⋆⁺₊⋆ ⏾ 𖤓 ⋆⁺₊⋆

The darkness slipped away like water through her fingers, leaving Letti with the sharp, grounding sensation of air filling her lungs. Each breath was slow, deliberate, coaxing strength back into her limbs. The low hum of life swirled around her, overwhelming her heightened senses. Cool air brushed against her skin like a whisper, carrying with it the faintest tang of wood and dampness. Voices reached her ears, layered and distinct—one crisp and close, the other faint but unmistakable. She knew them both: Stefan and Damon.

Her eyelids fluttered, her vision sluggish as it adjusted to the dim light. A blurred figure took shape above her—Stefan, his shadow stretching long and unyielding. The void in his expression was chilling, his eyes betraying a flicker of detached curiosity as he peered down at her.

"Wake up," Stefan drawled, his tone lilting with mockery as he nudged her ribs with the toe of his boot. "You're staining my floors."

A low groan escaped her lips, reverberating with exhaustion. Even half-conscious, the sound of his voice was grating, each syllable slicing through the fragile quiet she longed to cling to. For a fleeting moment, she wished for the darkness to take her back.

Her lashes lifted with effort, the world sharpening piece by piece as she fought the pull of grogginess. She was no stranger to this feeling—this dull, throbbing ache in her chest, the lingering sluggishness that came from a stake plunged into her heart. It wasn't her first time waking from such an injury, and she doubted it would be her last..

Thanks to Klaus, stakes had become an unfortunate part of her existence. He had wielded them not as tools of death but as weapons of silence, a swift and effective punishment whenever she crossed him. Letti's defiance had earned her more than a few over the centuries. Each time was brutal but calculated—enough to immobilize, enough to make her regret, but never enough to kill.

This time, though, it wasn't Klaus's hand that had left her here, and that made the ache feel just a bit sharper. Letti's fingers curled against the floor as her strength slowly returned, her breaths steadying. This was familiar pain, but it didn't make it any less maddening.

Despite how familiar it was, the stake lodged in her chest was still a grave nuisance. Every shallow breath sent a sharp pain radiating through her body, making her attempt to sit up feel like moving against shards of glass. She gritted her teeth, her muscles tensing as she tried to push past it, but Stefan—ever opportunistic—decided to intervene. With a swift, deliberate motion, he yanked the stake from her chest.

The sudden, searing pain tore through her, drawing a low, feral growl from deep within her chest. The sound vibrated against the walls, raw and guttural, but the agony was fleeting. As quickly as it came, the ache began to fade, replaced by the familiar burn of her accelerated healing. The jagged wound in her chest stitched itself together in seconds, her body restoring its heightened supernatural abilities.

Well, almost.

A new kind of pain surfaced, searing and primal—a hunger so intense it clawed at her throat like fire. Her lips parted in another growl, this one edged with desperation. She forced herself upright, swaying slightly as her legs adjusted beneath her. The room spun momentarily, the sunlight spilling through the windows making her flinch. It had been hours, possibly the entire night, since she'd been out.

Her gaze flicked to Stefan, who stood directly in front of her, his expression infuriatingly indifferent. Just beyond him, Damon's figure came into focus. His posture was tense, his movements sharp, and the frustration etched across his face was impossible to miss. Whatever had unfolded the night before clearly still weighed on him.

"Figured you'd need this," Damon said, his voice dry as he stepped forward, holding out a blood bag. His tone carried none of his usual charm, only the clipped efficiency of someone who knew better than to waste time arguing.

Letti didn't hesitate. She snatched the blood bag from his hand, the crinkling plastic cool against her palm. The coppery scent hit her senses like a drug, the sharp tang of blood sending a shiver through her. Tearing it open, she drank deeply, the liquid spilling over her tongue and down her throat, soothing the scorching ache. Relief flooded her body, her sharp edges softening as the hunger began to ebb, though the tension in the room remained thick, unspoken and unresolved.

"Are either of you gonna tell me what the hell happened last night?" Stefan asked, his tone clipped as he crossed his arms over his chest. His sharp gaze flicked between Damon and Letti, tension radiating from his rigid stance.

"I'm pretty sure I got spit-roasted by Mason Lockwood's ghost," Damon shot back, his voice laced with frustration. The irritation in his tone was palpable, his words cutting through the lingering haze of unease.

The name Mason Lockwood meant nothing to Letti—at least, not the first name. Lockwood was familiar, tied to Klaus's hybrid, Tyler Lockwood. But Mason? That was a mystery. Her brow furrowed slightly as her thoughts turned over the possibilities.

Why would this Mason target her specifically? The attack hadn't been random—of that she was certain. A stake through the heart was deliberate, the kind of kill shot meant to ensure death. And while it would have worked on a regular vampire, it wouldn't have on her, something Mason couldn't have known. Could he? Confusion warred with the sharp sting of anger simmering just beneath her surface. Whoever this Mason was, she looked forward to making her thoughts very clear when their paths crossed again.

"Whatever Bonnie did to get rid of Vicki must've backfired," Damon continued, his voice tinged with the kind of dry exasperation that made it clear he was already over this conversation. "Should probably tell her to fix it."

"Yeah, you go do that," Stefan replied, patting Damon on the shoulder as he turned on his heel, already stepping away. His voice was dismissive, his tone carrying an air of practiced detachment. "And while you do, I'll be anywhere else."

Damon rolled his eyes, a quiet scoff escaping him as Stefan disappeared from view. His attention shifted to Letti, who had remained quiet, her sharp gaze taking in every word and movement. She drained the last of her blood bag with an almost unnerving calm, the crimson liquid disappearing as quickly as the tension in her body began to ease.

Letti wiped the corner of her mouth with the back of her hand, finally tossing the empty bag onto a nearby table. She felt significantly better now, her strength fully restored, the lingering haze of grogginess fading away. But the dried blood on her clothes clung uncomfortably to her skin, a sticky, metallic reminder of the night before. Her fingers brushed against the fabric of her ruined shirt, her nose wrinkling slightly at the scent of old blood mingling with sweat and the faintest trace of smoke.

Damon's sharp gaze lingered on her, and she could feel the weight of it. But she didn't meet his eyes. Not yet. The only thing on her mind now was the need to clean up. The blood-soaked clothes pressed against her skin like a second layer, and the discomfort was unbearable.

"You comin' with, Princess?" Damon's voice carried a teasing edge, the nickname deliberate, designed to test her patience.

Letti raised a brow at the moniker, her sharp gaze flicking to his smirking face, but she let it slide. There were more pressing matters demanding her focus. "I think I'll catch up with you," she replied, her tone cool as she began backing toward the stairs, her steps deliberate.

