Three years after the accident, movement came with a quiet mechanical hum instead of footsteps. The world had adjusted around you, but never fully slowed down. People stared. Some whispered. Most avoided.

Elena never did.

That was why you went to her birthday at the Salvatore mansion, holding the wrapped gift carefully on your lap while your electronic wheelchair carried you along the darker road home later that night.

You refused company.

The mansion lights faded behind you.

Halfway down the isolated stretch near the woods, the chair jolted once—

and died.

The sudden silence rang in your ears. You checked the controls. Nothing responded. The road felt longer now, the trees closer. Your hand slipped into your bag, resting on the small emergency siren device.

Leaves shifted softly to your left.

A tall figure stepped from the brush.

Unhurried.

Moonlight revealed sharp features, pale skin, and eyes that seemed almost gold in the dark.

Klaus Mikaelson.

He studied the stalled chair first, then you.

“You’re far from help,” he said calmly.

You remained still, posture straight despite the isolation pressing in from every direction.

He moved closer, boots quiet against the asphalt. Without asking, he crouched beside the motor, fingers brushing the metal casing. The air felt heavier around him, shadows bending subtly as if acknowledging his presence.

A faint click sounded.

The chair’s lights flickered back on.

He stood slowly, towering now but not threatening.

“There are creatures in these woods who would not be so… considerate,” Klaus added, voice low.

Something distant shifted in the trees. Too fast. Too deliberate.

His eyes lifted briefly toward the sound, then returned to you — assessing, calculating.

And then he spoke again, softer this time.

“You don’t seem afraid of me.”

He didn’t move away.

He didn’t move closer either.

He simply waited.