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The town square was eerily quiet, its usual hum subdued beneath the blanket of night. The soft glow of streetlights spilled onto the cobblestone paths, their faint flicker barely illuminating the emptiness. It was a stark contrast to the depths of the forest the sisters had just come from, where the rustle of leaves and the faint hoots of distant owls had created a living, breathing symphony. Here, the stillness was almost unnatural, the silence settling like a heavy fog.

Letti and Rebekah made their way to the Mystic Grill, their footsteps muffled against the pavement. The faint aroma of fried food and alcohol drifted out as they pushed open the door, the familiar chime of the bell breaking the quiet night. Inside, the atmosphere was subdued, the lighting dim and warm. It was late, and the Grill was nearly empty. A few scattered patrons nursed their drinks or leaned in for quiet conversations, their murmurs blending with the gentle clink of glasses.

Letti didn't mind the quiet; in fact, she welcomed it. After the raucous energy of the town's teenagers gathered around their bonfire, the subdued hum of the restaurant was a relief. The tension coiled in her chest began to ease, though not entirely. There was always an edge to her now—a weight that refused to leave her.

She strode toward the bar with measured steps, the faint scuff of her boots against the floor blending into the ambient noise. The bartender barely glanced at her as she ordered, pouring her usual drink with practiced efficiency. The amber liquid shimmered faintly in the dim light as Letti took her glass, her fingers curling around its cool surface. She turned away from the bar, weaving through the sparsely occupied tables until she found one tucked near the back, far enough to avoid prying eyes but close enough to observe.

Letti sank into the chair, her posture relaxed but alert. She swirled the bourbon in her glass absentmindedly, letting its rich, smoky scent drift upward. Across the room, the bathroom door clicked shut, and she caught a glimpse of Rebekah disappearing inside. Her sister's familiar presence lingered, a strange yet welcome comfort in this town full of unknowns.

Letti took a sip of her drink, the warmth spreading through her chest as she allowed herself a brief moment of reprieve. It had barely been a week since she first stepped foot in Mystic Falls, yet the weight of her presence already felt heavier, her carefully guarded aura beginning to fray. She could feel it unraveling, thread by thread, with every passing day.

And Damon Salvatore wasn't helping.

For days now, he'd been pressing, his relentless curiosity cutting closer to the truths she kept buried. He was sharper than she had given him credit for, his questions growing more pointed, more deliberate. It wasn't just curiosity—it was something more. Something that bordered on dangerous.

Letti had barely processed the thought when a familiar presence slipped into the room like a shadow. The faint scent of leather and bourbon teased her heightened senses, warm and unmistakable. Her jaw tightened involuntarily as Damon appeared, his movements smooth and self-assured.

Without hesitation, he slid into the seat opposite her, his casual confidence radiating from him like a challenge. He didn't ask for permission—he never did. His smirk was firmly in place, but Letti's sharp gaze didn't miss the glint in his eyes, sharper now than it had been before. He wasn't just curious; he was calculating, and that was far more dangerous than she'd anticipated.

"Well, we meet again," Damon drawled, his voice threaded with a casual sarcasm that didn't quite mask the sharpness beneath. "What's this? Fifth time this week?"

Letti didn't so much as glance at him. Instead, she took a slow sip of her drink, the cool glass steady in her hand. The smoky heat of the bourbon spread through her chest, grounding her against his pointed presence. "Are you disappointed?" she asked, her tone smooth, with just enough edge to match his energy.

Damon's smirk deepened, but his sharp blue eyes darkened, flickering with something more dangerous, more deliberate. "No, actually," he said, his voice low, teasing but weighted. "I was just hoping you'd disappear into the night like a good little mystery. I don't like loose ends, and you've become one big, shiny loose end, sweetheart."

Letti's fingers tightened ever so slightly around her glass, the faint pressure grounding her as she kept her composure. Her eyes lifted to meet his, calm but piercing. "Is that supposed to be a threat, Salvatore?" she asked, her voice soft, with just enough steel beneath the surface to challenge him.

Damon's smirk faltered, replaced with something sharper, more calculating. He leaned forward, closing the space between them as his scent—leather, bourbon, vanilla, and something distinctly Damon—washed over her senses. "Depends," he said, his voice dropping an octave, smooth yet charged. "We've been at this for days—are you planning on finally telling me who you are?"

The tension hummed between them like a taut string, unspoken yet impossible to ignore. Letti didn't flinch under his gaze. Instead, she let a faint, almost imperceptible smile play at the corner of her lips, as though she found his persistence amusing—or perhaps, predictable.

"You've been trying so hard to figure me out. Does it really matter?" Letti's voice was calm, a quiet confidence threading through her words. Her fingers lightly traced the rim of her glass, her gaze steady and unreadable as she regarded Damon.

Damon's eyes narrowed, his patience visibly fraying. For days, she'd been on the periphery, always lingering just out of reach, always leaving more questions than answers. It was maddening, almost deliberate. "It does when someone's hanging around town, lurking in the shadows, and keeping secrets," he said, his voice tight but measured. "And here's the thing—I don't like secrets. Especially not when they involve my family, my town, or my friends."

Letti tilted her head slightly, the faint curve of her lips forming a shadow of a smile—one that carried just enough bite to unnerve. "And what if I told you my being here has absolutely nothing to do with you?"

The flicker of amusement in her tone only seemed to fan the flames of Damon's frustration. His fingers tapped once against the table, the movement deceptively casual, but the tension coiling through his frame was palpable. His sharp blue eyes locked onto hers, searching, pressing. "Well, I know you're not just here for the bourbon," he said, his voice dropping lower, a thread of accusation woven into his words. "So, how about we cut the crap? You've been watching us for days. What do you want, Letti?"

Letti leaned back in her seat, the smooth leather creaking softly beneath her. Her gaze remained steady on Damon, a picture of composure that only seemed to heighten his frustration. She could feel it in the way he leaned slightly forward, his sharp eyes narrowing as if trying to pin her down. But she wasn't fazed—not yet. "You'll have the answers you want soon enough, Damon," she said, her voice calm and laced with a faint hint of amusement. "Just be patient."

Damon let out a short, humorless laugh, the sound low and rough as it cut through the soft murmur of the bar. He leaned back in his chair, the motion loose but deliberate, though the flicker of tension in his jaw betrayed him. "Patience isn't really my thing," he drawled, the edge in his tone sharp enough to make his irritation clear.