Damon scoffed lightly, his skepticism clear in the way his smirk lingered. He grabbed his keys from the table, the metal jangling faintly in his hand. "I'll be at the Grill if you decide to do something other than lurk today," he quipped, the challenge in his tone unmistakable. "Could use your help with Ghost Boy."

Letti's lips twitched, a faint smirk breaking her otherwise composed expression. "Ah, taking the whole 'team' thing seriously now, are we?" she asked, her voice laced with dry amusement as she reached the bottom of the stairs.

Damon glanced back at her, his smirk softening into something almost genuine. "It's a hell of a lot better than being enemies," he said, his tone quieter, but the weight behind his words made them linger in the air as he stepped out the front door. At the last second, he turned back, calling over his shoulder, "Don't keep me waiting too long," before the door clicked shut behind him.

Letti exhaled softly, the echo of his words hanging in the silence. She turned and hurried up the stairs, her boots brushing against the polished wood with each step. Back in Rebekah's room, the faint scent of her sister's perfume—sweet with a sharp, floral bite—still lingered in the air, though Rebekah herself was gone. Just as she'd been the night before. Letti couldn't help but wonder where exactly her sister had run off to, the thought fleeting as her eyes swept the room.

Crossing to the wardrobe, Letti rummaged through the neatly hung clothes. The soft rustle of fabric filled the otherwise quiet space as she sifted through Rebekah's signature collection of elegant and bold pieces. Finally, she settled on a pair of fitted blue jeans and a tan tank top, understated but practical. She paired the borrowed clothes with her own well-worn leather jacket and black boots.

The search for a shower brought Letti back downstairs, where she wandered into Damon's bedroom. She paused, taking in the space with a faint, knowing smirk. It was exactly as she had imagined—an air of dark sophistication wrapped in brooding charm. The dark wood furnishings gleamed faintly in the warm glow of strategically placed lamps, while deep, rich tones gave the room an almost hypnotic allure. A king-size bed, draped in a mix of sleek black and muted grays, dominated the space, perched atop an intricately woven Persian rug.

Though sunlight filtered faintly through the heavy curtains cloaking the tall windows, the room remained shadowed, steeped in an intimate kind of gloom. It was a space that radiated Damon Salvatore, from the faint scent of leather and bourbon in the air to the careful disarray of books and half-empty glasses scattered across surfaces. Letti's sharp eyes flicked over the details, her lips twitching slightly in amusement as she veered toward the adjoining bathroom.

Inside, the sleek elegance continued. Letti's hand grazed the smooth porcelain of the oversized tub, her fingers tracing the cool surface before she turned the faucet. The sound of rushing water filled the space as steam began to rise, curling lazily in the warm air. She grabbed a plush towel, setting it and her change of clothes on the vanity.

Once the bath was drawn, Letti peeled off her shredded and bloodied clothes, letting them fall to the floor with a soft rustle. She eased herself into the tub, and a soft, involuntary sigh escaped her lips as the hot water enveloped her. The heat seeped into her muscles, soothing the ache that still lingered from her earlier injuries. For a fleeting moment, she allowed herself to sink deeper, her head resting against the edge of the tub as the tension began to melt away.

The warmth felt like a cocoon, wrapping her in a comforting embrace that she wished she could linger in forever. Here, in the quiet solitude of the water, the weight of the day, of the endless centuries, seemed to dissolve into nothing. But reality tugged at the edges of her peace, pulling her thoughts back to the tasks ahead. There were things to be done, people to confront—Damon's friends among them.

Letti opened her eyes, the faint sheen of steam blurring the bathroom's edges as she reached for the towel. She couldn't afford to lurk in the shadows anymore. Damon wouldn't let her, not now. He'd likely already spilled the truth to his friends about the newest Mikaelson in town.

Her jaw tightened at the thought. With Klaus's track record—and now Rebekah's—she doubted the welcome would be warm. The Salvatore circle wasn't exactly known for rolling out the red carpet, especially for Originals. Letti exhaled sharply, the water rippling softly as she rose, her mind already racing with the implications of what was to come.

But Letti wasn't in Mystic Falls for them. She had no quarrel with anyone apart from her brother. The thought lingered, heavy yet oddly comforting. In realizing that simple truth about herself, she wondered if, in time, it might earn her their trust. Not that she particularly needed it, but she certainly preferred spending her time with those who weren't actively plotting her demise—unlike Damon and his friends, whose lives were consumed by strategies to kill Klaus. That alone would be an obstacle, one she wasn't sure yet how to navigate.

She and Klaus had issues—issues spanning a thousand years, far beyond the textbook definition of sibling rivalry. Their bond as twins had once been her anchor, forged in love, survival, and an unshakable reliance on one another. But a millennia of betrayal, manipulation, and cruelty had eroded that bond into something fractured and raw. Still, the weight of it was unshakable. Klaus was the person she had loved most in the world, the one who had stood beside her since the day they entered this life together. That kind of connection wasn't something she could let go of, no matter how deeply it cut her.

Her chest tightened at the thought, an ache blooming that she couldn't will away. She couldn't allow him to be killed. No matter how much he deserved to face the consequences of centuries of bloodshed and cruelty, there wasn't a single part of her that wished him dead. The idea of a world without Klaus, as infuriating as he was, made her stomach churn with unease. It was unthinkable. Impossible. It wasn't something she would allow, not while she still drew breath.

But at the moment, it wasn't something she could share with Damon or his friends. They wouldn't understand, not yet. In time, they would all see just how far she was willing to go to protect her family, whether they accepted it or not. And when that time came, Letti wondered if their trust—if it ever existed—would hold against the truth.

Letti stepped out of the bath, steam rising from the warm water and curling into the cool air of the bathroom. She dried off quickly, the soft towel brushing against her skin before she slipped into her chosen outfit. The tan tank top and jeans felt comfortably snug, paired with her black boots and leather jacket—a stark contrast to the vulnerability she'd felt in the water moments before. As she adjusted her accessories in the mirror, her mind lingered on Damon's words about going to the Grill. She decided she would take him up on the suggestion.

The journey to the square was brief, her supernatural speed making quick work of the distance. The moment she arrived, the shift in atmosphere was palpable. The streets were more crowded than usual, filled with bustling locals and colorful decorations strung across storefronts and lampposts. The faint hum of chatter and laughter mingled with the crisp air, carrying the unmistakable signs of a town event. Letti glanced around with mild disinterest, the festive scene holding little appeal for her.

