⋆⁺₊⋆ ⏾ 𖤓 ⋆⁺₊⋆

AUGUST 2010

The summer season was drawing to a close in Mystic Falls, the thick warmth of the day fading into a cooler, quieter evening. There was a peculiar calmness draped over the small town, the kind that felt both soothing and unnerving. Mystic Falls always seemed to breathe easier at night, its sparse nightlife leaving the streets dimly lit and tranquil. The faint hum of cicadas buzzed in the air, punctuated by the occasional bark of a distant dog. The soft, melodic cadence of laughter and idle chatter echoed faintly as friends and family gathered to celebrate summer's end, a comforting reminder of simplicity.

Letti Mikaelson closed her eyes for a moment, letting the sounds drift around her. That melody—the mundanity of it all—was strangely intriguing, a sharp contrast to the chaos that had defined her existence for over a millennium. She missed the calm. She missed the very idea of normalcy, the kind this small town offered to its oblivious locals. But for her, Mystic Falls had never been normal.

She leaned against a sturdy oak tree, its rough bark biting lightly into her shoulder blades, and opened her eyes to the glow of porch lights flickering in the distance. The irony wasn't lost on her. Mystic Falls, with its picket fences and sleepy charm, would never be a refuge for someone like her. Still, the soft hum of life here reminded her of what she had once craved—a life less extraordinary, one without blood-soaked betrayals or centuries of heartbreak. But such a life was a myth for her, a wistful delusion.

Letti wished she were visiting for pleasure, but of course, she wasn't. She never was. Once again, she found herself dragged back into the unending orbit of her twin brother, Klaus Mikaelson. She exhaled deeply, her lips curling into a bitter smile. Months ago, she had been sipping bourbon under the sun in Spain, her skin golden from hours spent lounging on the sands of Asturias. She had told herself she was escaping the gravitational pull of Klaus, fleeing the messes that always followed in his wake.

Yet even an ocean away, Klaus had managed to ruin it. He didn't even have to be there; the shadow of his schemes was enough to creep into her every moment of peace, every glass of bourbon. She thought of the waves crashing against the Cudillero cliffs, the salty spray on her skin, and the sudden, unbearable pain of her bones breaking. Klaus had been absent, and yet she had known.

For centuries now, everything that happened to Letti always seemed to happen because of him. Her fingers trailed absentmindedly along the edge of her jacket, the faint tremor in her hand betraying her composure. She didn't need to question the spontaneous transformation that had overtaken her on that mountainside, not when the answer had always been so painfully obvious. Her twin brother's obsession with breaking the curse and unlocking their werewolf natures had consumed him for centuries.

Unlike Klaus, Letti had resisted. She had refused to partake in his schemes, unwilling to see innocent lives sacrificed on the altar of their power. While Klaus plotted and schemed, Letti fought to stay outside the bloodshed, to keep her hands clean even as the weight of her family's sins pressed heavy on her shoulders. But staying out of Klaus's orbit, as she had learned time and time again, was impossible.

But Klaus hadn't given her the respect of deciding that for herself. He didn't care about what she wanted—he never had. Instead, he had linked her to him without hesitation—so she had learned—binding her fate to his with no warning, no choice. The memory still burned, raw and unrelenting, three months later. She could recall every agonizing moment of that first transformation as vividly as if it were happening now. The full moon had dragged her into its cruel embrace, rearranging every muscle fiber and splintering every bone in her body. It was as though her very being was being rewritten to conform to the nature she had been certain was locked away a thousand years ago.

The pain was excruciating, white-hot and relentless, but it was the betrayal that cut deeper. That was what lingered—the knowledge that her brother had stolen something fundamental from her yet again. He hadn't just rewritten her body; he had rewritten her will. She had trusted him once, foolishly, to leave her out of his schemes, to let her live apart from his relentless hunger for power. But Klaus had never cared about trust or respect, only about control.

