Chicago, 1959. Thunderstorm. 2:46 A.M.

The bed creaked under the rhythm of Stefan's hips.

Outside, the city howled — thunder ripping open the night, wind thrashing against the windowpanes like it was trying to get in. The woman beneath him moaned, her nails scraping down his spine, drawing blood. Her name — something forgettable and soft, maybe Lila or Laura — had already slipped from his mind. He didn't care. He wasn't here for her.

He was here to disappear.

Her legs locked tighter around his waist as he thrust into her, chasing that razor-thin edge where sensation drowned thought. His breath ghosted against her throat. Her pulse fluttered beneath his lips — warm, fast, pleading — and he almost bit her again. Just a little. Just enough to blur out the voice in his head.

The voice that said he wasn't really living.

The voice that whispered he was chasing something he couldn't name. Something he'd lost long ago, without ever realizing he'd had it.

The whiskey on his breath dulled the edges of the moment. Everything was hazy. Feral. Disconnected. He wasn't Stefan Salvatore here. Not the ripper. Not the brother. Not the man who once believed in redemption. He was just a creature of hunger and habit.

He moved faster. She cried out. But his mind wasn't on her.

It was somewhere else.

Somewhere colder.

And then—

The door creaked.

He didn't stop. Didn't even glance toward the sound.

Until he heard the voice.

"You're still the same," came a voice like a dagger dipped in honey. "Fucking to forget. Drinking to disappear."

Stefan froze.

His head turned slowly, lips still brushing the girl's neck. Her breath hitched, trembling against him as she tried to cover herself with the sheets.

A man stood in the doorway.

Tall. Broad. Soaked from the storm, rainwater dripping from his long black coat. Blonde curls plastered to his forehead. His eyes — those eyes — burned into Stefan like they already knew every sin written across his skin.

The girl whimpered.

Stefan didn't move.

Didn't pull out. Didn't even blink.

"Who the hell are you?" he asked, voice rough with lust and rage and something else. Something raw.

The man said nothing at first. His eyes dragged down Stefan's bare chest, to the blood drying in thin lines from where the woman's nails had torn him open. To the bruises blooming on his hips. To the way his hand still gripped the girl's thigh, possessive and careless.

The man tilted his head — Klaus Mikaelson — like a god debating whether to smirk... or set the world on fire.

"You've always had a knack for theatrics," he finally said, voice sharp.

"I asked you a question." Stefan's tone was clipped now. Dangerous. "Who. Are. You."

Klaus's lips curled.

"No one important."

Stefan scoffed, finally pulling back and rising from the bed. The girl whimpered again, curling deeper into the sheets as he walked — stark naked — across the room. He grabbed the bourbon from the table, took a long swig, then met Klaus's eyes.

He raised the bottle in a mock salute.

"Didn't know I invited company."

"You didn't," Klaus said, stepping further into the room. Rain followed him, puddling at his feet like the storm itself bowed to his presence.

"Then get the hell out."

But Klaus didn't move.

He was staring. At Stefan.

At the ruined version of him — the sweat, the blood, the brokenness he wore like armor.

"You jealous?" Stefan said, smirking. It was meant to be a joke. Cruel, maybe. Sharp enough to draw blood.

But his voice faltered at the end.

Because Klaus's eyes — god, those eyes — weren't just angry.

They were hungry.

Dark.

Unspoken.

"Jealous?" Klaus repeated. He stepped forward. "Of her?"

He laughed. But it wasn't real. It sounded like ice cracking.

"I've seen better."

Stefan's jaw clenched.

"You came all this way to insult me?"

"I came," Klaus said, low and deliberate, "to see if there was anything left worth saving."

"You think I need saving?"

"I think you're pathetic."

Stefan didn't react.

Not outwardly.

But something behind his eyes shifted. A flinch buried deep.

He stepped closer — no shame in the way he stood, naked and unapologetic. Only challenge.

"You always make house calls this dramatic?" he asked, eyes flicking to Klaus's mouth before he could stop himself.

Klaus didn't respond.

Didn't move.

The silence between them thickened — electric, violent. Heavy with something old. Something unfinished.

"I don't remember you," Stefan finally said.

Klaus flinched. Just slightly.

"You're not supposed to."

"Yet here you are," Stefan pressed, "talking like we've shared beds. Or battles. Or... something."

Klaus looked away.

"I've shared nothing with you."

Stefan laughed. A cold, bitter sound.

"Sure about that?"

He stepped even closer. The distance between them was a breath. A blade's width.

Then, with a smirk that didn't quite reach his eyes, he said:

"Or do you always show up uninvited after I fuck someone? What is it, Asshole — you didn't like that I was inside her? Or was it that I wasn't inside you?"

The room went still.

Even the storm outside seemed to hold its breath.

Klaus moved.

Too fast to see.

He slammed Stefan back against the wall, one hand gripping his throat — not to kill. Just to remind him who had the power.

Stefan didn't resist.

He leaned into it.

Eyes glittering.

Like he wanted to be punished.

"You always this handsy with strangers?" Stefan rasped.

Klaus's grip tightened.

"You're disgusting."

"I try."

"You think this impresses me? This life you've bled yourself into?" His voice was sharp, venomous. "The whores. The blood. The whiskey. Is this what you are now?"

"It's what I've always been."

Klaus stared at him.

And saw it.

The hollowness behind the smirk. The ache beneath the defiance.

"You fucked her," Klaus whispered. "You let her touch you."

Stefan's breath hitched. "So?"

"So why does that make me want to kill her?"

The words slipped out before Klaus could stop them.

He hadn't meant to say it.

Stefan's lips parted.

Something flickered between them. A breath that might've become a kiss.

But it didn't.

Because Klaus stepped back.

Abrupt. Like he'd been burned.

Like he'd almost felt something — and couldn't afford to.

"I should kill you," Klaus muttered.

"You should try."

"You don't remember me," Klaus said again, quieter this time.

"No," Stefan whispered. "But maybe I did once."

He paused.

"You feel like a wound I forgot how to bleed."

Klaus went still.

Something in his expression fractured.

For the first time, he looked — not like the monster, not like the hybrid, not like the king.

Just like a man.

A lonely, broken man.

Then Stefan said, softer now:

"Klaus."

Klaus stopped in the doorway.

Turned.

Stefan looked confused.

"I don't know why I said that."

Klaus swallowed hard. His hand trembled at his side.

Then he raised it.

His voice was barely more than a breath. But the compulsion wove through the air like smoke and shadow.

"You wont remember this, love.
This room.
This night.
Me."

Stefan blinked.

His gaze fogged.

His stance faltered for a moment — like his mind had been carved out and sewn back together, imperfectly.

The girl stirred on the bed, mumbling something sleep-slurred and useless.

Stefan rubbed his eyes, stepping away from the wall.

He looked around the room, frowning faintly. His heart pounded, but he didn't know why.

Like something had been torn from him in the dark.

Like something vital was missing.

Klaus stood there a moment longer.

Watching.

He could still taste the words he didn't say.

The kiss he didn't take.

The love he refused to name.

Then, without another word, he turned.

And disappeared into the storm.

End of Chapter Two