Paris, 1945.
Heavy rain roared through the city, a shadow casting over the streets, stained with blood spilled from war.
Along the roads, cries of footsteps hurrying through the downpour, umbrellas raised, widows with children in hand returning to the Dreadful Paris.
Left fatherless, some orphans.
In the shadows,
children scattered through alleyways, searching desperately for their next meal, hoping to snatch anything they could find.
From the Darkness—Pare figures emerged, claws raking across their flesh, dragging them into the darkness, away from prying eyes.
Their screams were swallowed by the Rain.
In turn, moonlight poured down—distant roars rumbled through the streets of Paris.
Howls…
striking fear into the hearts of creatures lurking in the shadows.
But those overwhelmed with bloodlust
continued their feast.
In a far corner, a dark-haired man in a tailored suit nursed a drink at a bar. Around him, the bodies of his victims lay sprawled, completely drained of blood.
He tilted his head, catching the distant sound of howling. Wolves.
"Fantastic," he muttered. "Should've just gone back to Mystic Falls when I had the chance. But no… now I get to deal with a furry welcome committee."
He glanced around at the mess—blood everywhere, broken glasses, lifeless eyes staring up at nothing.
"Well," he sighed. "Subtlety was never really my thing anyway."
The bar door swung open with a soft chime.
An elegant woman stepped inside, dressed like royalty, her crimson eyes sweeping across the room.
Rose-colored hair cascaded over her shoulders in soft waves, framing a face both beautiful and dangerous. Sharp fangs peeked just beneath her lips, a silent reminder of what she was.
"Tell me, young man," she said, her voice smooth with a heavy accent ,"do you know what I am?"
Damon didn't even flinch. Of course, someone like her would show up eventually—one of their kind. The so-called true vampires, whatever that was supposed to mean. As far as he was concerned, they all drank human blood.
"Listen, lady," Damon said, casually swirling his bourbon, "I don't know if you're deaf or just dramatic, but we've got a bunch of mutts prowling around outside. Probably not the best time for a lesson on vampire etiquette."
She stepped further into the bar, unbothered by the mess or his sarcasm.
"The wolves won't come here," she replied coolly. "And as for 'etiquette'—I am not of the Volturi. I'm far older than their petty politics."
"Far older?" Damon raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. He'd never heard of any vampires older than the Originals. Aside from them, the Volturi were the oldest, self-proclaimed royalty who tried to rule the vampire world.
Tried being the keyword. The Originals put a stop to that centuries ago, especially in the Western world.
The woman smiled faintly, almost amused by his doubt.
"As for why I asked if you knew who I am," she said, her voice as smooth as ever, "it was simply to gauge how informed you truly are. And it seems… you're not."
"First of all," Damon said, tilting his glass, "you could at least introduce yourself. Second, I don't care what you have to say… as for the wolves. How sure are you they won't come barging in here?"
The woman offered a graceful nod, lips curving into a subtle smile.
"My apologies, young man. I go by many names, but the one I favor most is Vanessa… Vanessa Valentine. And you are?"
"Damon Salvatore."
"Ah, Damon." She seemed genuinely pleased. "It's a pleasure. It's rare to see one of your kind with a shred of self-control." Her crimson gaze swept over the bodies. "Though… looking at this mess, at least you keep your chaos indoors."
She turned slightly, listening beyond the walls.
"As for the wolves—they're currently preoccupied. It seems some fledglings stirred up trouble."
"I'm assuming by 'fledglings' you mean vampire?" Damon asked, eyebrows raised.
"Yes," Vanessa replied, taking a seat beside him. Her eyes narrowed slightly.
"You're quite confident—for a vampire as young as you are," she said with a faint smile. "It's a good trait… but one you should be careful with. Especially when speaking to someone like me."
"Yeah, I get that a lot," Damon replied, cracking open a bottle of beer. "Doesn't stop me, though."
"So, you said you're old," Damon said, taking a sip of his beer. "How old exactly?"
Vanessa arched her brow. "Didn't your mother ever teach you it's rude to ask a lady her age?"
He shrugged.
"If you must know… I'm over five thousand years old."
Damon grinned at her. "Sure… and what's a beautiful lady like yourself doing in a place like this?"
"Charming," she said with a hint of amusement. "But as for why I'm here… that, I can't tell you."
She leaned in slightly. "Tell me, Damon—what do you know of the Originals?"
He leaned back, lazily swirling his drink. "Oldest vampire family. Blah, blah, blah. Supposedly unkillable. Everyone's either afraid of them or trying to be them."
"Yes—and they're also responsible for creating your kind. The new breed of vampire. Some call you Rippers, but a more fitting term would be cursed vampires—creatures who can't enter a home without being invited, who burn under the sun, and who are weakened by mere herbs."
"Yeah, well… there's a bright side," Damon said. "We've got compulsion, immortality, all the fun party tricks."
Vanessa's eyes drifted to the ceiling, her expression darkening.
"The correct term for your makers is the Original Sinners," she said coldly. "My master would have sentenced them to death simply for existing."
"Hate to break it to you," Damon replied, taking another sip, "but plenty of people have tried to kill them. Yet they can't die."
She looked at Damon, her eyes seeming to peer into his soul. For a moment, it rattled him to his core.
Then she offered a faint, almost sorrowful smile.
"There's no such thing as true immortality, Damon. Not for you. Not for me." She glanced away, her gaze distant. "A long life eventually brings only one thing: erosion. Of the mind, the soul… everything."
She turned back to him, voice quiet but firm.
"The same applies to the so-called Originals—especially when witchcraft is involved."
Vanessa stood, her movements graceful and deliberate, preparing to leave. But before stepping away, she left him with one last truth:
"The moon may grant power… but it does not gift true immortality. There will always be a way to end even the eternal."