Now, she was exactly what he had always wanted—a hybrid. Another weapon in his arsenal, something he could wield as he saw fit.

Letti hadn't turned since that night—a small mercy she credited to her new status. As a hybrid, she could harness the power of both werewolf and vampire without enduring the soul-crushing agony of transformation. She could feel the weight of the power coursing through her veins, unfamiliar and unwelcome, a constant reminder of what had been done to her.

But the power itself wasn't what troubled her most. What kept her awake at night was Klaus. His intentions were never pure—she had learned that lesson centuries ago. He was a storm of ambition and destruction, always hungry for more, always blind to the devastation he left in his wake. And now, she was tied to him in ways she couldn't escape. Her thoughts churned, restless and dark, as she tried to decipher his plans and, more importantly, how to stop him.

She had spent the last three months tracking him—through the dense forests of Tennessee and into the sprawling, untamed peaks of the Appalachians. The air was crisp and thin, carrying the faint scent of pine and earth, but to Letti, it reeked of Klaus. He was with Stefan Salvatore, their trail littered with evidence of their search for werewolves. Letti didn't need to guess why—she was certain it was for the creation of an army. The thought made her blood simmer, her fists clenching reflexively at her sides.

She had spent weeks watching his failed attempts to turn werewolves into hybrid pawns. Each failure was a show of his growing frustration, and though she tried to focus on the larger picture, Letti couldn't help the perverse flicker of amusement that warmed her chest. For once, he wasn't getting what he wanted, and it was almost poetic. That brief satisfaction didn't last long, though. The strain of watching him, always one step ahead yet always within reach, was exhausting. The constant pursuit, the meticulous planning, the waiting—it drained her in ways that felt too familiar, a cruel reminder of how much her life had always been entwined with his.

Letti's anger simmered just below the surface, sharp and unrelenting. She was desperate to confront him, to unleash the centuries of fury and frustration that he had so effortlessly stoked within her. But every time she considered it, doubt crept in. The raw intensity of her emotions felt overwhelming, threatening to spill over in ways she wasn't sure she could control. She needed more time—time to untangle the threads of her anger and fear, to prepare herself for what that confrontation might mean. What it would cost her.

Klaus had woken Rebekah during their brief stop in Chicago, and that changed everything. The timing wasn't right anymore. Letti's quarrel was with Klaus and Klaus alone; her sister had no place in this. Rebekah didn't deserve to be caught in the crossfire of their endless war. The thought of her sister being dragged into their mess twisted something deep in Letti's chest—a rare, protective instinct that only intensified her resolve.

Now, here she was, walking the dimly lit streets of Mystic Falls, the faint hum of crickets filling the quiet night air. The weight of the last three months pressed heavily on her shoulders, and she sought solace in the only way she knew how—at the bottom of a bottle. The Mystic Grill stood ahead, its neon sign flickering weakly, casting a pale glow onto the pavement below. If there was any place to drown her thoughts, this was it.

Letti crossed the street, her boots clicking softly against the asphalt, and pushed open the door to the Mystic Grill. The familiar scent of greasy American cuisine hit her instantly, heavy with the oil and spices that clung to the air. Beneath it, the sharp tang of alcohol lingered, faintly stinging her nose. The dimly lit interior was nearly empty, save for a few scattered patrons nursing their drinks. She took a quick glance around but felt no urgency to remain inconspicuous. No one in town knew her, and Klaus was far too preoccupied terrorizing high schoolers to notice her presence, let alone catch her scent.

A small, bitter laugh escaped her lips as she stepped further inside, the sound soft and hollow against the low murmur of the room. Of course, it was fitting—her twin brother, so self-assured and relentless in his quest for power, undone by his own arrogance. The doppelgänger he had sacrificed to turn them into hybrids was alive, an inconvenient truth that had unraveled all his carefully laid plans. His hybrid experiments were nothing but an embarrassing collection of failures, and now, he was busy trying to correct them at Mystic Falls High School.