As she strolled through the square toward the Grill, the soft click of her boots against the cobblestones was nearly drowned out by the surrounding noise. Her sharp senses picked up snippets of conversations, the faint scent of fresh popcorn and caramel drifting through the air. It was almost enough to distract her—almost.

Her gaze flicked across the square and landed on a set of familiar eyes, instantly catching her attention. The doppelgänger. Elena sat at an outdoor table with Stefan and a younger boy Letti recognized but hadn't yet learned the name of. Her stomach tightened slightly, a quiet tension settling over her as Elena's gaze locked onto her.

Elena's expression was a storm of emotions—confusion, suspicion, and something else Letti couldn't quite place. Her brown eyes lingered on Letti, narrowing slightly, her brows knitting together as though she were trying to piece together a memory just out of reach. There was a flicker of recognition in her gaze, subtle but undeniable, as if she was certain she should know Letti yet couldn't determine why. Her lips parted slightly, an unspoken question hanging between them, unuttered but tangible in the way she watched.

Letti's stride faltered briefly, her narrowed eyes locking onto Elena's with quiet calculation. There was a charge in the air between them, subtle yet undeniable, as if some invisible tether had drawn their gazes together. Letti's mind raced. How much of her identity had Elena pieced together? The doppelgänger's stare was relentless, her brown eyes flickering with an urgency that suggested she was trying to assemble a puzzle she didn't yet realize existed.

Elena's expression shifted, a brief flicker of discomfort crossing her face like a shadow. Yet she didn't look away. Her gaze was sharp, probing, as though searching for answers she couldn't articulate. Letti saw something deeper behind the confusion—a faint, instinctual pull that seemed to ripple beneath the surface. It was as if the blood in Elena's veins recognized something her mind couldn't yet grasp, something that made Letti more than just a stranger. The sensation stirred unease within Letti, the weight of her significance pressing heavier in the moment than she cared to acknowledge.

The tension between them grew, thick and almost suffocating, though not a word was exchanged. Letti held her ground for a beat longer, her icy composure unbroken, but she couldn't ignore the wary curiosity in Elena's gaze. It wasn't fear—at least not entirely. It was the cautious intrigue of someone desperate to make sense of the unfamiliar, someone keenly aware that the unknown often carried danger.

Letti exhaled softly, breaking the unspoken standoff by forfeiting her gaze. Without a glance back, she continued her stride toward the Grill, letting the hum of the square's activity fade behind her. The moment she stepped inside, the sharp scent of grilled food and spilled beer met her nose, mingling with the low hum of chatter and clinking glasses. The warm lighting and casual din of laughter enveloped the space, creating an ambiance that felt both lively and mundane—an odd contrast to the tension lingering in Letti's chest.

Patrons moved about, their conversations blending into a collective murmur as Letti stepped deeper into the Grill. She glanced around, her sharp gaze sweeping the room as she pushed Elena from her thoughts. For now.

At the bar, Letti's sharp gaze immediately landed on Damon. He was leaning casually against the counter, but the tension radiating off him was unmistakable. Beside him sat the hunter, Alaric, whose guarded posture hinted at an unspoken unease. The air between the two men felt heavy, as though an argument or revelation had just passed between them. But Letti's attention quickly shifted to the third figure—a man she didn't recognize, sipping his drink with an air of smugness that set her instincts on edge.

There was something about him, something off. He seemed too composed, too comfortable, his presence unsettling in a way Letti couldn't immediately place. As her footsteps carried her closer, his gaze flicked to her, sharp and assessing, and a sly smirk curled at the edges of his mouth. The faint light of the Grill glinted off his features, his eyes holding a glimmer of something dark and unspoken.

Letti slipped between him and Damon with calculated ease, her movements deliberate. The stranger didn't miss a beat, leaning against the bar with a confidence that only deepened her suspicions. "You're looking a lot better than the last time I saw you," he said, his tone laced with mockery. The smirk widened, his voice dropping to something more sinister as he added, "Though, I liked you better with a stake in your heart."

Her body stiffened, the weight of his words striking like a cold blade. Letti's eyes narrowed, the pieces falling into place with a sharp clarity. This was Mason Lockwood—the ghost that had attacked her the night before. The tension coiled tighter in her chest, her mind racing as she considered her next move.

But Letti didn't blink. She didn't flinch. Instead, she slid onto the barstool beside Damon with an unsettling calm, her expression unreadable. Her movements were fluid, almost languid, as if Mason's taunt had barely registered. Without breaking eye contact, she reached for Damon's glass, the cool surface steady in her hand. She took a deliberate, unhurried swig, the burn of the bourbon trailing down her throat as she processed Mason's presence. The heat of the liquor grounded her, steadying the rising tide of irritation and unease.

Without hesitation, Letti's hand shot out like a viper, her fingers curling tightly around the back of Mason's neck. With a burst of supernatural strength, she slammed his head into the bar with a sickening thud. The impact rattled the bottles lined up behind the counter, their glassy chime cutting through the ambient chatter of the Grill. A few patrons glanced over, but the crowd's oblivious hum quickly drowned out any concern.

Mason groaned, his head snapping back as he clutched at his forehead, momentarily dazed. The faint smell of bourbon and wood polish hung thick in the air, mingling with the sharp edge of aggression Letti exuded. She leaned in, her lips curling into a faint, dangerous smile as her voice dropped to a low, venomous murmur.

"And I might just have to see if I like you better with or without your head," she said, her tone laced with chilling calm. The threat was quiet, but the weight behind it hung heavy in the charged air between them.

From his seat, Alaric raised an eyebrow, his expression caught somewhere between wariness and amusement. He sipped his drink, clearly more entertained than alarmed, while Damon, still wiping a streak of blood from the corner of his mouth, let out a low chuckle.

"Should've seen that one coming, buddy," Damon quipped, his tone smug as he leaned back against the bar, watching the scene unfold with barely veiled satisfaction.

"Probably," Mason muttered, his voice tight with pain as he gingerly rubbed at the red mark blooming across his forehead. His eyes flicked toward Letti, irritation flashing briefly before he forced a cocky smirk.

"Tread carefully, Lockwood," Letti warned, her voice as smooth as the bourbon she sipped. Her gaze was steady, sharp, as though she could see straight through him. "You're already dead, but I'd be happy to make it worse."

Mason raised his hands in mock surrender, his smirk slipping into something more cautious. "Look, I knew the stake wouldn't kill you," he said defensively, his tone almost placating as he slid onto the barstool beside her. He motioned for the bartender to join their corner, the tension around them thick and palpable. "I just needed you out of the way so I could get to him."

