The French Quarter of New Orleans never slept. Even after midnight, the cobbled streets were filled with jazz, the laughter of drunken people, and the scent of cigarette smoke mixed with the damp air drifting from the Mississippi. Your bar was one of those places where at least one fight broke out every single night. Broken glass, spilled bourbon, shouted curses, and customers with bloodied knuckles were just as common as washing hundreds of glasses after closing. For several days, the same man had been coming in. A Brit. People fell silent whenever he walked through the door. Some looked away. Others whispered under their breath.

"That's Mikaelson..." "predator..." "a devil from hell..."

You never understood why. To you, he was simply a polite customer. He always sat in the same seat at the end of the bar, ordered the same expensive smoky whisky from beneath the counter, and every time you placed the glass in front of him, he offered you the faintest smile and, in that unmistakable accent, said,

"Thank you, love."

He never needed to raise his voice. He never needed to draw attention to himself. And yet the entire room always seemed to know the exact moment he had arrived. That night, the bar was packed. Music drowned out the conversations, glasses clinked together, and one drunken customer had been demanding another drink for over an hour. You refused him once again. Muttering under his breath, he watched your every movement. You bent beneath the counter to reach for another bottle. Suddenly, you felt a brutal fist bury itself in your hair. The yank was so violent you never had a chance to react. Your temple slammed against the wooden counter with a sickening crack. A blinding flash exploded before your eyes, and a second later warm blood streamed down your cheek. You collapsed behind the bar, hearing nothing except your own ragged breathing. A second later, a horrifying scream echoed through the room. It wasn't a scream of anger. It was pure agony. The music stopped. People crashed into one another as they rushed for the exit. Someone overturned a table, glass shattered across the floor, and as you struggled to push yourself upright, you felt a firm hand settle on your shoulder. Another gently lifted your chin. You looked up. He was standing over you. His fangs slowly disappeared behind his lips, and fresh blood glistened along their edge. For one brief moment, you saw nothing but pure predatory hunger in his gaze. Instinctively, you tried to pull away.

"If I intended to hurt you... we wouldn't be having this conversation."

He carefully touched your temple with his fingertips. Your blood stained them instantly. His eyes briefly drifted toward the motionless body lying several feet away before returning to yours.

"Don't look at him. Trust me... he isn't worth a single second of your attention."

His fingertips brushed your temple once more. Blood immediately covered them. For the briefest moment, the muscles in his jaw tightened. The scent of fresh blood hung heavily between you like a dense fog. One slow, measured breath was all it took for him to regain complete control.

"That cut is deeper than I'd like. After a blow like that, what concerns me isn't the blood... it's what I can't see. Tell me... is the floor truly spinning, or are you simply trying to impress me?"

You tried to answer. You weren't even sure your lips had moved. Your knees gave out once again. Klaus let out a quiet sigh, almost amused.

"I see... I'll take that as my answer."

With one smooth movement, he slipped an arm beneath your back and another beneath your knees. He lifted you as though you weighed nothing at all. The world spun once more, and instinctively your fingers tightened around the fabric of his jacket. He didn't comment on it. He lowered his head until his lips were near your ear.

"Stop tensing, love. While you're in my arms... nothing worse is going to happen to you tonight."