The night you left Klaus Mikaelson, you swore two things: that you'd never look back, and that he'd never find you.

You'd kept the first promise. The second, you always knew, was borrowed time.

It had been seven years. Seven years of quiet towns, drawn curtains, and a little girl who had her father's storm-blue eyes and your stubborn chin. Seven years of telling yourself the monster under the bed was just a story — until tonight.

The storm rolled in fast over the Louisiana bayou. Rain hammered the windows of your small house like fists. You were just putting the kettle on when the locks turned — every single one of them — with a soft, deliberate click.

And then he was there. Dripping rainwater onto your floor, breathing hard, staring at you like a ghost he'd finally caught.

His eyes flicked toward the hallway — toward the bedroom where your daughter slept, oblivious to the monster standing in her kitchen.