His eyes shifted pointedly to Damon, who was slouched in frustration, his jaw tight. "I killed you, you want revenge, get in line," Damon muttered darkly, swiping his glass of bourbon back from Letti with a flick of annoyance. He drained the remaining amber liquid just as the bartender placed four fresh drinks in front of them. Letti wasted no time grabbing one, her fingers curling around the cool glass as she took another sip.

Mason leaned back in his chair, his smug demeanor returning as he lifted his drink. "Actually," he began, his tone casual but carrying an edge, "I want an apology."

Alaric, seated nearby, let out a low, dry chuckle, his lips twisting into a half-smile. "Good luck with that," he remarked, his voice laced with amusement. The corner of Damon's mouth twitched in irritation as he rolled his eyes, the weight of the conversation pressing heavier by the second.

Letti's gaze flicked between the three men, her expression unreadable but faintly amused as she took another slow sip of her drink. For a moment, she allowed the silence to stretch, watching the interplay unfold like a spectator to a game she had no intention of losing.

"Don't you have a family to haunt?" Damon quipped, his voice heavy with disdain. He leaned back in his chair, swirling the last remnants of bourbon in his glass as if Mason's presence wasn't even worth his full attention. "You know your nephew's turned into a mindless hybrid minion, right?"

Mason's jaw tightened, his expression darkening as his gaze flicked toward Letti. She hadn't said a word, merely watched the exchange unfold with a detached calm. But the way Mason's eyes lingered on her sent a subtle tension crawling up her spine.

"Because of her brother," Mason spat, his words laced with bitterness so thick it hung in the air like smoke. "That's why I'm here."

Her composure remained intact, but beneath the surface, her thoughts churned. Mason's anger toward Klaus was palpable, familiar even. It mirrored the same venom that had festered in her own heart for years. But the way he projected that anger onto her, as though she shared her brother's guilt, struck a nerve she could barely suppress. It wasn't her fault, none of it was. Klaus had made his choices, and yet here she was, bearing the brunt of the consequences like a lightning rod for his chaos.

Letti exhaled softly, her fingers tightening imperceptibly around her glass as she fought the urge to lash out. She wasn't Klaus. She would never be Klaus. And yet, no matter how far she tried to distance herself, she was always dragged back into his shadow. It grated against her nerves, a relentless reminder of the bond she couldn't sever, no matter how much she sometimes wished she could.

"Tyler can't be helped," Damon said, his tone matter-of-fact but carrying the faintest edge of frustration. He leaned forward, setting his empty glass down on the bar with a hollow clink. His sharp blue eyes fixed on Mason. "At least not while Klaus is alive. Which is, like...always."

"Not necessarily," Mason shot back, his voice cutting through the air like a blade. There was a flicker of intensity in his gaze, a fire that burned even in death. "Not if you found a weapon that could kill him."

The shift in the conversation was immediate, the weight of Mason's words hanging thick in the air. Letti's body went still, her hand pausing mid-motion as she raised her glass. The casual bar chatter around them seemed to dim, her senses zeroing in on the two men as silence stretched taut between their words.

Mason sat unbothered, leaning back against the bar with an almost smug indifference. He was dead, and it showed in the way he spoke—with nothing to lose and everything to gain. Damon, on the other hand, faltered ever so slightly, his sharp gaze flicking to Letti. It was a brief glance, but in it was a question, an unspoken search for a reaction. Would she shut this down? Was she a threat? The slight tension in his jaw betrayed his uncertainty.

Letti met his gaze, calm and unreadable, as she took another measured sip of her bourbon. On the surface, she appeared indifferent, her expression composed as though she were merely a passive participant in the conversation. But inside, a storm churned. Anger flared hot and relentless, sparking against the iron grip she held on her control. Her protective instincts—so deeply ingrained they were like a second heartbeat—roared to life, demanding action, demanding that she stop this train of thought before it gained momentum.

She hated Klaus, hated him for the centuries of pain and manipulation he had inflicted on her and everyone around him. But no amount of hatred could override the truth of their bond or the immense love that mirrored such a loathing. He was her twin, her blood, her tether to a world that had shifted and broken a thousand times over. The thought of his death twisted something deep inside her, a pain sharper than she cared to admit. No matter his sins, she couldn't let them kill him.

Her anger twisted, curling into something colder—fear. The only weapon she knew of that could kill Klaus belonged to their father, but could there be another? The thought clawed at her, sending a ripple of unease through her chest. These young vampires were resourceful, relentless in their pursuit of any advantage over her family. If another weapon existed, one capable of erasing the Mikaelsons from existence, it would be a threat far greater than any of them realized.

She forced herself to breathe steadily, her calm exterior betraying nothing of the storm raging inside. The Mikaelsons had a thousand years on the Salvatores and their friends. They were the most powerful family in the world—unmatched, unrivaled. But power bred arrogance, and arrogance was dangerous. It whispered of invincibility while leaving room for threats to slip through unnoticed. And Letti had lived too long to ignore that possibility.

A darker thought took root, cold and calculating. If they were searching for a weapon, perhaps she could help them find it. Not to use it—never that. But to destroy it, to ensure it could never be wielded against her family. It was a gamble, but one she was willing to take if it meant safeguarding the fragile remains of the bond she couldn't sever.

"There is no weapon that can kill him," Damon said, his voice cutting through the tension and pulling her from her thoughts. His gaze finally shifted from her, but she could see the flicker of doubt in his sharp blue eyes. He might have dismissed Mason's claim aloud, but the idea lingered, intriguing him. A weapon to rid their lives of Klaus forever—it was a possibility too tempting to ignore.

Mason, however, didn't flinch. If anything, the ghost looked more resolute, his expression hardening with a sense of purpose. "If there's a way to get rid of him, we need to find it," he said, his voice low but urgent. His eyes locked onto Damon, his conviction almost palpable. "Who knows what else he'll do if we don't stop him?"

Letti knew. Wherever Klaus went, chaos and destruction followed like shadows, inevitable and unrelenting. Over the centuries, he'd left countless lives in ruins, hers among them, fractured and reshaped to fit the narrative of his endless ambitions. She hated him for it. And yet, her fear of losing him—of existing in a world without her twin—battled fiercely against the growing desire to end his reign of terror once and for all. The contradiction churned within her, relentless and sharp, each side vying for dominance over her fractured heart.

"Destruction follows Klaus wherever he goes," Letti said finally, her voice cutting through the tension like a blade. The sudden interjection caught both men off guard, their gazes snapping to her. Her tone was calm, measured, but heavy with unspoken truths. "I truly do understand the weight of everything he's done, to you and your friends."

