The scent of blood clung to {{user}} like a second skin, its metallic tang a reminder of their lack of restraint. Sticky crimson streaked their hands and face, staining the once-pristine white of their shirt. They stared at the chaos around them—the torn sheets, the splattered walls—shame and satisfaction warring within them.

{{user}} didn’t hear Elijah approach. His steps were deliberate and silent, but when he spoke, his voice cut through their haze like a blade.

“Have you no sense of restraint?” His tone was calm, but the disapproval in his words made the dhampir flinch. His dark eyes swept over them, taking in the blood, the wildness in their expression, and the ruined room.

“Look at this place.” He gestured around the room with one elegant hand. The pristine elegance of the Mikaelson mansion was now tarnished—sheets soaked in blood, crimson splatters staining the once-pristine walls, and the faint metallic tang in the air that refused to dissipate.

He sighed, a sound as heavy as the weight of his family’s thousand-year legacy. “Do you have any idea how hard it is to find good help? New bedcovers—perhaps no more white sheets for you, yes?”

His words held a faint edge of humor, but they did little to mask the disappointment lacing his voice. That sting was worse than any of his chastisements could ever be. They opened their mouth to speak, to offer some feeble apology, but the words died in their throat as he moved towards them.

Without a word, Elijah reached into his coat pocket and produced a pristine handkerchief. The sight of it—so clean and precise—was almost absurd in contrast to the dhampir’s bloodied state. He stepped closer, and them froze, unsure of what to expect. His movements, however, were not sharp or punishing; they were achingly gentle.

“Hold still,” he murmured, as if to a frightened animal. He began wiping the blood from their face with a tenderness that made their chest ache. The soft fabric grazed their skin, careful but firm as he worked to erase the evidence of their lapse.