Part of her felt a twinge of guilt for not intervening, but the larger part of her was simply exhausted—too drained to care anymore. After a thousand years spent at someone's side, even the strongest bonds could fray under the weight of endless betrayals and unchecked ambition. She tried to convince herself that Klaus wouldn't outright murder a group of teenagers—not immediately, at least. But deep down, she knew better. He had done far worse for far less, and the thought lingered like a bitter taste in her mouth.

Letti approached the bar, her boots scuffing softly against the worn wooden floor. The faint scent of alcohol, lemon polish, and fried food enveloped her as she slid into one of the barstools, the leather creaking faintly beneath her weight. She signaled the bartender with a slight lift of her hand, her movements deliberate, almost mechanical. The weight of the past few months bore down on her now, settling heavily as she sat so perfectly still, her spine straight, her hands folded loosely on the counter.

The truth was, she knew the drink wouldn't fix anything. It wouldn't ease the ache in her chest or silence the relentless churn of her thoughts. But it was something—something tangible, something immediate—and in this moment, that was enough.

"Bourbon, neat," she ordered, her voice low, carrying just enough edge to betray the turmoil simmering beneath her calm exterior. The bartender gave a quick nod, his movements efficient as he poured the amber liquid into a glass. He set it in front of her with a soft clink, neither of them exchanging a single word. Letti stared at the drink for a moment, the faint aroma of charred oak wafting upward, before wrapping her fingers around the cool glass. It wasn't a solution, but it was all she had.

Letti brought the glass to her lips, letting the warm, smoky burn of the bourbon trail down her throat. The familiar sensation offered a fleeting reprieve, dulling the edges of her exhaustion just enough for her shoulders to relax. She closed her eyes briefly, inhaling the faint blend of old wood, spilled liquor, and frying oil that hung in the air. The soft murmur of conversation in the near-empty bar hummed like a low current, soothing in its mundanity.

Then, she felt it—an unmistakable weight, someone's eyes fixed on her.

Her fingers tightened slightly around the glass, her calm slipping just enough for a faint crease to form between her brows. She didn't need to turn around to know who it was. Damon Salvatore. His presence had registered the moment she stepped through the door, his scent weaving its way through the room like a shadow. It was a blend of leather, bourbon, and the faintest hint of vanilla—distinct, impossible to mistake with her heightened senses.

Letti had heard the stories, of course. Everyone had. The infamous wayward Salvatore brother with a reputation as sharp as his jawline and twice as dangerous. She'd even seen glimpses of those stories come to life from afar. But tonight, their worlds converged in a way they never had before. Close enough to touch. Close enough to confirm whether the whispers about him were myth or reality.

She remembered watching Klaus in the mountains of Tennessee, the silvery glow of the full moon casting sharp shadows across the rugged landscape. Hidden within the dense tree line, Letti was a blur of stillness, her heightened senses locked on her brother as he struggled against failure after failure in his obsessive quest to build a hybrid army. The raw frustration radiating from him was palpable, even from her distance, and she had silently reveled in the poetic justice of it all.

It was nearing twilight when she spotted them—a group of three moving cautiously through the underbrush. The doppelgänger, a hunter, and Damon Salvatore. Their presence had sent a ripple of unease through her, though she kept to the shadows, her sharp gaze assessing their intent. They'd come for Stefan. She knew that much. But she hadn't stayed to see the inevitable chaos unfold. Klaus rarely left a confrontation unscathed—physically or emotionally—and she didn't need to witness the details to know it wouldn't go according to anyone's plan. Given Damon's presence here with her now, and Stefan's rumored dealings at the high school, Letti figured their mission had ended as most things did where Klaus was involved—in shambles.

Now, seated at the bar, she forced herself to stay composed, her expression cool as she stared straight ahead and took another deliberate sip of her drink. The rich burn of the bourbon steadied her, a fleeting comfort in the ever-present storm of her life.