Letti's lips curved slightly, her amusement growing. Her eyes caught the faint glint of the overhead lights, the subtle gleam in them a silent challenge. "That's too bad," she replied smoothly, taking her time with the words. "Because once Rebekah comes back, you'll have the answer to at least one of the questions you've been so persistent about asking."

Damon's expression shifted, the smirk on his lips faltering just slightly as his eyes darted toward the bathroom. A spark of suspicion flared in his gaze, sharp and unrelenting. "Rebekah? Mikaelson?" he asked, his tone carrying a faint edge of disbelief. He raised an eyebrow, leaning back with a studied nonchalance that didn't quite mask his unease. "What's she got to do with this?"

Letti's fingers rested lightly against the glass in her hand, the cool condensation brushing against her skin as she took another slow, deliberate sip of her drink. Her expression didn't shift, her face an unreadable mask that only deepened the mystery. "Quite a bit," she said evenly, the quiet weight of her words hanging in the air between them, her calm only heightening the storm of questions brewing in his mind.

Damon's gaze darkened, the faint flicker of suspicion in his eyes sharpening into something heavier. His lips parted as if he were about to press her further, but before he could, the sound of heels clicking against the floor drew both of their attention. Rebekah emerged from the bathroom, her blonde waves swaying with each step, her sharp eyes immediately narrowing when they landed on Damon.

"Damon," Rebekah said coolly, her tone clipped and laced with irritation. Her hands rested on her hips, her posture exuding the kind of annoyance only he could provoke. "What are you doing here?"

Damon didn't respond immediately, his gaze lingering on Letti with a smirk that didn't quite reach his eyes. It was as though he was working through a particularly maddening puzzle, the edges just beginning to align. He finally turned to Rebekah, his expression carefully neutral but with a glint of intrigue. "Oh, I was just catching up with our mysterious friend here."

Rebekah's eyes flicked to Letti, and the hint of a knowing smirk tugged at her lips before she turned back to Damon. "She's not a mystery to me."

Letti's posture didn't shift, but Damon could feel the steady weight of her gaze. It wasn't defensive—it was composed, calculated, as if she were silently daring him to piece it all together. He didn't break eye contact, though his mind was working overtime, the pieces clicking together as his gaze darted between the two women. Suspicion and curiosity mingled in his expression, and the silence that stretched between them was thick with unspoken tension.

"So...you two know each other," Damon said slowly, his voice edged with the kind of frustration that came from realizing he was the last to know something important.

Rebekah rolled her eyes, the motion so exaggerated it was almost theatrical. "Of course we do, Damon," she said, her tone dripping with condescension. She crossed her arms over her chest and leaned slightly toward him, as if punctuating her words. "She's my sister."

The room seemed to hold its breath in the beat of silence that followed. Damon's jaw tightened, his eyes snapping back to Letti as if the answer had been staring him in the face all along. His smirk faltered for just a moment, replaced by something deeper, sharper, a mix of surprise and unease. Letti didn't flinch under his scrutiny. Instead, the faintest curve of her lips—a ghost of a smile—hinted at something unspoken, as though she'd been waiting for this moment all along.

Letti took another slow sip of her bourbon, letting the rich, smoky heat trail down her throat. Her cool, nonchalant demeanor never wavered, even as she watched Damon grapple with the weight of Rebekah's words. The revelation hung in the air between them, charged and unresolved. The mystery wasn't fully unraveled—not yet. But now, the game had undeniably changed, and Letti could sense Damon recalibrating, trying to find his footing.

Damon blinked, the disbelief flickering in his sharp blue eyes as he turned to Rebekah and then back to Letti. "Sister?" he echoed, his tone edged with incredulity. His gaze darted between the two women, as though seeing them side by side might somehow clarify the enigma before him. Letti watched him, unflinching, as the gears in his mind visibly turned. The puzzle pieces were falling into place, but not quite fast enough for him to feel in control. There was something unresolved in his expression—something bordering on frustration, and maybe, just maybe, fascination.

Leaning back slightly, Damon let out a breath, his usual smirk faltering for the briefest moment before resurfacing. "So, there's another Mikaelson," he said, his voice dripping with a mix of sarcasm and intrigue. "What, did Klaus keep you locked in some tower somewhere, or are you just really good at lurking?"

Letti tilted her head, her lips curling back into a faint, enigmatic smile. The movement was small but deliberate, her calmness almost daring him to push further. "Something like that," she replied smoothly, her voice carrying an air of detachment that only seemed to stoke Damon's irritation.

He leaned forward, the table creaking softly beneath his weight, his piercing gaze narrowing on her. His jaw clenched, and Letti could practically feel the frustration radiating off him. Damon wasn't used to being left in the dark, especially not when it involved something—or someone—so close to home. Her evasiveness was getting under his skin, a fact that only deepened the faint glint of amusement in her eyes.

"Well, that's great and all," Damon said, his voice low and edged with a dangerous calm. His smirk returned, though it didn't reach his eyes. "But I'm not a big fan of surprises."

Rebekah rolled her eyes, her lips curving into a faint smirk as she watched the tension play out. "You should really learn to loosen up, Damon. Some things are just beyond your control." Her tone was light, but there was a subtle edge of satisfaction in her voice, as though she was thoroughly enjoying watching him squirm.

Letti's eyes flicked toward Rebekah briefly before settling back on Damon. They sparkled with faint amusement, but her steady gaze carried a quiet challenge. "At this point," she said smoothly, her voice calm and measured, "it's not about control—it's about understanding your limits."

Damon's smirk returned, but the sharpness in his gaze betrayed the frustration simmering just beneath the surface. "Is that so?" he drawled, his voice low, a thread of danger weaving through his words. "And what exactly are my limits?"

Letti's smile widened just enough to be noticeable, a fleeting glimmer of mischief dancing in her eyes. "Keep it up," she said, her voice dropping to a cool, almost taunting murmur, "and you might just find out."

She rose from her chair with an effortless grace that Damon couldn't help but notice, her movements fluid and deliberate. The scrape of the chair against the floor seemed to punctuate her departure, the faint sound lingering in the charged silence between them. Damon's eyes followed her, sharp and calculating, as she walked toward the exit, her posture exuding a calm confidence that only added to his mounting frustration. She was casual, unbothered, her every step sending the unspoken message that she was in control of this game.

