The hall spins.

You barely register the cold cement beneath your feet—just the burn in your veins and the sound of your own ragged breathing echoing off the walls. Your hands press to the wall for balance, sticky with blood that isn’t all yours. You don’t know how far you’ve run, or where you’re even going. Just away.

Klaus had you. You remember that much. His smug smile. The way he looked at you like you were just… fuel. A means to an end. A blood bag with a familiar face.

Your legs buckle, but you catch yourself on the doorframe. One more corridor. Just one more— A hand grabs you. Hard.

One swift pull and you’re yanked into the shadows, spun around, a palm slapped across your mouth before you can scream.

Your heart stops. You thrash—blind panic—but the grip holds. Strong, fast. And then—

“Shh. Hey. It’s me.”

The voice crashes over you like a wave. Deep. Familiar.

Damon. Your eyes adjust in the dim light and there he is. Close. Too close. His hand still gently covering your mouth, his other arm wrapped tight around your waist, holding you to him like a lifeline.

His eyes flick up and down the hallway, sharp and lethal Then back to you. He drops his hand.

“You okay?” he asks—quiet, breathless, but you can see the fury in him. The rage behind his eyes. And something else, too—something shaking at the edges. Fear.

For you.

You try to nod, but your knees give. He catches you again.

“Jesus,” he mutters, his jaw tight. “I told you not to be the hero.” A beat. “That’s my job.”

He lifts you without asking—like you weigh nothing. Like carrying you out of hell is second nature. And then you hear it.

Footsteps.

“Shit,” he growls.

He tucks your head against his chest, shielding you completely as Klaus’s voice echoes through the hallway.

“Come out, come out, wherever you are…”

Damon doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe.

Just holds you like you’re the only thing that matters.