Damon, true to form, wasted no time making his move. His footsteps were unhurried but purposeful as he closed the distance, sliding into the barstool beside her. The faint rustle of leather accompanied him, along with his distinctive scent.

"Bourbon, huh? You've got good taste," he said smoothly, his voice carrying an effortless charm that Letti found more grating than appealing in the moment. His tone was light, but there was an edge to his presence, something deliberate in the way he had chosen to approach her.

Letti didn't flinch or even glance in his direction. Her patience, already worn thin, left little room for indulging his charm.

She kept her gaze fixed on her glass, the cool rim smooth beneath her fingers as she traced it absently. The faint amber glow of the bourbon caught the light, reflecting a quiet warmth she didn't feel. "I prefer it quiet," she replied, her voice steady, her tone just cool enough to send the message that she wasn't here for idle conversation.

"Really?" Damon leaned back slightly, the faint creak of the stool punctuating the casual confidence in his movement. His smirk deepened, his tone laced with easy charm. "Because you don't exactly strike me as the quiet type."

Her fingers stilled briefly against the glass, the comment brushing too close to something she couldn't quite name. Letti turned her head to meet his gaze, her expression carefully neutral, though her eyes gleamed with a sharp edge that betrayed her scrutiny. "And what type do I strike you as?"

Damon tilted his head, his dark eyes narrowing slightly as if studying a particularly fascinating enigma. His gaze lingered, catching on the curve of her lips, the slight tilt of her chin—details he filed away without meaning to. "Mysterious. Dangerous, maybe," he said, his voice lower now, quieter, as though the observation was meant just for her. A flicker of something darker passed through his smirk, a trace of intrigue he didn't bother to mask. "Definitely not from around here."

Letti raised an eyebrow, the faintest flicker of amusement playing at the corner of her mouth before it disappeared. She leaned forward slightly, her movement subtle but deliberate, the space between them charged with an unspoken tension. "What gave it away?" she asked, her tone cool and unimpressed, though the question lingered like a challenge.

"The fact that you don't look like you give a damn about the small-town charm," Damon said, his voice smooth but laced with a darker undercurrent. His sharp blue eyes flickered, a glint of something unreadable breaking through the casual exterior.

Letti's expression remained perfectly composed, but her grip on the glass tightened ever so slightly, the faint tension in her knuckles betraying her restraint.

"Well," she replied, her tone as steady as ever, a cool deflection in every syllable, "I'm not here for the charm."

Damon's smirk curved deeper, the kind that felt calculated yet effortless, as though he was testing how far he could push her. His gaze lingered just a beat too long, enough for her to notice and enough for him not to care. "Then what are you here for?"

Letti set her glass down with deliberate care, the soft clink of the glass against the counter punctuating the charged silence. Her gaze shifted to the rows of bottles behind the bar, studying them as if they held answers to questions she refused to ask. "A drink," she said simply, the faintest edge in her voice. But the unspoken weight of her words, heavy and deliberate, settled between them like a challenge neither was willing to address aloud.

Damon studied her for a moment longer, the flicker of curiosity in his eyes deepening. "Well, I'm Damon," he offered, his voice smooth as he extended a hand, the gesture confident but not overly eager.

Letti's gaze flicked to his hand, then back to his face, her expression unreadable save for the faintest twitch of her lips—an almost-smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. She made no move to take his hand. "I know who you are," she replied, her tone effortlessly cool, laced with just the barest trace of amusement.

Damon let his hand drop, but the glint in his eyes told her he wasn't the least bit discouraged. If anything, his intrigue seemed to sharpen. "And who might you be?"

Letti met his gaze head-on, her own steady and unyielding, like she was sizing him up just as much as he was her. There was a glimmer of something else in her eyes—a spark of challenge, daring him to keep guessing. "Letti," she said simply, her voice even, offering no further explanation or invitation.

