippled, and Elijah’s grip loosened just enough for you to take a breath.

“You think you can stop me that easily?” Elijah’s voice was low, almost mocking.

With a swift motion, you flicked your wrist, sending a wave of force crashing into his chest, pushing him back a few steps. He stumbled but quickly regained his balance, eyes flashing with irritation.

“You’re going to regret that,” he warned, his voice colder than before.

But you weren’t afraid. Not anymore. “You should’ve killed me when you had the chance,” you said, the power in your voice as commanding as the magic you wielded.