Damon's fingers drummed once on the table, his smirk fading as his jaw tightened. He wasn't the type to let someone slip away without answers, especially not someone who had already made herself such a tantalizing mystery. He shifted in his seat, his eyes narrowing slightly as he watched Letti's silhouette blend into the dim light near the door.

Without hesitation, Damon rose from his seat, the scrape of the chair punctuating his frustration. He threw a glance at Rebekah, who arched an eyebrow, a smug, knowing smile tugging at her lips. "Good luck," she said dryly, lifting her drink as though to toast his impending failure.

Damon didn't dignify her with a response. His focus was entirely on Letti as he followed her out of the Grill, the warm, dim lighting fading into the cool embrace of the night. The crisp air carried the faint scent of pine and woodsmoke, but it did little to temper the heat thrumming in his chest. Letti was already several paces ahead, her movements deliberate but unhurried. She wasn't running. That, more than anything, irritated him.

"Hey!" Damon called out, his voice cutting through the quiet like a blade. The sound echoed briefly, sharp and demanding. He quickened his pace, his footsteps crunching against the gravel as he closed the distance. "We're not done here."

Letti paused mid-step, her body still for a fraction of a second before she turned, glancing over her shoulder. Her lips curled into a faint, knowing smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Aren't we?"

The challenge in her tone, calm yet laced with defiance, sent a spark of irritation down Damon's spine. His frustration finally boiled over as he stepped closer, his sharp gaze locking onto hers. "I don't know what your game is," he said, his voice low and taut with tension, "but I'm not playing. You're not some innocent bystander, and I'm not going to sit around waiting for you to do whatever the hell it is you're planning."

Letti turned fully to face him, her arms crossed over her chest in a stance that radiated quiet confidence. Her expression was calm—almost bored—but there was an unmistakable edge in her gaze that warned she wasn't to be trifled with. "You seem to think you have a choice in the matter," she said, her voice smooth, almost mocking.

Damon's eyes darkened, his frustration simmering beneath the surface as he took another deliberate step forward. The space between them shrank, the tension crackling like static in the cool night air. "I don't know what kind of tricks you've got up your sleeve," he said, his tone low and edged with challenge. "But I'm not scared of you."

Letti's gaze sharpened, the faint amusement in her expression vanishing in an instant. Her lips curved into the ghost of a smile—one devoid of warmth, dangerous in its quiet confidence. "You should be," she said, her voice soft but laced with warning.

Before Damon could process her words, she moved. The world blurred for a fraction of a second, and then he felt the cold, unforgiving press of brick against his back. Letti had him pinned, her movements so swift and precise that he hadn't even registered them until it was too late. Her hand gripped his throat—not enough to hurt, but with enough force to assert the vast gulf in their strength.

Damon's eyes widened in surprise, a flicker of something he couldn't quite name passing over his face as he struggled instinctively against her hold. His hands moved to grip her wrist, but her strength was unyielding. It wasn't just her physical power—it was the way she commanded the space, the way her presence seemed to amplify in the silence, pressing against him like an invisible weight.

"You're way out of your league, Damon," Letti said, leaning in slightly. Her voice was soft, almost a whisper, but it carried an undeniable authority that sent a shiver racing down his spine. Her breath was cool against his skin, the faint scent of bourbon lingering as she continued. "I've had enough of your threats and your incessant badgering."

For a moment, Damon's smirk faltered, the weight of her strength and words sinking in. But he was nothing if not persistent. He forced his composure back into place, his lips curling into a strained smirk even as her grip held firm. "Not bad," he managed, his voice tight but laced with that signature bravado. "But I've been tossed around by stronger."

Letti remained perfectly composed, her gaze steady and unyielding, a faint air of boredom clinging to her as she watched him. With a swift, almost dismissive movement, she released Damon from her grip, stepping back with a measured grace. Her fingers smoothed the lapel of her jacket, the action deliberate, as if to remind him just how unbothered she was. The faint scent of her perfume lingered in the space between them, subtle but intoxicating, like something that refused to be ignored.

Damon straightened, rolling his shoulders and brushing off the front of his shirt as though her hold hadn't rattled him. But the truth was, it had. He'd dealt with powerful beings before—Originals, witches, werewolves—but Letti wasn't like any of them. There was something different about her, something that cut deeper than her strength or her speed. It wasn't just what she was; it was how she carried herself, that calm, unrelenting confidence that made the air between them feel charged, like a storm on the verge of breaking.

His sharp blue eyes studied her as she stood there, her composure intact, her expression unreadable. She was a puzzle, and despite being great at them, Damon hated puzzles. But this one? This one was beginning to feel like it might be worth the trouble.

There was something about the way Letti had pinned him—effortless, deliberate, and completely unbothered. Damon was no stranger to being overpowered by Originals; Klaus had thrown him around like a rag doll on multiple occasions, and Elijah's precision was nothing short of deadly. But Letti was different. Her strength wasn't just raw—it was controlled, calculated. She hadn't even broken a sweat. That restraint, that air of quiet dominance, unnerved him more than he cared to admit.

And her eyes—calm, piercing, almost bored. They had regarded him as if he were an afterthought, a nuisance she could swat away at her leisure. It wasn't just her strength that got under his skin; it was the way she wielded it, her presence like a storm cloud hovering just out of reach, holding back its full force. She didn't need to boast or threaten—she already knew the power she had over him, and it was infuriating.

Damon clenched his fists, the tension coiling in his chest as he tried to push down his frustration. She was toying with him, and he hated it. Hated how easily she got under his skin. Hated how much she intrigued him despite himself.

But giving up? Not a chance. She had inserted itself right into the middle of his carefully controlled chaos, and he wasn't about to leave her unsolved. There was no way she was just another Mikaelson sibling. There was something more, something he couldn't quite name yet, but he could feel it, like a shadow lurking just beyond the edge of his understanding. He needed to know what it was.

"You can play tough all you want," Damon muttered, straightening his shoulders and brushing off the last remnants of their scuffle. His voice was low, edged with frustration but steady, as though he was trying to convince himself as much as her. "But I'm not backing down."

Letti's expression didn't waver. Her gaze locked onto his, calm and unyielding, with just the faintest trace of amusement curling at the corners of her lips. "You're not a match for me, Damon," she said, her voice soft but firm, the weight of her words landing between them like a challenge. "But you're welcome to keep trying."