Damon leaned forward slightly, a flicker of hope igniting in his crystal-blue eyes. "Does that mean you'd help us?" he asked, his voice softer now, almost careful, as though he feared breaking whatever fragile bridge she was beginning to build.

Letti held his gaze for a moment longer than she intended, his earnestness pinching at something deep inside her she wasn't ready to name. Quickly, she turned her attention back to the amber liquid in her glass, watching the way it caught the light as she swirled it slowly. She tipped it to her lips, letting the burn of the alcohol sear through her senses, momentarily grounding her against the storm of emotions clawing at her.

Her mind raced, each thought sharper than the last. Her instincts screamed to act, to put an immediate stop to their scheming before it gained any traction. But she couldn't—because, infuriatingly, they were right. Letti had known it for centuries in the quiet moments she dared to admit the truth to herself. Klaus needed to be stopped.

But not like this.

"You don't know what you're asking of me, Damon," Letti said quietly, her voice carrying an edge of restraint as she glanced at him over the rim of her glass. She took another slow sip, the burn of the bourbon a stark contrast to the storm of emotions brewing beneath her calm exterior. The tension in the room grew heavier, the silence crackling with unspoken truths as her thoughts raced, each one sharper and more damning than the last.

"What I do know," Damon replied, his gaze locked on hers, "is you're nothing like your ass of a brother." His tone was firm but laced with a certain vulnerability, his usual bravado giving way to something more genuine. "You've had every opportunity to kill me, and you haven't. Hell, the only reason Klaus hasn't killed me yet is because of his weird obsession with my brother."

Letti's pulse quickened at his words, a flicker of something unnameable sparking within her. Hope, maybe. Hope that someone might see her for who she truly was, beyond the shadow of her brother's sins. The idea was both foreign and intoxicating, but it scared her too. Trust had never come easily, and trusting Damon Salvatore felt like a gamble she wasn't sure she could afford.

"You could help us, Letti," Damon pressed, his voice softer now, yet still charged with his usual resolve. There was a quiet intensity in his eyes, a plea wrapped in determination. "You know you could."

"I could," Letti began slowly, her tone measured, cautious. She set her glass down with deliberate care, her fingers brushing the smooth surface of the bar as she weighed her words. "I'll be the first to agree that Klaus deserves to suffer for everything he's done." Her voice hardened, a sharp edge creeping in that made Damon pause. "But I won't allow him to be killed."

The weight of her declaration settled between them like a thunderclap, reverberating in the thick silence that followed. Her tone carried an unshakable seriousness, a gravity that made even Damon hesitate. His sharp blue eyes searched hers, and what he saw made his stomach tighten—the unrelenting determination, the quiet but unmistakable danger that simmered beneath her composed exterior.

Mason leaned forward, frustration tightening the lines of his face. "Then what do you propose we do? Line everyone up for slaughter? That's not happening. I'm not gonna let that hybrid freak ruin any more lives, especially my nephew's."

Letti's eyes snapped to Mason, his words cutting through the room with a sharpness that made her jaw tense. "Hybrid freak." The phrase lingered in the air like a bad taste, its venom seeping into her thoughts. Mason might have been a ghost, untethered from the consequences of his words, but the weight of that casual dismissal hit her harder than she expected. Her grip on the glass in her hand tightened, the smooth surface cool against her skin as she worked to keep her reaction in check.

A dry, unamused chuckle slipped past her lips, a practiced mask to hide the storm of emotions brewing beneath. She tipped her glass back, draining the last of the amber liquid in one smooth motion, the burn of the alcohol doing little to dull the sting of Mason's words. How dare he reduce Klaus—reduce her—to a mere label? As if their existence, shaped by centuries of pain and survival, could be so easily dismissed.

Letti's fingers lingered on the empty glass, her mind racing with memories of those who had treated her nature as something to be ashamed of. Her father's cold eyes flashed in her mind, his disdain for her and Klaus an ever-present reminder of the sins he believed they carried. She swallowed hard, the bitterness of those judgments rising in her throat like bile. Even in death, her mother's actions cast a shadow over her, leaving her to bear the weight of a curse she hadn't asked for and the isolation that came with being so irreparably different.

But Letti wasn't ashamed. Not of what she was. Not of what Klaus was. Their hybrid nature wasn't a weakness or a defect, no matter how many times others tried to make it seem that way. It was survival. It was strength. And yet, Mason's flippant tone, his blatant lack of understanding, stirred an ache in her chest she couldn't entirely suppress.

Klaus wore his hybrid nature like a crown, wielding it as both shield and weapon. To him, it wasn't just a truth—it was a declaration of his superiority, an unrelenting assertion of dominance over anyone who dared challenge him. Letti had always envied and resented that part of him in equal measure. Where Klaus embraced the monstrous side of himself without hesitation, she kept hers buried, careful not to let it define her. Yet, no matter how hard she tried to distance herself, the world always dragged her back, holding her to the same brutal standard as her twin.

As his sister—his twin—Letti bore the weight of that shared reputation. In the eyes of those around her, she was not just another Mikaelson. She was his mirror, his equal, capable of the same ruthless cruelty, the same devastating power. That assumption had followed her for a millennium, leaving scars that ran deeper than she cared to admit. It was a battle she fought silently, a struggle to carve out her own identity while carrying the shadow of his.

She waved the bartender over for another drink, the clink of glass against wood grounding her as her thoughts threatened to spiral. The rich amber liquid swirled in her cup, catching the low light of the Grill, and she focused on it as if it held the answers she couldn't voice. Mason's words lingered, a bitter echo gnawing at her resolve, but she forced her expression to remain calm. Letti had spent centuries perfecting the art of composure, of burying the storm beneath an unshakable surface. But even the most tranquil waters had their depths, and Mason had stirred something she wasn't ready to face.

"And I'm not going to let you kill my brother," she said finally, her voice low but firm. She kept her eyes on the glass, unwilling to meet Mason's gaze. Letti didn't owe him her inner turmoil, didn't owe anyone an explanation for the tangled mess of her loyalty and resentment. Klaus was her burden to bear, and the complexity of their bond was far too personal for this conversation.

"There has to be another way," she added, her tone edged with quiet determination. It wasn't just a plea—it was a command, a line she refused to let them cross. Letti hoped, for their sake, they understood just how serious she was.

It was then Damon realized he'd need to approach this differently. Klaus had to die—there was no way around it. But Letti's stance was immovable, and he couldn't ignore the warning simmering in her gaze. Her quiet intensity had a way of rooting itself in his mind, making him reconsider, even when he didn't want to.

