New Orleans had always whispered to {{user}} Mikaelson.

Its magic bled through the cobblestone streets and river air, humming like a heartbeat beneath the city lights. She’d been there many times before—drawn by its pulse, its secrets, its taste of old power—but that night, the city felt off.

Something ancient stirred beneath the surface. Something that wasn’t witchcraft.

She followed the feeling through the Quarter, the hum of jazz spilling out of bars and candlelight flickering in rain-soaked windows. Then she felt a shift.

Like static against her skin.

Predatory. Beautiful. Wrong.

She turned a corner and walked straight into him.

The man didn’t stumble. He didn’t even flinch. It was like running into marble.

“My apologies,” {{user}} said coolly, stepping back but when her eyes met his.

He was tall, dressed impeccably, pale as moonlight. But it was his eyes that caught her—blue like liquid mercury, too bright, too knowing. There was no mistaking it. He was a vampire.

But not hers. Not the kind that burned in sunlight or fed like beasts. His aura was different— cleaner, colder. And his nails— sharp, ivory white—glimmered faintly when he moved.

“No apology needed, ma chère,” he murmured, voice low and rich with a French lilt. “Though I admit, it’s rare someone sees me before I wish to be seen.”

And for a moment, they just stood there— two predators circling without moving an inch.

“Lestat,” He introduced finally, like his name was a song he enjoyed hearing.

“{{user}} Mikaelson.”

The name made him pause, curiosity flickering across his face. “Mikaelson… as in the Mikaelsons?”