Damon's jaw clenched, his frustration simmering just beneath the surface. Letti wasn't giving him anything, and it was driving him insane. Every word she spoke was deliberate, carefully measured, and yet left him with more questions than answers. She moved with a grace that felt almost predatory, her steps calculated and her posture unyielding. There was a tension coiled beneath her calm exterior, something raw and untamed that he couldn't ignore. It reminded him of Klaus—the same feral energy, simmering just beneath the surface, restrained but ready to strike.

But this wasn't just Klaus's brand of volatility. Letti was different. She wasn't reckless or impulsive, and that control was what unsettled him the most. Damon's mind raced, the pieces starting to fall into place as he replayed her strength, her speed, the precision with which she'd pinned him against the wall earlier. She had the power of an Original, but there was something more—something that didn't quite fit.

A hybrid? Could she be a hybrid? Damon's thoughts spiraled, his instincts screaming that it was the only explanation that made sense. But how? And why hadn't she revealed herself sooner? Why was she so composed, so in control, when everything about hybrids screamed chaos and unpredictability?

Before he could push further, a slow, deliberate clap echoed from the entrance of the Grill, breaking through the tense silence like a sharp crack. Damon's head snapped toward the source, his irritation flaring as Rebekah sauntered into view, leaning casually against the doorframe. Her smirk was as sharp as ever, her eyes glinting with amusement as she surveyed the scene.

"Oh, I do enjoy watching you take your medicine," Rebekah drawled, her tone laced with mockery. Her gaze flicked to Damon, clearly savoring his growing frustration. "You should have seen the look on your face."

Damon's glare burned, sharp and unrelenting, but Rebekah only met it with a smirk, her amusement practically radiating off her. Letti, in stark contrast, stood composed and detached, exuding an air of calm that grated against Damon's frayed patience. She had made her point, leaving no room for debate, and her indifference only served to ignite his frustration further.

His jaw tightened, the tension coiling in his chest as he fought to contain the mix of irritation and intrigue swirling inside him. Letti had cornered him, outmaneuvered him in a way few ever had. It stung, but more than that, it left him restless, and that gnawed at him more than he cared to admit.

"Alright," Damon said finally, his voice low, laced with reluctant surrender. "I'll give you this round. But don't think for a second this is over."

Letti's lips curved into a faint smile, but it lacked any warmth. There was something darker behind it, a subtle edge that sent a shiver of anticipation through the air. "I wouldn't dream of it," she replied, her tone smooth and unyielding.

She turned on her heel with fluid grace, her movements deliberate as she strode away. The soft click of her boots against the street echoed in the silence that followed, each step a quiet declaration of her victory. She didn't look back, her composure unshaken, leaving Damon in the wake of her calm yet commanding presence.

Rebekah fell into step beside her with ease, her smug amusement still evident in the glint of her eyes. Letti allowed herself a brief glance at Rebekah, her sister's playful smirk earning a faint huff of amusement. Damon Salvatore was, as they'd both agreed, a pain in the ass. His relentless persistence and sharp tongue were infuriating, but they also carried a spark of something undeniably captivating. She didn't like admitting that—not even to herself.

But tonight wasn't the time to dwell on it. Letti's thoughts were heavy, her mind consumed by Klaus's absence and the dark cloud of his manipulations that followed her everywhere. Damon's curiosity could wait. She had bigger battles to fight, and Damon Salvatore—persistent as he was—would have to wait his turn.

"Where exactly have you been staying this whole time?" Rebekah asked, her tone casual but cutting through Letti's wandering thoughts as they strolled through the quiet town square. The faint glow of streetlights cast soft shadows around them, the cool night air tinged with the scent of fresh pine and distant woodsmoke.

"There's a nice bed and breakfast just outside of town," Letti replied, her voice carrying a hint of amusement. "The owner makes excellent pancakes."

Rebekah's steps slowed slightly, and she rolled her eyes, though the faint curve of her lips betrayed her amusement. "Pancakes? Really?"

Letti smirked, the corners of her mouth tilting upward. "What can I say? I've developed a taste for the simpler things in life."

Rebekah shook her head with mock exasperation, her golden waves catching the dim light. "Why not come stay with me for the night at the Boarding House?" she offered, her tone casual as though the suggestion were the most natural thing in the world.

Letti halted mid-step, her boots scuffing softly against the pavement as she turned to face her sister. Her brow arched, and there was a flicker of disbelief in her gaze. "At the Salvatore House? You're serious?"

"What's the problem?" Rebekah countered, her head tilting slightly as though genuinely perplexed by Letti's reaction. She gestured with a flourish, as if to highlight the absurdity of any hesitation. "It's practically a hotel—ridiculous number of bedrooms, more bathrooms than anyone could ever need, and don't get me started on their bourbon collection. Your quaint little B&B doesn't stand a chance."

"The problem is in the name, Rebekah," Letti answered, her tone smooth but laced with unmistakable exasperation. "I've had my fill of Salvatores for the week."

"Worry less about them and more about me—the sister you haven't seen in ninety years," Rebekah shot back, her voice carrying a teasing edge, though the smirk on her face betrayed her satisfaction at having the upper hand. With a casual confidence, she stepped ahead of Letti, her blonde hair catching the faint glow of the streetlights as she took the lead.

Letti exhaled sharply, rolling her eyes in resignation. She couldn't argue with Rebekah's point, as much as she might have wanted to. She followed behind, her steps reluctant but steady, savoring the quiet of the night as the town square faded into stillness around them.

The silence lingered only for a moment before the two quickened their pace, moving with the supernatural ease that marked their kind. The cool night air brushed against Letti's skin as the landscape blurred around them. Within moments, they stood before the Salvatore Boarding House—a towering, Gothic structure nestled deep within the woods, its dark stone walls bathed in moonlight.

The house stood like a shadowed sentinel against the trees, its pointed gables and intricate detailing casting long, dramatic silhouettes across the ground. Letti's gaze swept over it, the quiet mystery of its presence tugging at her curiosity despite herself.

As they approached, the heavy front door loomed ahead, its aged wood and ornate ironwork speaking to the history it contained. Rebekah walked through it with the ease of someone who owned the place, her steps light and purposeful. Letti followed close behind, her senses immediately taking in the grandeur of the interior.