His real problem, though, wasn't Klaus. It was Letti. For reasons he hadn't quite unraveled, he liked her. Not in the way he tolerated others, not even like the way he kept Stefan around. He genuinely liked her. She was every bit the Original vampire—dangerous, ancient, and steeped in mystery—but there was something different about her. Something that drew him in. Maybe it was the challenge she posed, the way she met his sharpness with calm defiance. Or perhaps it was the quiet complexity she carried, as though every glance and word held stories he wanted to uncover.

And then there was the question gnawing at him: How far could he push before she snapped? Before Letti decided he was no longer worth the effort and dealt with him as only an Original could? He wasn't sure if he wanted to find out, but the thought kept tugging at the edges of his curiosity.

"What do you know, Mason?" Damon asked finally, his tone neutral enough to feed Letti's belief that they could explore her suggestion of finding another way.

Mason smirked, his earlier frustration giving way to smug satisfaction. "I know you need to apologize."

"You've gotta be kidding me," Damon scoffed, his voice dripping with disbelief.

"Are you even capable of remorse?" Alaric chimed in, leaning back in his chair with a sardonic grin. He'd been quiet until now, but this was too good to pass up. "Just apologize!"

Damon shot him a glare, but Alaric only raised his glass in mock encouragement. Letti, still watching the conversation unfold with detached curiosity, let the smallest smirk curl at the corner of her lips. For a moment, Damon caught it, and his irritation wavered, replaced by something he couldn't quite name. She was frustrating, enigmatic, and maddeningly unshakable—but somehow, he wasn't ready to give up on her just yet.

Damon let out a slow, begrudging breath, locking eyes with Mason. "You're right," he said flatly. "I didn't have to kill you. I do a lot of things I don't have to do." His tone was as dry as the bourbon in his glass—a hollow apology that barely grazed the surface of sincerity.

Letti watched him carefully, her sharp eyes catching the subtle flicker of indifference beneath his words. He wasn't sorry. Not in the slightest. But she doubted Damon Salvatore had ever truly apologized for anything in his life. His version of remorse was performative at best, though somehow, it seemed to amuse Mason.

The ghost laughed, standing from his barstool with a smirk tugging at his lips. His gaze flicked between Letti and Damon, both of whom stared back at him with thinly veiled incredulity. "Meet me at the old Lockwood cellar," Mason instructed, his voice carrying a note of finality. "And bring a shovel."

With that, he disappeared into the crowded bar, weaving effortlessly through the throng of patrons. Letti sighed, her fingers tightening slightly around her glass as she brought it to her lips. The bourbon burned its familiar path down her throat, grounding her amidst the absurdity of it all.

Damon turned his attention back to her and Alaric, his expression shifting into one of mild exasperation. "So, who's comin' with?" he asked, his gaze darting between the two of them.

"I think I'll sit this one out," Alaric replied with a dry chuckle. "Vengeful ghosts and Lockwood cellars don't exactly bode well for the vulnerable human."

"Alright, then," Damon muttered, his tone edged with resignation. His sharp blue eyes shifted to Letti, who was swirling the amber liquid in her glass with an air of detached amusement. "How about you, Mikaelson? You in? Care to keep me company? Maybe make sure Mason doesn't try to rip my head off?"

Letti shrugged, her shoulders rising in a gesture of nonchalance, though a flicker of uncertainty danced in her eyes. She wasn't sure she wanted to indulge what was clearly a conspiracy against her family. Yet, a part of her—curious and undeniably reckless—was intrigued. What secrets might the infamous Lockwood cellar hold? The idea tugged at her, but there were more pressing matters to attend to first. Chief among them: finding Rebekah, who had been conspicuously absent since the night before.

"I might consider it," Letti said at last, finishing her drink with a slow, deliberate sip. She stood, her sharp gaze drifting between Damon and Alaric. Her lips curved ever so slightly, her tone light with feigned detachment. "You'll pay for those, right?"

Damon leaned back in his seat, smirking as his eyes glinted with mischief. "You're part of the richest family in the world, and you can't pay for your drink?"

Letti's expression shifted, a ghost of a smile tugging at her lips as she tilted her head in mock amusement. Slowly, she began backing away, her eyes locking with Damon's in a subtle challenge. "Why pay for my own drink," she quipped, her voice lilting with playful arrogance, "when there's a perfectly fine Salvatore here to take care of it for me?"

She offered no further explanation, no lingering glance. Turning smoothly on her heel, Letti strode out of the Grill with the effortless grace of someone who knew the eyes of the room were on her. The door closed behind her, leaving Damon and Alaric alone at the bar.

Damon's smirk lingered as he turned back to his drink, a subtle glint in his eye that didn't escape Alaric's notice. Letti Mikaelson's sudden appearance had caught him off guard. Damon had mentioned her in passing—an Original sibling who'd surfaced out of nowhere—but seeing her now, casually perched at the bar as if she weren't part of the deadliest family in existence, was unsettling. She'd walked into their orbit as if she belonged, her presence a strange juxtaposition of ease and tension.

What unsettled Alaric more was Damon's apparent comfort with her. Their group's history with the Mikaelsons was nothing short of catastrophic: Klaus had killed Jenna, used Elena as a pawn, and destroyed Stefan's humanity. Yet here Damon was, smirking and bantering with his sister as if none of it mattered.

"Are you really that oblivious, or are you just pretending?" Alaric asked, leaning back against the bar, his arms crossing in disbelief. He studied Damon with a mix of curiosity and wariness, his expression skeptical.

"Oblivious? Me?" Damon shot back, his tone dripping with mock offense. He swirled the amber liquid in his glass, the ice clinking softly as he tilted his head toward Alaric. "Please. I know exactly what I'm doing. Letti's...intriguing, to say the least. There's something about her—this whole mysterious, dangerous vibe. It's hard not to be curious."

Alaric raised a brow, unimpressed, but Damon leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial tone. "Besides, you saw the way she handled Mason. She's not just a pretty face. Having her on our side when it's time to deal with Klaus? That could be...useful."

"You're an idiot if you think she's just going to willingly help you get rid of Klaus," Alaric said, his tone laced with dry skepticism as he leaned against the bar, arching a knowing brow. "At the end of the day, he's still her brother."

Damon waved a dismissive hand, brushing off the warning with characteristic nonchalance. "Everything's gonna be fine, Ric," he replied, his smirk returning as he took another swig of his bourbon. "I just need her to think she's helping us find a way to put him down. Then, when all of our ducks are in a row, we'll kill him for real." His voice was calm, almost flippant, but there was a glimmer of calculation in his eyes.