Damon raised an eyebrow, his smirk shifting slightly as though her lack of elaboration amused him more than it frustrated him. But before he could press her further, Letti turned back to her drink, her posture dismissive yet composed, a subtle cue that she held the reins of this interaction.

With deliberate precision, she downed the rest of her bourbon in a single, smooth motion, the burn a welcome distraction from the faint hum of tension between them. The quiet clink of the empty glass on the bar punctuated the moment.

The bartender returned, refilling both their glasses without a word. Letti sighed quietly, the sound barely audible over the gentle din of the bar. She wasn't opposed to another drink, but she hadn't planned on entertaining the company of a Salvatore brother tonight—especially not one so adept at filling silence with questions she had no desire to answer.

She could feel Damon's gaze on her, heavy and unrelenting, like a fire flickering just out of reach but close enough to warm her skin. It wasn't the casual glance of someone idly observing—it was intense, searching, as though he were trying to peel back the layers she so carefully kept in place. The weight of it pressed against her already frayed nerves, igniting a spark of something she didn't want to name.

For a fleeting moment, Letti considered staying, letting him continue his game of questions and clever remarks. There was a thrill in it, an unspoken challenge simmering in the air between them. But then reality crashed back into focus, sharp and unforgiving. She hadn't come to Mystic Falls to play games—not with Damon Salvatore, and certainly not with herself.

With a swift, deliberate motion, Letti threw her drink back, the cool rim of the glass brushing her lips before the bourbon burned its way down her throat. The heat spread through her chest, sharp and familiar, grounding her against the exhaustion deep in her bones. The fleeting comfort it brought wasn't much, but it was enough to steel her resolve. She knew the effects would hit soon enough, but that wasn't her concern. Staying any longer would only invite more of Damon's probing curiosity—a risk she wasn't willing to take. Not yet.

Letti pushed the empty glass away, the soft scrape of it against the wood a quiet punctuation to her decision. Rising from the barstool, her movements were fluid and deliberate, betraying none of the weariness that lingered beneath her composed exterior. The faint buzz of the alcohol barely tugged at her balance, her steps steady as she turned toward the door.

Even without looking back, she could feel Damon's eyes following her, their heat trailing along her spine like a silent demand for her attention. His curiosity burned hotter now, sharp and insistent, but she refused to acknowledge it.

"You're not going to tell me what you're really doing here, are you?" Damon finally asked, his voice smooth, the kind of casualness that was anything but. Beneath it, there was an edge, sharp and probing, a subtle challenge wrapped in his easy tone. She could feel the weight of his words, the way they lingered in the air between them, pressing for an answer he already suspected she wouldn't give.

Letti paused, her back still to him, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at the corners of her lips. It wasn't a smile meant for him—not really. It was for herself, a quiet acknowledgment of his persistence. She had to give him credit. He was sharper than most, his ability to read between the lines unsettling but not unwelcome. Still, she wasn't about to make this easy for him.

"Not tonight, Salvatore," she said, her voice calm and measured, as if she held all the cards and the game he was so clearly playing was of no consequence to her. There was a dismissive quality to her words, but it was the kind that intrigued rather than insulted, as though she were daring him to keep trying.

Behind her, Damon's smirk widened, the faint scrape of his barstool against the floor signaling a subtle shift in his posture. He leaned back slightly, studying her with the kind of attention that could make anyone feel exposed. But Letti wasn't just anyone.

Something about her made him pause. She moved with a confidence that bordered on dangerous, her every motion deliberate, calculated. There was a quiet power to her, something he couldn't quite name, but it was familiar in a way that unnerved him. It wasn't just her demeanor—it was the way she seemed so utterly unfazed by his presence, as though she had already decided he wasn't a threat.