The air inside was warm, faintly scented with polished wood and aged bourbon. Chandeliers hung from the high ceilings, their golden light spilling across the dark hardwood floors in soft, shimmering pools. The walls, lined with bookshelves and framed art, added a rich depth to the space, while tall windows draped in heavy, wine-colored curtains muted the outside world, creating an atmosphere of complete seclusion.

Letti's sharp gaze flicked over the intricate details—the smooth curve of the staircase railing, the faint glow of the fire in the distant sitting room, and the faint hum of the refrigerator from the nearby kitchen. It was the kind of place that spoke of old money and dark secrets, and though she was loath to admit it, she could see why Rebekah had settled in so comfortably.

In the living room, Stefan was sprawled carelessly across the oversized leather couch, a half-empty glass of bourbon dangling from his hand. The warm, golden light from the nearby lamp cast shadows across his sharp features, but his eyes, void of humanity, gleamed with a detached coldness that Letti recognized all too well. His attention shifted lazily as the sound of footsteps entered the room, and for a brief moment, something flickered in his expression—recognition buried beneath apathy.

"Letti Mikaelson," Stefan drawled, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "Isn't this a surprise."

Letti's gaze sharpened, studying him carefully. His humanity was off, severing him from guilt, compassion, and restraint. It reminded her too vividly of their time in the 1920s when his Ripper instincts had been unbridled, untethered from reason. Back then, there had been a dangerous charisma to his darkness, but now? Now, the coldness in his demeanor felt sharper, more hollow. She'd spent enough time watching Stefan and his friends from the shadows to understand what had happened. But even with the forewarning, seeing him like this was jarring.

"Stefan," Letti greeted him evenly, her voice calm and controlled. Her posture remained poised, her expression giving nothing away. "You haven't changed much."

A dark chuckle escaped Stefan's lips, low and humorless, as he tipped his glass to her in mock acknowledgment. "Can't say the same for you." He took a quick sip of his bourbon, the faint clink of the glass against his teeth punctuating his words. "You know, broken curse and all. Congratulations, I guess."

The sound of Stefan's biting remark made Letti's lip twitch—a subtle ripple of frustration she quickly buried beneath her composed exterior. "Thank you," she answered plainly, her voice cool and measured.

Without hesitation, she stepped away from Rebekah and made her way toward the bourbon on the table, the soft clink of the decanter against the glass the only sound in the suddenly heavy air. If she was going to endure the company of both Salvatore brothers, she figured a drink in hand might dull the edge of their collective chaos.

Behind her, Rebekah's voice rang out, cutting cleanly through the tension. "Hope you don't mind, but I invited Letti to stay," she said, her tone carrying just enough indifference to make it clear she didn't actually care whether Stefan minded or not.

Stefan scoffed, his laugh devoid of humor as he leaned back against the couch, his posture deceptively relaxed. He threw back the last of his drink, the sharp tilt of his glass accentuating his dismissive air. "Of course you did," he muttered, setting the empty tumbler down with a deliberate thud. "Why not? I wasn't aware I was running a bed-and-breakfast for Mikaelsons. Should I lay out some fresh towels for Elijah while I'm at it?"

Letti stilled, her fingers tightening imperceptibly around the glass she'd just poured. She raised an eyebrow, a silent warning flashing in her sharp gaze, but she didn't speak. The tension in the room thickened as Stefan's voice cut through again, this time sharper, venom lacing every syllable.

"That's right, I can't," he sneered, his eyes locking onto Letti with cold amusement. "Because he's dead."

Letti rolled her eyes at Stefan's remark, pouring bourbon into her glass with a deliberate lack of care, the amber liquid sloshing just shy of the rim. She'd expected his mockery, but it still grated on her nerves, each word digging under her skin like an itch she couldn't scratch. Raising the glass to her lips, she took a quick gulp, the burn of the bourbon doing little to temper the rising irritation. Across the room, Rebekah dropped into a nearby armchair with all the grace of someone who couldn't be bothered by the tension brewing.

"Must you be so dramatic, Stefan?" Rebekah quipped, her tone dripping with disdain as she crossed one leg over the other, her sharp gaze fixed on him.

Stefan shrugged, entirely unaffected by her words, and moved to refill his own drink. The faint clink of glass against glass echoed in the room as he poured, his smirk widening as his gaze locked onto Letti. He didn't bother masking his curiosity, the smirk only deepening as if he'd stumbled upon a particularly amusing secret.

Despite his lack of humanity, Letti could see the faint flicker of intrigue in his otherwise detached demeanor. It had been ninety years since he'd last seen her, and the memory was still sharp—Letti, tethered to Klaus in ways Stefan could never fully comprehend. She'd clung to him like a moth to a flame, undeterred by the destruction he left in his wake. Yet here she was now, alone, and that fact gnawed at him in ways he couldn't quite articulate.

"So," Stefan began, his tone deceptively casual as he strolled back toward her, bourbon in hand, "why are you here, Letti? Did Klaus finally loosen the leash?"

Letti's grip tightened around her glass, the faint tension in her fingers betraying her otherwise composed exterior. She could feel the slow simmer of frustration bubbling beneath her skin, Stefan's words expertly aimed to provoke her. The tension in the room thickened, sparking like static in the air, but Letti wasn't one to rise to bait so easily. Her lips curled into the faintest of smiles, though her gaze remained icy.

"This coming from the man who just spent the entire summer as Klaus's little bitch because of his own big brother," she remarked, each word cutting with precision.

Stefan's smirk faltered for a fraction of a second, a chink in his otherwise impenetrable armor, but he recovered quickly. His eyes narrowed, sharp and probing, as he stepped closer, his bourbon swirling lazily in the glass he held. "Touché," he said, his tone mocking, laced with a cruel amusement. "But we both know how this game goes, don't we? You're still here, dancing around Klaus, cleaning up his mess, just like you've always done."

Letti's jaw tightened, her pulse quickening as frustration began to simmer beneath her calm exterior. Stefan's words were like darts, precise and unrelenting, hitting every vulnerable spot she tried to keep hidden. "You don't know anything about me, Stefan," she shot back, her voice cold, though a faint edge betrayed the effort it took to maintain her composure.

"Don't I?" Stefan's smirk widened, his eyes glinting with a sadistic amusement that only came with his humanity off. He took another slow sip of his bourbon, savoring the moment. "Did you forget all the time we spent together?" His voice dipped, a low, mocking lilt. "What I know is you're just like him. And no matter how hard you try, you'll never be anything else."