Alaric chuckled, a low sound that carried more disbelief than humor. He shook his head at Damon's audacity. "Just remember, while you're playing with fire, Letti's the one who might get burned if this goes south." He tilted his head, narrowing his eyes at Damon. "And let's not forget—she's just as dangerous as Klaus, even if she doesn't wear it on her sleeve like he does."

Damon paused, his expression flickering for a moment as if Alaric's words had hit a nerve. He swirled the remaining bourbon in his glass, the amber liquid catching the dim light, before setting it down with a soft clink. "Dangerous, sure," he said, his voice quieter now, contemplative. "But she's not Klaus."

There was something in his tone—a hint of conviction, maybe even admiration—that made Alaric raise an eyebrow. Damon leaned back in his chair, his gaze distant for a moment as he searched for the right words. "There's something different about her, something...real. She's not out for blood the way he is. I don't know what it is yet, but I'm betting she's not the monster everyone's expecting her to be."

"Real?" Alaric repeated, his voice tinged with disbelief as he fixed Damon with a skeptical look. "Damon, she's an Original vampire, part of the most dangerous family in history. How can you be so sure she's different?"

Damon leaned back in his chair, swirling the amber liquid in his glass as if the motion might clarify his thoughts. "Because I see the way she fights it," he said finally, his tone uncharacteristically introspective. His gaze drifted, as though recalling moments that had etched themselves into his memory. "There's something in her eyes, Ric—like she's at war with herself. I don't think she wants to be like Klaus. And maybe that's why she's here. Maybe she's trying to carve out a place for herself, away from all that Mikaelson chaos." A sly smile curved his lips. "Either way, it'll be fun figuring it out."

Alaric frowned, his brow furrowed in thought. Damon's words carried a depth that surprised him, and he couldn't entirely dismiss the possibility. But skepticism lingered. "Just be careful," he warned, his voice steady but serious. "The last thing we need is another Mikaelson wreaking havoc in our lives."

Damon laughed softly, the sound laced with his trademark cockiness. "If there's one thing I know how to handle, it's chaos." He lifted his glass in a mock toast, his grin widening. "Besides, I've got my trusty sidekick here to keep me in check."

Alaric scoffed, his incredulous expression betraying his irritation. "Trusty sidekick?" he echoed, leaning forward as if to emphasize his point. "I'm not your sidekick, Damon. I'm the guy who gets dragged into your messes and somehow ends up cleaning them up."

Damon shrugged, his grin turning mischievous. "True," he conceded easily, the glint in his eyes unrepentant. "But you wouldn't have it any other way."

Just outside the town square, Letti made her way back to the B&B. The cool evening air pressed against her skin, carrying with it the faint scents of pine and damp earth. She walked with purpose, her boots clicking softly against the pavement. She needed more of her belongings—more clothes than the ones she'd borrowed from Rebekah. The idea of rummaging through her sister's wardrobe again left her feeling vaguely irritated. Rebekah had practically begged Letti to stay with her, only to vanish into the night without so much as a word. Typical little sister behavior, Letti thought with a dry sigh. Rebekah was fine, of course—she could take care of herself better than most—but the lack of consideration grated on Letti's nerves.

The B&B was quiet when she arrived, its cozy charm dimmed by her restless thoughts. It didn't take long to gather her things. She didn't own much, just a few outfits and her favorite pairs of boots. Traveling lightly had become second nature after centuries spent on the run—whether from her father's sadistic fury or her brother's unrelenting cruelty. Years of survival had taught her to pack only the essentials and rely on compulsion when necessary, though she tried to use that particular ability sparingly. Taking what she wanted had never sat well with her, despite the power she carried.

Letti stepped back onto the winding streets of Mystic Falls, pulling her suitcase behind her. The glow of streetlights painted golden streaks across the cobblestones, and for a moment, the town's charm stirred something bittersweet within her. Nostalgia crept into her chest, unbidden and unwelcome. She remembered a time when this place had been a sanctuary for her family—a fleeting moment of peace in an otherwise violent existence. Now, it felt foreign, shaped by decades of change and progress.

The memories played like old film reels in her mind: exploring the nearby caverns with her siblings, their laughter bouncing off the stone walls; the stories they'd etched into the rock with blades, preserving their existence in a world that had since forgotten them. That Mystic Falls was long gone, lost to the march of humanity and the passage of time. Yet, as she wandered the quiet streets, Letti couldn't shake the unease lingering in her gut. Whatever Mason Lockwood intended to reveal to Damon could disrupt more than just her brother's schemes. It threatened to unearth pieces of a past she'd worked so hard to bury. And while Mystic Falls might not remember the Mikaelsons' stories, she feared it would soon come to remember their ghosts.

Sometimes, Letti longed to go back to the days before their transition, to the fleeting moments when their lives were simpler, untouched by the cruelty of immortality. Living under Mikael's oppressive rule had been unbearable, and their mother's cold pride had offered little solace. Yet, amidst all the pain, her siblings had been her salvation—the six people she loved most in the world. Now, only five remained, and even after everything their lives had put them through, she would still do anything for them.

A thousand years later, and the ache of little Henrik's loss still lingered like a ghost in her chest. The boy she had adored, gone before he had the chance to grow into the man he might have been. Still, there was a strange comfort in knowing that he had been spared the torment of vampirism. It had poisoned them all, corrupting their hearts and twisting their souls.

Over the centuries, she had watched as the unrelenting weight of immortality stripped away their humanity, piece by piece. Some had succumbed more deeply than others, but Letti refused to believe her family was beyond redemption. They were not inherently monstrous; they were merely survivors, shaped by a world that had been cruel from the very start. And if there was even the faintest glimmer of hope left, she would cling to it with everything she had.

The Salvatore Boarding House came into view, pulling Letti from the whirlpool of her thoughts. Its looming structure stood quiet under the fading light, its age betraying the many secrets it held. She entered without hesitation, bypassing formalities like knocking. The silence inside felt almost heavy, broken only by the faint creak of floorboards as she made her way to Rebekah's room. The emptiness of the house mirrored the hollowness she often felt in these moments of reflection.

Letti began unpacking her meager belongings, placing them neatly on the bed and in the wardrobe. The familiar routine kept her mind occupied, but it wasn't long before the quiet was disrupted. The sound of the front door opening echoed faintly through the house, followed immediately by the unmistakable drawl of Damon's voice. He wasn't speaking to anyone in particular, just singing aimlessly, the words more a careless hum than coherent lyrics. A small smile tugged at Letti's lips despite herself. Damon's ability to fill the silence, even in the most ridiculous of ways, had a peculiar way of cutting through the tension in her chest.

