Little Salvatore

¢нαρтєя 2

I'VE NEVER BEEN A BELIEVER in reincarnation, much less waking up inside a TV show. The concept has always seemed ridiculous—something out of a half-baked fanfiction. Yet, here I am, existing in a body that shouldn't even exist in this universe. I wasn't reincarnated as Elena Gilbert or some character with a predetermined storyline. No. I've been thrown into the body of an infant that didn't even make the writers' cut.

None of it makes sense. Why this show? Why me? I haven't thought about The Vampire Diaries since I was eighteen and finally left my foster home. Back then, I'd watched episodes just to escape, but this? This isn't an escape. It's a trap. Maybe I'll wake up soon, right? Hopefully, not in a hospital, with half my bones shattered. But then again, waking up in a crib isn't exactly the dream scenario either.

Damon Salvatore had taken me from the hospital, his expression a mixture of pride and something bordering on discomfort. I'd seen that face enough times on screen to recognize when he was grappling with emotions. He brought me to his mansion, the one he shares with his brother—because of course, Stefan Salvatore is my uncle now. I can't wrap my head around it.

"Welcome home, little one," Damon said, his voice uncharacteristically soft as he set my carrier down in the grand, sprawling parlor.

I tried to turn my head to take in the room—the one I knew from a thousand shots on TV. The mansion was even more impressive in person, which, considering I was currently an infant, was saying something. Dark wooden floors stretched endlessly beneath ornate furniture. Velvet drapes, heavy and elegant, framed tall windows that allowed beams of light to illuminate the room, highlighting centuries-old paintings that decorated the walls. It was a house dripping with both luxury and history, every corner hiding more secrets than I cared to imagine.

I sighed. Not that anyone noticed.

Damon walked over to a mahogany bar and poured himself a drink. It shimmered darkly in the glass—a liquid that looked too smooth to be anything good for him. He raised it, letting the rim rest against his lips, but didn't drink.

"Everything's black and white," I realized. The realization was jarring for a moment before I remembered the simple fact of biology—newborns can't see color.

Great. First, I get thrown into a show I barely remember, and now I'm stuck in grayscale vision for the foreseeable future. Wonderful. I'll have to wait months for my eyesight to catch up to normal human development. I don't think I'll even be here that long, though. This is a dream. It has to be. I'll wake up soon. Preferably before I start teething.

Before I could start formulating a grand escape plan, voices rose from somewhere deeper in the house. One voice I recognized, Damon's low drawl, effortlessly sarcastic as always. The other was unfamiliar—sharp and impatient.

"You what?!" the unfamiliar man shouted, anger thick in his tone.

"I saved her life," Damon's voice responded, more casual than the situation likely deserved. "When Klaus kills Elena in the sacrifice, she'll come back. It's not exactly a flawless plan, but hey, what's a little vampirism between friends, right?"

The man—who I now realized must be John Gilbert—stepped into the parlor, his face twisted with rage. "You arrogant son of a—"

Before he could finish, Damon had him pinned to the wall, moving so fast I barely registered the blur. The sound of wood splintering from the impact echoed through the room. My tiny body almost flinched at the sudden violence, though all I managed was a slight gurgle of protest. John winced, his eyes wide, caught off-guard.