The words struck deeper than Letti cared to admit, cutting through her defenses with a precision that only someone who had once known her well could achieve. Stefan, stripped of his humanity, had a way of distilling the truth into something brutal and unrelenting, his taunts echoing the fears she buried deep within herself.

Letti's fingers tightened around her glass, the faint tremor in her hand betraying her efforts to stay composed. The amber liquid quivered, mirroring the storm brewing inside her. Stefan was pushing every button, testing every boundary, and she could feel the fragile threads of her control beginning to fray. But she wouldn't give him the satisfaction of seeing her break.

Her lips curved into a faint, humorless smile, though her eyes burned with defiance. She drew a slow, steadying breath, forcing the tension in her shoulders to ease. "You're wrong," she said, her voice softer now, but no less dangerous. "I'm nothing like him."

Even as she spoke the words, she felt the weight of them. A quiet defiance, but also a challenge—to Stefan, to Klaus, and, perhaps most of all, to herself.

Stefan's grin widened, his voice dipping to a taunting whisper that lingered like a dare. "Prove it."

Letti's chest tightened, her nails biting into her palm as she forced herself to take a steadying breath. Control was slipping through her fingers like sand, and every fiber of her being screamed to strike, to silence Stefan's smug tone with the force of her fury. Her body was taut, coiled, ready to spring, when the sharp thud of the front door swinging open shattered the moment.

Damon strode in, his usual swagger muted as his sharp gaze swept over the room. His casual confidence faltered just slightly when he took in the scene. Rebekah lounged elegantly in her chair, her lips curved in a smirk as though she were watching a private drama unfold for her amusement. But Damon's attention snapped immediately to Letti and Stefan.

Letti stood ramrod straight, her posture rigid, her blue eyes locked on Stefan with a fury so sharp it could cut glass. Her jaw was clenched, the faint rise and fall of her chest betraying the effort it took to keep herself in check. Stefan, on the other hand, was maddeningly calm, his smirk curling just enough to be infuriating. He looked as though he was daring her to lose control.

Damon's gaze flicked between them, the air practically crackling with tension. He didn't miss the way Letti's shoulders were squared, the subtle tremor in her hands barely restrained. Nor did he miss Stefan's deliberate, infuriatingly smug posture, his relaxed stance dripping with provocation. Damon's brows furrowed, irritation flashing in his eyes.

"What the hell is going on here?" he asked, his voice deceptively light. But the steel beneath his tone betrayed his concern, the sharp edge cutting through the thick atmosphere.

Stefan didn't miss a beat, raising his glass in a mock toast as he took a slow, deliberate swig of bourbon. "Just old friends catching up," he replied smoothly, the gleam in his eyes anything but friendly.

Damon's brow shot up, his signature smirk playing at the corners of his lips. "Old friends?" he repeated, his tone laced with incredulity and just the faintest edge of amusement. His curiosity piqued, the words hung in the air like a challenge. Stefan's time with Klaus in the 1920s had always been a patchwork of secrets, but this? This was a revelation Damon hadn't been let in on—a punchline to a joke that had been running for centuries. His sharp gaze flicked to Letti, lingering for a moment too long, taking her in as though seeing her for the first time.

She didn't flinch under his scrutiny, her cool exterior intact, though her silence spoke volumes. Letti was clearly more than the quiet enigma Damon had been trying to unravel.

"You know," he began, his voice carrying that dry, sardonic humor he wielded so well, "it's funny—no one else thought to mention there was another Mikaelson sibling running around." He leaned casually against the doorframe before shutting the door behind him with an audible click, as if sealing the tension in the room. "Care to explain why I'm the last to know?"

Stefan shrugged, utterly unfazed, as he poured himself another drink. "Must've slipped my mind," he said flatly, his tone a masterclass in bored indifference.

Damon let out a short, humorless laugh, pushing off the doorframe to stride toward the bar. His movements were deliberate, his eyes never straying too far from Letti. He poured himself a generous glass of bourbon, the faint clink of glass against wood punctuating the charged atmosphere.

"Yeah, right," he muttered, rolling his eyes as he swirled the amber liquid in his glass. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say you were being a dick, Stefan. And I don't think your old friend takes to that very well."

Rebekah's amused chuckle broke the silence, her blue eyes gleaming with mischief as she lounged in her chair like a queen surveying her court. "Oh, do tell us, Damon," she said, her tone mockingly sweet, her smirk widening. "Are you speaking from experience?"

Damon's jaw tightened for a split second before he forced a smirk in return. He raised his glass in a mock toast, his sharp eyes cutting to Letti, who remained eerily composed amidst the growing tension. "Possibly, but this wouldn't be the first time Stefan's been on the receiving end of someone's bad mood." His gaze shifted back to Letti, his eyes flickering briefly to her clenched fists, the tension in her posture unmistakable.

"He's just upset I'm not lining up to kiss his boots," Letti muttered, finishing the last of her drink in one sharp motion. She set the glass down with a quiet clink, her tone carrying a restrained edge. Without his humanity, Stefan thrived on pushing buttons, testing limits, and reveling in the chaos he created. But Letti wasn't about to play his game.

The smug expression on Stefan's face didn't waver. If anything, it deepened. "Please," he drawled, his voice dripping with mockery. "Don't flatter yourself."

Letti's jaw tightened as she reached for the bottle of bourbon, pouring herself another drink with deliberate precision. The alcohol's warmth was starting to seep into her, dulling the sharpness of her heightened senses just enough to keep her from snapping. The glass was cool against her fingertips, a grounding sensation she clung to as she took a quick swig. The burn trailed down her throat, momentarily distracting her from the urge to rip Stefan's smug tongue out of his mouth. Her breaths came in sharp, controlled inhales, her focus fixed on the amber liquid swirling in her glass.

She could feel their eyes on her—the weight of Stefan's taunts and Damon's steady, probing gaze pressing against her resolve. It was infuriating, but it wasn't Stefan's gaze that unnerved her. Damon's calm, almost amused presence felt like an anchor, subtly pulling her back from the edge she was so dangerously close to teetering over.

Damon tilted his head, his smirk softening into something more thoughtful as he studied her. "I don't know, Stef," he said casually, though his tone carried an undercurrent of warning. "I'd bet if she wanted to, she'd be more than capable of wiping that smug look off your face."

