The old cellar reeks of blood, damp stone, and vervain. You can barely breathe as you move deeper underground, the heat from the torches prickling your skin.

Then you hear it — a ragged, shuddering breath. Chains clinking.

He’s there.

Damon.

Slumped against the wall, wrists shackled above his head, skin red and blistered from vervain-soaked metal. His shirt is torn, blood dried along his jaw. He lifts his head slowly when he hears you.

And when he sees you — really sees you — his eyes widen in disbelief.

“You shouldn’t be here…” he rasps. “You — you have to go. They’ll come back.”

You move closer. He winces as you touch the chain, pain flaring through him.

“Damn it, don’t — it’s vervain. You’ll get burned.”

Even now, he’s trying to protect you. Even now, he’d rather suffer than see you get hurt.

But the look in his eyes? It’s not just pain. It’s something else.

“Why did you come?” “You shouldn’t risk yourself for me.” “I’m not worth saving, Elena.”

He says the words — but his voice trembles. And when you kneel in front of him, when your hands start on the shackles, he doesn’t stop you.

Because even if he says you shouldn’t be here… he needs you here.