The familiarity gnawed at him, just out of reach, like a memory slipping through his fingers. Damon tilted his head, narrowing his eyes as if the shift in perspective might make her secrets clearer. She wasn't like the usual crowd that passed through Mystic Falls. She didn't blend in, didn't try to. She stood out like a shadow against the light, and he couldn't help but want to know why.

"You remind me of someone, y'know?" Damon said, his tone almost casual, but his eyes told a different story. They tracked her every movement, sharp and unrelenting, as if daring her to react.

Letti's fingers curled slightly at his words, the faintest tension betraying her composure. She didn't slow her steps, didn't let the remark linger in the air for longer than it deserved, but inside, she braced herself. She knew who he meant. How could she not? It was a truth she carried with her everywhere, etched into her very existence. Klaus's blood ran through her veins, as inescapable as the resemblance that tied them together—a shadow she could never quite outrun. Damon hadn't pieced it together yet, but she knew it was only a matter of time.

The weight of his curiosity pressed against her, palpable even in the silence. She could feel the intensity of his gaze, the subtle shifts in his expression as the gears turned in his mind, working to connect the fragments of an answer just out of reach. It was almost amusing, how close he was and how far he still had to go.

"You'll figure it out eventually," she said, her voice measured, almost bored, as she finally turned to face him. Her gaze locked onto his, cool and sharp, but with just enough of an edge to keep him guessing. It wasn't a dismissal—it was a challenge, a silent dare for him to keep trying.

For the briefest moment, Damon's smirk faltered, the self-assured curve of his lips replaced with something darker, more calculating. His confidence didn't waver—it never did—but there was a flicker of frustration in his eyes, a subtle crack in the facade that revealed just how much he hated being left in the dark.

"Oh, I know I will," he said smoothly, the weight of his promise lingering between them. His voice carried the kind of easy charm he wielded like a weapon, but beneath it, there was a spark of something more—a determination that Letti knew better than to underestimate.

"You know," Damon started, standing up to close the distance between them. He towered over Letti, though she maintained her composure beneath his gaze. "I've been running around a lot lately, trying to piece together a few things," he continued, his tone easy, but there was a sharpness beneath the surface. "Made a little stop in Charlotte not too long ago and just got back into town to find you—a fresh, but familiar face in the midst of this never-ending chaos."

Letti's fists clenched instinctively, her nails biting into her palms as the name of the city settled uncomfortably in her mind. The ripple of unease was swift, coiling in her stomach, but she didn't let it show. Her expression remained neutral, her features composed, as though the mention hadn't affected her at all. Could he know? No, he couldn't possibly. Mikael's entombment in Charlotte had always been a carefully guarded secret, a whispered piece of their family's darkest history. But this was Klaus they were dealing with, and trouble followed him like a shadow. If Damon and his friends had stumbled onto something connected to their father, Letti knew she needed to tread carefully.

Damon leaned back slightly, his gaze never leaving her as he continued, oblivious to the subtle shift in her demeanor. "Quaint place, Charlotte. A little quiet, though. Maybe too quiet, you know?"

The weight of his stare was unrelenting, and for a brief moment, Letti felt it pressing against the carefully constructed wall of her composure. But she met his gaze evenly, her voice calm and smooth, betraying none of the storm swirling inside her. "I'm sure it'll pick up eventually."

Damon raised an eyebrow, his curiosity visibly piqued. Her words carried a weight he couldn't quite place, an edge that made his instincts prickle. "You ever been?" he asked, his tone casual, but his eyes sharp and probing.

Letti allowed a faint smile to curve her lips, though the expression was cold, detached—a shield against the game he was playing. "In passing," she replied, her tone light, almost dismissive.

The tension between them was palpable, a quiet, crackling energy that seemed to fill the space between their words. Damon didn't press further, but his gaze lingered on her, searching, testing, as though trying to peel back the layers she kept so carefully hidden. Letti held his stare without flinching, her calm exterior unyielding even as her mind raced. If this was a game of control, she was determined to win.