His words were teasing, but there was a flicker of seriousness behind them, an acknowledgment of what Letti was capable of. Damon had seen her strength before, felt it firsthand back at the Grill. He knew exactly how much control she was exercising, and he wasn't sure how much longer it would last. The faint glint in his eyes wasn't just amusement—it was a mix of fascination and caution. He was beginning to realize that Letti Mikaelson wasn't someone who simply walked away from a fight. She calculated her every move, and right now, she was choosing restraint. For now.

Letti's eyes flashed with irritation, her fingers twitching at her sides. "Is this really how you want to spend your time, Stefan? Baiting those who are stronger than you?" Letti's voice was calm but carried a razor-sharp edge, her words laced with a warning she was barely holding back.

Stefan shrugged, utterly unbothered. "Keeps things interesting," he replied smoothly, stepping closer, his eyes narrowing as he met her gaze with a calculated challenge. "Besides," he added, his smirk curling, "I like to see how far people are willing to go when they're pushed."

Before Letti could react, Damon stepped in, his hand landing gently but firmly on her arm. The warmth of his touch was grounding, a subtle reminder of the control she was about to lose. "Hey," Damon said quietly, his voice soft and just for her. "Don't let him get to you. He's not himself right now."

Letti tensed beneath his hand, her muscles coiled with the anger still simmering just beneath her calm exterior. But she didn't pull away. Her gaze flicked between Stefan, who stood smug and defiant, and Damon, whose steady presence was somehow enough to stop her from acting on her instincts. She exhaled sharply, the tension in her shoulders easing slightly.

Stefan watched the interaction with a bemused expression, his smirk never faltering. He raised his glass in a mock toast, the faint clink of crystal echoing in the tense silence. "Well, this has been fun," he said dryly, turning to leave. "I'll leave you to your little therapy session. Something tells me she'll need it if she plans on sticking around."

He disappeared up the stairs, his steps deliberate, leaving the lingering sting of his taunts in his wake. Rebekah followed not long after, casting Letti a look that teetered between amusement and mild concern before vanishing down the hallway.

Letti let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding, the anger ebbing slowly as the room grew quieter. She tipped her glass back, letting the warmth of the bourbon spread through her chest before setting it down with a soft clink. "I don't remember him being that much of a dick," she muttered, the tension in her voice giving way to a dry, bitter humor.

Damon, now pouring himself another drink, glanced at her, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "Looks like they gave that title to the wrong Salvatore," she added, her eyes meeting his with a flicker of amusement.

"Nah, I'm still a dick," Damon chuckled, his voice light as he strolled over and dropped onto the couch beside her.

The tension that had saturated the room only moments ago had dissipated, replaced by something quieter, more casual—but no less charged. Still, Damon's mind churned with questions. This was different from the noisy, chaotic ambiance of the Grill. Here, in the stillness of the Boarding House, away from prying eyes and curious whispers, Damon wondered if he might finally get something more from Letti. Answers, perhaps. Or at least a hint.

He took a slow sip of his drink, the amber liquid warming his throat as he watched her carefully from the corner of his eye. She was composed, seemingly unshaken by the events of the evening, but Damon knew better now than to take her calm exterior at face value. There was more beneath the surface with her—it was what kept him coming back, despite himself.

"But," Damon began, his tone laced with a familiar mix of teasing and curiosity, "I'm starting to think we've got more in common than you're letting on. Between the way you dealt with Stefan and your tendency to keep me guessing, I'd say we make a pretty good team."

Letti smirked, the faint curl of her lips giving away just a sliver of amusement. She swirled her bourbon, watching the liquid catch the light before bringing it to her lips for a slow sip. The faint clink of her glass against the coffee table lingered as she set it down, her gaze finally shifting to meet his. "Is that what this is to be? A team?"

"Could be," Damon shrugged, leaning back against the couch, his movements casual but deliberate. He turned his head slightly to face her, his blue eyes glinting with a mix of humor and something deeper—curiosity, maybe, or something he wasn't ready to name. "I mean, after that performance, I'm sure we can both agree I'm the favorite Salvatore."

Letti raised an eyebrow, her expression effortlessly unimpressed, though the faintest twitch of her lips betrayed her amusement. "Don't flatter yourself," she said smoothly. "I'm not big on choosing favorites."

Damon's smirk widened, his confidence unshaken. "Sure you're not," he quipped, his voice dropping to a softer tone, one laced with something that felt far more personal. Letti didn't respond right away, letting the quiet hum of the room settle between them, but Damon could tell—her silence wasn't dismissive. It was deliberate. And for the first time that night, he found himself wanting to let it linger.

Letti gave a small, thoughtful hum, her fingers tracing the rim of her glass as her eyes lingered on the amber liquid inside. She wasn't one to falter easily, but Damon had a knack for finding the cracks in her armor, for navigating the charged air between them with a mix of playfulness and unsettling insight. It wasn't disarming, exactly, but it made her defenses feel just a bit less impenetrable.

"Besides," Damon added, his tone shifting, softer now, like he was testing the waters, "I'm not the only one here who knows how to bend the rules."

Letti's eyes flicked to him, her gaze sharp despite the faint smirk tugging at her lips. "What's that supposed to mean?" she asked, her voice carrying a note of warning, though it lacked the usual edge.

Damon leaned back, resting one arm lazily across the back of the couch, his smirk deepening as if he'd been waiting for her question. "Just that you don't strike me as someone who plays it safe. You've got a story, and I'm just curious how far you're willing to go to keep it to yourself."

Letti exhaled a quiet sigh, her fingers tightening briefly around the glass before she tipped it back, draining the last of her bourbon in one smooth motion. The burn was comforting, steadying, and it gave her the moment she needed to compose herself. Setting the empty glass on the table with deliberate precision, she glanced at him again, her expression unreadable.

"You're really not going to let that go, are you?" she asked, her voice calm but with a trace of weariness, as though she had already resigned herself to the inevitability of his persistence.

"No," Damon replied, his tone unapologetic, his smirk unwavering. "Like I said, patience isn't my strong suit. But don't worry—we'll get there."

Letti shook her head, a faint, knowing smile tugging at the corners of her lips. "You think you've got me all figured out, don't you?"

Damon tilted his head slightly, his gaze flickering with a rare softness. "Not even close," he admitted, his voice dropping just a touch. "And that's the fun part."

