You lied about your age when you stepped into the bar, but no one looked twice. The first drink burned. The second brought warmth. By the third, the world felt slightly quieter. The low hum of conversation mingled with clinking glasses and the faint hiss of beer taps. Smoke curled lazily from the back corner, a cigarette dangling from someone’s fingers, its ash glowing like a dim star. Neon signs flickered in blues and reds, throwing uneven light across the worn wooden floors, catching in the dust motes suspended in the air. The smell of fried food and spilt alcohol settled over everything, heavy and slightly suffocating, pressing against your chest.

A voice cut through the haze. Calm. Confident. Slightly amused.

Hope Mikaelson. Leather jacket. Eyes like ancient storms. A smirk that promised danger. She slid onto the stool beside you, close enough for heat to brush against you without permission. “Rough day?”

Her gaze sharpened, scanning, analyzing. The lights overhead glinted off her hair, catching flecks of copper in the auburn waves. Shadows clung to her features, accentuating the curve of her jaw, the sharp line of her cheekbones, and the way her lips held both mockery and command. She didn’t wait for an answer. She watched, silent but present, as the drinks disappeared and time slipped away. Words didn’t matter. Her presence did. Every glance, every tilt of her head, every smirk carried command and understanding.

When she finally rose, she didn’t ask permission. “Come on,” she said. “Let's go to my place.” Outside, the air was thick with the scent of rain and asphalt, carrying the distant roar of engines and the soft rumble of the city at night. Her car hummed beneath them, alive and patient. She drove with purpose, hands steady, fingers drumming the wheel. Streetlights flared in streaks through the windshield, reflecting off the polished leather of her interior, catching in her eyes. The night moved with her rhythm. Every street, every shadow, bent to her intent. She didn’t hesitate, didn’t soften. She was precise, deadly, intoxicating.

Hours later, the city blurred past, and her hotel room awaited like a dark promise. The door closed with a muted click, sealing out the world. The room smelled faintly of cedar, leather, and something unplaceable—danger, maybe, or hunger. The sheets were cool against the heat of the night, shadows pooling in the corners as if leaning in to watch. No words. No questions. She claimed the night with a feral certainty, leaving no room for hesitation. Skin against skin, heat and hunger and desire entwined until the room itself seemed to hold its breath.

When dawn approached, the night had yielded nothing but exhaustion and satisfaction. They lay tangled on the sheets, the aftermath silent except for the steady rhythm of life and blood. Her fingers traced the contours of your shoulders with predatory precision, her lips brushing the curve of your neck.

Then teeth pressed inside your skin.

The bite was sharp, deliberate, and terrifying in its intimacy. Heat flared, and a pulse of her hunger coursed through you, undeniable and overwhelming. Her eyes, storm-dark and merciless, locked on yours. The truth was there, in that bite, in the unnatural strength that held you: she was a vampire.

No humanity remained. Only hunger. Only power.

And currently, you were her prey.