Damon's sharp eyes narrowed slightly as he studied her, a smirk tugging at his lips. "You're good, I'll give you that," he said, his tone laced with admiration and challenge.

Letti didn't react immediately. Instead, she offered him a slight shrug, her expression cool and composed. She knew she'd let him glimpse a little too much beneath the surface, but for now, it seemed Damon was satisfied—if only temporarily. She couldn't afford to let him dig any deeper. Not yet.

Damon's smirk deepened, though it didn't fully soften the calculating edge in his eyes. "Anyway," he said casually, his voice dripping with feigned nonchalance, "Mystic Falls has gotten more and more exciting these days. Shouldn't be too hard to find the answers I'm looking for."

Letti's mind was already turning, her thoughts spiraling back to the mention of Charlotte. The implications unsettled her, a faint ripple of unease brushing against her calm exterior. But she couldn't let him see that. Not now, when the stakes were higher than ever. "I'm sure you'll find them," she replied, her tone smooth and unbothered, the perfect mask.

She turned to leave again, her movements fluid, the heels of her boots clicking softly against the floor. Damon's gaze stayed fixed on her, his curiosity only growing as he watched her walk away. There was something magnetic about her, an undeniable pull that he couldn't quite shake. He crossed his arms loosely, his smirk fading into something more contemplative. He didn't like mysteries—especially not ones that carried themselves with the kind of quiet, restrained power that Letti did. There was power in her, that much was clear, and it intrigued him more than he cared to admit.

As Letti reached for the door handle, she paused, sensing his gaze still burning into her back. She couldn't resist one last glance over her shoulder, her expression unreadable but her eyes betraying the faintest flicker of amusement. It was quick, fleeting, gone before it could fully register, but it was enough to spark something in Damon.

"For someone who doesn't seem to want to be noticed, you're doing a pretty terrible job of it," Damon said, his voice light, but his words carried an edge, like a blade wrapped in silk.

Letti's lips curved ever so slightly, the faintest shadow of a smile that never quite reached her eyes. She turned her back to him, lingering just long enough for her voice to carry. "Maybe I'm not the one you should be noticing," she said, her tone even but layered with a quiet warning, subtle yet unmistakable. The calm composure she maintained throughout their exchange only heightened the tension, her words landing with the weight of something unspoken.

The soft click of the door echoed as she stepped into the warm night air, leaving Damon behind in the quiet hum of the bar. The faint scent of her lingered, a fleeting trace of something Damon couldn't quite place—something elusive, like the ghost of a memory just out of reach.

Damon walked back to his seat and sat there in silence, his glass resting in his hand as he stared at the spot where she had been. His smirk had faded into a contemplative line, his sharp blue eyes narrowing slightly as he turned over the pieces she'd left him. Each word, each calculated pause, felt deliberate, like breadcrumbs leading to a place she had no intention of showing him.

There was something about her—something that thrummed just beneath the surface, familiar in its danger yet entirely unique. It wasn't just her face, though there was an undeniable echo of someone he knew—someone he didn't trust. No, it was more than that. The cadence of her voice, the faint lilt of an accent that sharpened her words, tugged at a corner of his memory he couldn't quite access. It was smooth, refined, carrying an edge of control, but there was something old-world in the way she spoke, a trace of a history that didn't belong in this sleepy little town.

Still, he couldn't deny the intrigue. She was a complete enigma—unfolding one calculated word at a time—and he'd always had a weakness for puzzles. Especially the dangerous ones.

For now, though, she was gone, her absence leaving a curious weight in the air. Damon tilted his glass, the bourbon swirling lazily as he took a long sip, his thoughts already racing ahead. He didn't like waiting, but for this, he would make an exception.

Letti.

He rolled the name over in his mind, testing the shape of it, the weight it carried. Yes, she was worth figuring out. And Damon, for all his intrigue, never left a puzzle unsolved.