For a moment, Letti held his gaze, her smile deepening almost imperceptibly. But then, with a graceful fluidity, she stood, breaking the moment as easily as she'd allowed it to linger. "Keep trying," she said over her shoulder, her voice laced with quiet amusement as she turned toward the stairs. "But for now, I need a change of clothes."

Damon's eyes followed her, his gaze lingering longer than he intended as she ascended the stairs with effortless confidence. The faint sound of her footsteps faded, leaving him alone in the quiet living room. He leaned back against the couch, swirling the bourbon in his glass as the smile on his face slowly slipped into something more pensive.

There was something about Letti—something more than just her quiet, enigmatic presence. It was the way she could shift the air in a room, balancing tension and allure with a precision that felt almost calculated. Damon downed the rest of his bourbon, the heat spreading through his chest, but it did nothing to dull the churn of thoughts in his mind. Whatever secrets Letti carried, he was certain of one thing: she was a puzzle he couldn't resist solving.

Upstairs, Letti stepped into Rebekah's room, the faint scent of her sister's perfume lingering in the air—a mix of jasmine and something sharper, more distinctively Rebekah. The space was neat but distinctly feminine, with plush throws draped over the bed and a vanity cluttered with bottles of expensive perfumes and makeup. Letti's gaze drifted to the wardrobe, and without hesitation, she rifled through its contents. Rebekah's collection leaned toward glamorous dresses and bold fashion choices, but tucked among the sequins and silk, Letti found a plain white t-shirt and black leggings.

She shed her leather jacket and jeans with a sigh of relief, slipping into the borrowed clothes. They fit well enough, though her own style leaned more toward practicality than Rebekah's dramatic flair. Still, the softness of the t-shirt and the give of the leggings felt like a small comfort after the tension of the night.

As she finished adjusting her outfit, faint sounds from downstairs reached her ears. Damon was still moving about the living room, his shuffling steps barely audible. Letti was about to leave the room when the sharp sound of glass shattering echoed up the stairs, startling her. Her brow furrowed, and she moved quickly toward the source of the noise.

When she entered the living room, Damon was crouched over, sweeping up shards of broken glass. A shattered vase lay scattered across the floor. His shoulders were tense, his jaw clenched, frustration emanating from him like heat. Letti paused in the doorway, her lips parting to ask what had happened, but the words died on her tongue.

An unnatural chill ran down her spine, sharp and sudden, as though the air itself had shifted around her.

The room felt different now. The easy, casual atmosphere of moments ago had evaporated, replaced by something dense and heavy. The air was thick, almost suffocating, with a strange electric charge that hummed just beneath her skin. Letti's heightened senses flared, her instincts kicking in as unease coiled tightly in her chest. Her pulse slowed, the thrum of her heart loud in her ears as her eyes darted around the room.

Something was wrong.

Letti's gaze flicked to Damon, who seemed oblivious to the shift, focused on cleaning up the mess. But she could feel it—the weight pressing down on her, a looming presence just out of reach. Her fingers flexed at her sides, her muscles tensing as she scanned the shadows for something, anything, that could explain the creeping sense of dread.

Nothing seemed out of place aside from the shattered vase, yet the presence in the room was undeniable. It pressed against Letti's senses, invisible but sharp, gnawing at her instincts with the kind of unease that twisted deep in her gut. The air felt charged, each breath thick with tension, like a warning whispered just beyond the edge of hearing.

Letti took a slow, measured step forward, her gaze narrowing as she scanned the room. The feeling was one she hadn't encountered in centuries—a spectral coldness, the kind that seeped into her bones and whispered of things beyond the veil of life. Whatever had found its way here, it was anything but friendly.

"Damon," she said softly, her voice low and deliberate, each syllable edged with caution. "What happened?"

Damon looked up from the shards of glass, his jaw tight. His expression was calm, but his eyes betrayed a flicker of uncertainty, a shadow of confusion. He hadn't fully noticed the shift in the atmosphere, but Letti could see it now—the way his movements had stilled, his shoulders just slightly rigid, like he was subconsciously bracing himself.

"The vase just...fell," he muttered, the explanation falling flat even as he said it. He stood, brushing his hands on his jeans, his gaze sweeping the room. There was nothing tangible to latch onto, nothing out of place, and yet the air felt wrong, like a storm brewing in silence.

Letti tilted her head, her sharp eyes lingering on him. His words might have sufficed in another situation, but not now. The chill in the room coiled tighter around her, and she could feel it—something watching, waiting, its presence almost tangible in the way it pressed against her skin. Whatever was here didn't belong, and it didn't plan on leaving quietly.

Her wary gaze swept the room, her heightened senses on high alert as the oppressive weight in the air seemed to reach its breaking point. Then it hit—a sudden, sharp gust of cold wind tearing through the room like a blade, slicing past her and sending a chill straight to her core.

Before she could react, agony erupted in her chest, sharp and blinding. Letti gasped, her breath catching as her eyes darted downward. The jagged end of a wooden stake jutted from her chest, blood staining her shirt as it seeped between her trembling fingers. Her hand flew to the wound instinctively, trying to stem the flow, but her strength was draining fast, her supernatural healing faltering under the assault.

"Damon—?" she gasped, her voice strained and barely audible. Her wide eyes flicked toward him, her vision already beginning to blur. The pain was overwhelming, consuming her, making it nearly impossible to form words. The edges of her sight darkened, her surroundings fading into a haze as her knees buckled, sending her collapsing to the floor.

Through the haze, Letti saw Damon rush toward her, his movements sharp and frantic. His hand reached out as if to pull the stake free, but before he could touch her, that same chilling wind surged through the room again, more violent this time.

Damon's body flew across the room, slamming into the far wall with a sickening thud. A pained groan escaped him as he crumpled to the floor, his figure blurred in Letti's dimming vision. She wanted to call out, to warn him, to face the invisible threat that lingered in the room, but her body betrayed her. The searing wound in her chest burned hotter, the blue veins creeping up her skin like an ominous tide, stealing what little strength she had left.

Her breaths came in short, labored gasps, each one heavier than the last. The suffocating weight of her injuries pressed down on her, her eyelids growing heavier as the darkness surged closer. Letti's hand fell limply from the stake, her fingers brushing against the cool floor as her eyes fluttered shut, surrendering to the pull of unconsciousness.