CHAOS ☾ (KLENA.)

ONE.

Elena Gilbert slid the keys into the ignition, her foot pressing gently on the pedal. The engine purred to life as she drove down the road, leaving the familiar sights of Mystic Falls behind. With a flick of her hand, she turned up the stereo and sped past the wooden sign that read: Welcome to Mystic Falls. Warm summer air brushed against her skin, and her hair whipped freely in the wind. She smiled, basking in a rare moment of pure, unfiltered freedom.

Hours later, she arrived at her destination—New Orleans.

Pulling into a side street, she parked the car and stepped out into the vibrant, unfamiliar city. Sliding her sunglasses over her eyes, Elena walked into the bustling streets, surrounded by the sound of jazz and the hum of voices—locals and tourists mingling in a blur of color and life. Her smile brightened as she paused to listen to a woman playing the violin with exquisite grace. Without hesitation, Elena placed a crisp hundred-dollar bill into the violin case before continuing on, her footsteps leading her down Bourbon Street.

She stopped in front of a bar marked Rousseau's and stepped inside. The cool, dimly lit interior contrasted sharply with the sun-drenched streets outside. Taking a seat at the bar, she ordered without hesitation.

"Tequila, please," she said, handing the blonde bartender a bill.

As she waited, Elena took in the setting. The bar was old, its walls steeped in history. She tapped her fingers lightly against her glass, absorbing the atmosphere—until a voice she knew all too well sent a jolt through her.

"Your finest scotch, please. Camille," the voice said, smooth and unmistakably British.

Her ears rang. That accent. That tone. She turned slowly—and there he was.

Klaus Mikaelson stood beside her, a crooked grin spreading across his face.

"Hello, love," he said, his voice laced with charm and mischief.

A chill ran down her spine. Oh, crap, she thought. The last person she ever expected to see.

————

Elena froze, her fingers still wrapped around the cool glass of tequila. She hadn't heard that voice in months, maybe years—but she could never forget it. Slowly, she turned to face him fully, her heart racing against her ribs like a warning drum.

"Klaus," she said carefully, her voice steady, though her pulse was anything but. "What a... surprise."

He smirked, eyes gleaming with that maddening mix of amusement and danger. "I do love how your voice does that little tremble when you say my name. Makes a man feel remembered."

Elena rolled her eyes, lifting the tequila to her lips and taking a slow, deliberate sip. The burn in her throat felt easier to handle than the heat in his gaze.

"What are you doing here?" she asked, setting the glass down harder than necessary. "Following me?"

"Hardly," Klaus said, leaning casually against the bar, his scotch untouched. "Though fate does have a lovely way of pulling us back together, doesn't it?"

"Fate's got a cruel sense of humor," she muttered under her breath.

Klaus chuckled, the sound deep and velvet-smooth. "You wound me, Elena. And here I thought you'd be thrilled to see an old friend."

"We were never friends," she said flatly.

"No," he agreed, tilting his head slightly, studying her with eyes too perceptive for comfort. "We were always something... else."

Elena looked away, but not before catching the flicker of something darker—something unreadable—cross his face. He hadn't changed. Still dangerous, still charming, still utterly unreadable.

And yet here he was, again, standing too close, speaking too softly, stirring something in her that she wasn't ready to name.

"New Orleans is a big city," she said finally, trying to reclaim her balance. "I'm sure there's a bar that isn't haunted by Originals."

He leaned closer, that smirk curving like a secret. "But then how would I get the pleasure of running into you, love?"

She could smell the scotch on his breath, see the way his eyes flickered with ancient knowledge—and desire.

Elena stood abruptly, the chair scraping against the wood. "I'm not here for you, Klaus."

He didn't move. Just sipped his drink slowly, eyes never leaving her.

"Maybe not," he said, voice like smoke. "But perhaps... you should be."

Her heart skipped again—damn it—and she turned away, pushing through the crowd and into the street, the music and laughter swelling around her like a wave. She needed air. She needed space.

But most of all, she needed to forget the way his voice still curled around her name like a promise she almost wanted to believe.