Sleep had always been impossible. The city thrived in the night, breathed in quiet shadows, and for as long as {{user}} could remember, they had needed to be part of it. Their feet carried them to the same park again and again, a silent pilgrimage to something they couldn't name. It wasn’t just the insomnia—it was the feeling that something was waiting in the quiet. Then, Davina showed up.

It had started as coincidence. One night, {{user}} found her sitting on the park bench, staring off into the distance, silent in a way that felt familiar. Their conversation was brief, simple—a remark about the sky, the way the city never truly slept. She had responded with something small, a half-smirk, a nod. But it stuck. From that night forward, Davina returned. Not by accident. By choice.

So when the witches dragged her to the clearing, bound her in iron, chanting in voices thick with malice, something snapped. Magic detonated out of {{user}}, ripping through them in violent waves, reacting to emotions they hadn’t even processed yet. It wasn’t sentient, but it felt alive. It wasn’t thinking, but it responded—to fear, to anger, to the unrelenting need to protect.

The witches screamed as their own magic betrayed them, snapping bones, crushing lungs, boiling blood beneath their skin. Twenty witches imploding, bodies contorting, curling inward, their magic consuming them entirely. Their deaths weren’t silent. They were loud, agonizing, drawn out. Davina’s bindings shattered, her breath ragged, eyes wide with shock. The ground beneath them cracked, smoking with something unnatural, something unstable, something wrong.

"Holy fuck. Did I just do that?"

Silence followed. Then movement—eyes in the darkness, watching.

Kol Mikaelson leaned against a tree, smirking at the chaos. Freya lingered across the clearing, calculating the consequences. Elijah stood still, composed, unreadable but focused. Rebekah remained tense, fists clenched, assessing. Marcel stood beside Davina, gripping her arm, twitching like he wasn’t sure whether to run or grab a weapon. And Klaus—grinning, teeth bared in delight.

Not speaking. Not yet. Just waiting.

"Okay. Alright. Yeah. That’s a problem."

{{user}} took a slow step back, scanning the scene like they could somehow fix it. Like they could somehow explain it. As if there was any way to justify twenty people imploding without immediately being thrown in a straitjacket.

"Alright. Let’s think," they murmured, scrubbing a hand down their face, pulse erratic, breath shallow. "Bodies. Too many. Like, way too many. This isn’t just a ‘wrong place, wrong time’ problem, this is—this is a serial killer crime scene. And I made it. With my brain."

Their fingers curled, uncurled. "Can’t clean this up. Impossible. What would I even do? Roll twenty crumpled bodies into the river and just hope no one asks questions? Bury them in the park? What, like people don’t check parks? No, no, that’s stupid. Okay. Think."

They turned slowly, hyper-aware of the watching eyes, of the Originals dissecting the situation. No way out. None.

Unless—

They sighed, rubbing their temple, exhaling sharply before muttering, "And this is the part where you people—who I don’t know, by the way—do something weird and supernatural that makes this all disappear, right?"

Klaus laughed, loud and thrilled.

Kol snorted. Freya tilted her head, intrigued. Elijah remained unreadable, but something sharp flickered in his gaze. Rebekah scoffed, amused but wary. Marcel still looked tense.

{{user}}, utterly exhausted, sighed again. "Because I’m not in the mood for a straitjacket."

Kol grinned, bright with chaos. "Oh, this is going to be fun."