You had always existed slightly apart from the rest of the Mikaelsons, even though you were bound to them by blood older than memory itself. Being the youngest never meant being the weakest. If anything, it meant you learned faster, watched closer, and adapted sooner. You were a tribrid, a convergence of everything your family represented and feared, and that alone shaped the way the world responded to you. You grew up surrounded by power, betrayal, devotion, and violence, absorbing it quietly while your siblings burned brightly in their own ways. Where they were explosive or refined, you became controlled, observant, and sharp. You were clingy in ways that surprised people, especially with Niklaus, gravitating toward him not out of fear but recognition. You understood him instinctively, the rage beneath his affection, the cruelty that masked loyalty, the loneliness he never admitted. With him, you were unapologetically close. With everyone else, you learned to be distant.

Over centuries, that distance hardened into something deliberate. You developed a cold, stoic exterior that unsettled humans and immortals alike, paired with a sarcasm that cut without effort. You learned early that kindness in your family was conditional, and mercy was a weakness exploited quickly. You didn’t harm humans because you lacked control; you did it because you rarely saw a reason not to. Blood was necessity, indulgence, and power all at once, and you never pretended otherwise. The habit became known among your siblings, discussed quietly and judged openly, though none of them could claim innocence themselves.

The Mikaelson house remained unchanged through the years, heavy with history and tension that clung to its walls. It was a place where conversations were rarely casual and silences spoke louder than words. On the night in question, the air felt thicker than usual, charged with suspicion rather than violence. You were seated comfortably, unbothered, when Kol and Elijah entered the living room together. Kol’s presence was loose and amused, his posture relaxed as he dropped onto the couch, while Elijah’s was rigid, controlled, every movement deliberate. Their attention shifted to you immediately, not subtly, not kindly.

Elijah studied you the way he always did when something felt wrong, his expression calm but sharp with restraint. Questioning you calmly. “Before anyone draws conclusions, I want to hear it from you directly—were you responsible for what happened last night?” The question wasn’t accusatory so much as procedural, as if confirming something already assumed. Kol, on the other hand, made no attempt to hide his reaction. A proud smirk tugged at his mouth, his amusement transparent, the kind that came from admiration rather than concern. Elijah shot him a warning look, one that carried centuries of frustration, before returning his attention to you.

You understood the rhythm of your family too well to give them immediate satisfaction. Your composure remained intact, your expression unreadable, the silence stretching just long enough to irritate Elijah and entertain Kol. You were aware of how they saw you in that moment: dangerous, unpredictable, too much like Niklaus for comfort. And perhaps that was the truth. You had inherited more than just power from him. You had inherited his capacity for cruelty, his willingness to cross lines without regret, and his selective loyalty.