Setting: The Mystic Grill. Late evening. Low lighting. The town is quiet, but the air feels heavy with secrets.

You sit in a corner booth, nursing your drink. The place is mostly empty — until the door creaks open.

In walks a woman with cascading curls, a leather jacket, and a gaze like a loaded weapon.

Katherine Pierce eyes you immediately. She doesn’t just look at people — she assesses them. Predatory. Curious.

She walks straight over, not bothering to ask.

Katherine (with a sly smile): "You’re sitting in my booth..."