Letti began her slow descent down the staircase, the echo of her footsteps muted by the plush carpet beneath her boots. At the base, Damon stood at the bar, pouring himself a drink with the casual flair he always seemed to possess. The faint clink of glass against glass caught her attention, and when he glanced up and saw her, a cheeky grin spread across his face. Without missing a beat, he grabbed a second glass, pouring another generous serving of bourbon.

"Care for a drink before we walk into certain death?" Damon quipped, holding the glass out to her, the sparkle in his eyes a blend of teasing mischief and undeniable charm.

Letti accepted the glass without hesitation, her fingers brushing briefly against his as she took it. She offered a curt nod of thanks, her expression unreadable, before making her way to the couch. The familiar weight of the bourbon in her hand grounded her as she sank into the plush cushions. The quiet ambiance of the house wrapped around her—the warm, golden glow of the lighting, the faint scent of bourbon and aged wood, and the low hum of distant silence that somehow felt alive.

"A certain death for you, maybe," Letti retorted, a sly smirk curving her lips. She swirled the bourbon in her glass before taking a deliberate sip. "Because, rest assured, I cannot be killed."

Damon followed her lead, his movements unhurried as he settled onto the opposite end of the couch. He leaned back with a casual ease, raising his glass to his lips. "I wouldn't be so sure about that," he countered, his tone playful, though his eyes gleamed with a sharper edge. "Once we figure out what this weapon could be, I might actually have the upper hand."

His words hung in the air, laced with jest but underpinned by a hint of something more calculated. Letti arched a brow, her expression flickering between amusement and mild annoyance. "We've already established I'm out of your league, Damon," she quipped, her voice laced with dry humor. She tipped her glass back, letting the bourbon's warmth spread through her, fueling the spark of confidence that simmered beneath her calm exterior.

"In more ways than one," Damon remarked, his voice dipping low, the sincerity woven into his words catching Letti off guard. Her eyes met his, and for a fleeting moment, the room seemed to quiet, the tension between them crackling in the stillness. There was something magnetic about the way his gaze lingered on her—a challenge wrapped in curiosity, a pull she couldn't entirely ignore.

But Letti quickly redirected her focus, unwilling to entertain the thoughts creeping into her mind. She forced herself to take another sip of bourbon, the burn down her throat grounding her as she reminded herself why she was here. Klaus. The name echoed in her head like a warning bell. She couldn't afford to get tangled up with the Salvatores or their friends—not in this way. Too much was at risk, and distraction could be fatal.

The warmth pooling in her chest at Damon's words was unsettling, a contradiction to the cold resolve she tried to cling to. She inhaled deeply, steadying herself before speaking. "I can't afford to forget why I'm here," she murmured, her voice even but tinged with an unspoken tension. The gravity of her mission and the weight of Klaus's shadow loomed heavily over her, threatening to snuff out the budding spark she refused to acknowledge.

Damon leaned back slightly, studying her with that infuriating mix of amusement and genuine curiosity. "A question I've asked—and you haven't yet answered," he countered, his tone laced with teasing persistence. "You've been in town for over a week, and I'm still in the dark about what you're really doing here."

Letti let out a slow, measured breath, the weight of Damon's gaze pressing on her like a tangible force. The question of trust lingered between them, unspoken but undeniable. Part of her wanted to answer him, to share even a fraction of the burden she carried. But another part—a far larger one—knew it wasn't the right time. Perhaps it never would be.

"I'm here for Klaus, Damon," she said finally, her tone steady despite the storm of emotion brewing within her. It was a simple statement, but it carried the weight of a thousand years of history, betrayal, and heartbreak. The words hung in the air, and she could feel the tension between them deepen, like a taut wire ready to snap.

Damon's expression shifted, a flicker of something softer crossing his face before his trademark smirk returned. "Klaus, huh?" he mused, leaning forward just enough to close the space between them slightly. "What'd he do this time? Leave the dagger in a little too long? Seems like that's a recurring family theme."

Her grip tightened on the glass in her hand, and her gaze dropped to the liquid within. She traced the rim with her finger, the small, repetitive motion grounding her in the moment. "It's complicated," she admitted after a long pause, her voice quiet but layered with meaning. "But he's always been complicated."

Damon studied her intently, the teasing edge in his voice giving way to something more serious. "And you?" he asked, his voice lower now, almost tentative. "Are you ready to deal with him? Because I've seen what he can do. It took all of us—and Elijah—to do something about him last time."

Letti held his gaze, the weight of Damon's words settling heavily in her chest. There was something unspoken in his eyes, a flicker of understanding that hinted at his own unseen battles. She wanted to brush it off, to keep the distance firmly in place, but the vulnerability she sensed in him made it harder.

"I've dealt with worse," she replied, though the hollow echo of her own words betrayed her doubt. The pain of her parents' rejection had left many scars, but the betrayal and loss of her twin brother—the one person who had always been her mirror—had shattered her entirely. She often wondered if the pieces could ever fit back together.

Damon's soft chuckle broke the silence, but the edge in it revealed more than his words ever could. "Yeah, I find that hard to believe," he quipped, his lips curling into a familiar smirk. But as he leaned back against the couch, the teasing faded, replaced by a heavy silence that seemed to grow with each passing second.

Letti's pulse quickened, the air between them charged with a tension she couldn't quite name. She felt herself drawn to him, his presence pulling at her like the tide—steady, unrelenting. It would be so easy to let her guard down, to give in to the strange comfort he offered. But she knew better. The walls she had built around herself were fortified by centuries of pain and betrayal, and she wasn't about to let them crumble now.

"Look, Damon," she said finally, her voice tight with barely concealed urgency, "I appreciate the concern, but I can't afford distractions. Not now." The words felt heavier than they should have, carrying with them the weight of truths she wasn't ready to share.

Damon nodded, his expression shifting to one of understanding, though what Letti perceived to be disappointment flickered behind his eyes. "Just know you don't have to deal with Klaus alone—you shouldn't have to."

Letti's heart fluttered at his words, the warmth of his sincerity washing over her. "Thanks," she replied quietly, though a part of her felt the familiar ache of conflict. Would it be worth it to allow someone in? Or would it only complicate the already tangled web of her life?

With a final, shared glance, Letti knew she needed to keep her guard up. As much as she longed to give in to the mere thought of the developing connection between the two, the shadows of her brother loomed large, and she reminded herself that no matter when and no matter where, Niklaus was always just a heartbeat away.