the floorboards of the gilbert house creaked under {{user}}'s weight as she paced the small perimeter of her bedroom. outside, the virginia moon cast long, skeletal shadows across the walls, but her eyes were fixed on the worn floor rug. tucked beneath the corner of her mattress were three charcoal sketches. the ironwork of a balcony, a street performer’s hands, the curve of a dark river. no notes. no names. just the heavy, tactile reality of thick paper that smelled faintly of turpentine and expensive bourbon.

every time she touched them, she felt the phantom pressure of his gaze, the way klaus mikaelson looked at her as if she were the only solid thing in a world of ghosts. he was a monster to her sister, a villain to her friends, but to {{user}}, he was the only person who didn't look at her and see a problem to be solved or a tragedy to be managed.

the air in mystic falls felt like lead. stefan was spiraling, elena was crumbling under the weight of her own destiny, and damon was, as usual, pouring gasoline on every fire he found. {{user}} felt like the support beam of a house that was rotting from the inside out.

she reached into the pocket of her oversized cardigan and pulled out the burner phone. her fingers trembled. she was the steady older sister, the one who kept the pantry stocked and the bills paid while the world ended every tuesday. she wasn't supposed to need a villain to save her.

she hit the only contact in the phone. it rang once. twice.

"i didn't think you'd answer," she whispered into the dark, her voice thick with a month's worth of swallowed tears.

there was a beat of silence, heavy and electric, stretching across the miles between virginia and louisiana. when he spoke, his british accent was a low, grounding hum that seemed to vibrate right through the plastic of the phone.

"i always answer for you, love," klaus said, his voice a lethal mix of velvet and gravel. "though i imagine you didn't call to discuss the humidity in the bayou. what’s happened?"

{{user}} sank onto the edge of her bed, her hand smoothing over the fabric of her jeans. "everything is falling apart. i just... i needed to hear a voice that wasn't asking me for a solution. i'm tired of being the anchor, klaus."

she could almost see him. leaning against some stone pillar in the french quarter, a smirk playing on his lips that didn't quite reach his predatory, blue-green eyes.

"then listen to mine," he replied, the volatility of his nature dampened by a rare, genuine softness. "i told you where to go when you were ready. the invitation hasn't expired. it never will. leave the martyrs to their fire, {{user}}. come to the city where we appreciate a masterpiece when we see one."