Damiana Francesca Baltazar despised Thursdays.
Of all the days to work, Thursdays were the worst. Not quite the weekend, not quite slow enough to relax. The bar always smelled like stale beer, cigarette smoke, and the faintest whiff of disappointment by the end of the night. But what she hated most about Thursdays was the rerun of The Vampire Diaries that always seemed to play on the bar's old TV, courtesy of the Blu-ray player the place could afford.
It was on now, a flickering distraction at the far end of the counter. Damon Salvatore's face filled the screen, his smirk as infuriating as ever.
Perfect, she thought, rolling her eyes. The customers loved it. They loved pointing out the resemblance between her and the vampire, as if she hadn't heard it a thousand times already.
"Hey, you ever notice you look like that guy?" one of the drunk regulars slurred, his finger lazily pointed at the screen. Damon was throwing one of his infamous flirting looks at Elena.
Damiana's lips twitched in irritation. Every. Damn. Time.
"Nope, never heard that one before," she deadpanned, sliding the man another beer. He gave her a confused look, then returned his attention to the show.
It wasn't just the look-alike jokes that got to her. It was the reminder of how everything in her life seemed to orbit around the damned vampire craze, the comparisons she couldn't escape. Dark hair, blue eyes, sharp cheekbones—sure, it was a surface resemblance, but it followed her everywhere. Not to mention her name. Damiana. It was too close to Damon, too uncanny for her liking.
And the worst part? She hated The Vampire Diaries. She hated the endless fan obsession, the "Team Damon" nonsense, the romanticization of a man who thrived on violence. But no matter how hard she tried, the damn show followed her.
'Wasn't the Twilight Franchise bad enough.' she grumbled to herself.
Her parents had named her Damiana years before the series even existed. But the universe had a cruel sense of humor, didn't it?
Even her sisters, Lucienne and Adriana were fans of the damn show. Every time a new episode would premiere during high school, they tease her endlessly.
The soft clinking of glasses and the low hum of the TV were the only sounds in the bar now. Last call had come and gone, and the place was nearly empty. A few stragglers remained, glued to their seats, nursing their drinks as if clinging to some faint hope that the night wouldn't end.
Damiana wiped the counter, her movements mechanical, her mind wandering. Outside, the wind howled against the windows, a cold front moving in. She'd have to take out the trash soon. She hated that part of the job too.
The rerun droned on behind her. Damon and Stefan were arguing about Elena again. Another character she hated, and from her sisters' constant bad mouthing her when she showed up on the living room screen, she wasn't alone in her dislike of the brown-haired bitch.
'Looks a lot like my ex-girlfriend in high school. Except she was blonde.' Dating the cheerleader in high school in the midst of a vampire craze, was one of the worst things she ever did. 'The bitch only dated me because I looked like 'Him'. There was clearly some trauma there.
Another glance at the screen and memories from high school crept in—days when people constantly asked her if she was dressing up as the "female Damon" for Halloween, if she had a "Team Damon" t-shirt. Clearly, she didn't since she was gay, and everyone knew it.
God, she was glad those days were over.
"Time to wrap it up, folks," she called out, her voice sharp, breaking the dull hum of conversation. "I'm closing up."
The remaining customers grumbled, but they didn't argue. One by one, they shuffled out, leaving Damiana alone with the buzzing neon sign outside and the glow of the TV casting shadows across the room.
With a sigh, she flicked off the overhead lights, letting the bar sink into darkness. The neon sign still blinked, casting pale, ghostly light onto the floor. She moved toward the back, grabbing the last trash bag of the night. The sound of crinkling plastic and the thump of the trash hitting her hip felt strangely final, a closing note to a symphony of monotony.
As she stepped outside into the narrow alley, the cold air hit her like a slap. The wind had picked up, swirling dead leaves at her feet as she dragged the trash toward the dumpster. The moon hung heavy in the sky, bright and eerie, casting long shadows against the brick walls.
Something about the night felt off. The air was too still, the shadows too deep.
Damiana's senses prickled. A lifetime of avoiding trouble had given her an instinct for danger, and it was screaming at her now. She quickened her pace, tossing the trash into the dumpster with a heavy thud. The cold bit into her skin, but she kept moving, wanting nothing more than to lock up and head home.
Just as she turned, something sharp slammed into her back.
She gasped, her breath catching in her throat as blinding pain shot through her body. Her hands instinctively flew to her back, but they came away wet, warm. Blood.
Her legs gave out beneath her, and she collapsed to the cold pavement, her vision blurring as the world tilted around her.
"That bastard took her from him!" The voice above her was shaking, frantic, as though her attacker was caught in some delusion. "Damon Salvatore ruined everything!"
What?
The irony hit her like a cruel joke. Killed... over Damon Salvatore? Some crazed fan who thought life was a TV show?
The world tilted, her vision blurring as she fell to her knees. The knife twisted inside her, sending waves of agony through her body. Her blood pooled on the ground, thick and warm, and her thoughts became hazy as the pain grew too much to bear.
You've got to be kidding me, she thought bitterly as the life drained out of her. I didn't even like the damn show.
The moon was the last thing she saw as the darkness swallowed her whole.
++++
When Damiana awoke, she wasn't in the cold, grimy alley where she'd fallen. The pain in her back was gone, replaced by an odd sense of serenity. Slowly, she opened her eyes and found herself lying on soft, damp earth, surrounded by towering trees.
The forest around her was hauntingly beautiful. Dark, ancient trees with thick trunks and twisting branches reached up toward the sky, their leaves rustling gently in the night breeze. A thick, swirling fog drifted lazily through the undergrowth, like ghostly tendrils, wrapping around the roots of the trees and the stones scattered across the ground. The scent of pine and freshly fallen rain hung in the air, crisp and invigorating. Every breath she took filled her senses, making the world feel hyper-real, almost dreamlike.
Above her, the largest full moon she had ever seen hung low in the sky. It was so close, it looked like she could reach out and touch it. The moonlight bathed the entire forest in a pale, silver glow, illuminating the fog and casting long, eerie shadows that danced with every movement of the trees.
She sat up slowly, her fingers sinking into the soft moss beneath her. The coolness of the earth grounded her, but as she looked around, a sharp pang of confusion shot through her mind.
Where am I? The last thing she remembered was taking out the trash behind the bar. It had been a typical, monotonous night until—
Her eyes widened as it all came flooding back. The bar. The rerun of The Vampire Diaries on the TV. That creep who stabbed her, screaming about Damon Salvatore and how he'd "ruined everything."
"What the hell…?" she muttered, her voice barely above a whisper.
The image of the alley flickered in her mind—the cold steel of the knife, the searing pain as it plunged into her back, and the bizarre rant of her attacker. Some weirdo who was apparently so obsessed with The Vampire Diaries that he thought it was worth killing someone over.
Damon Salvatore ruined his life, the guy had said. The memory made her blood boil. She'd died because of some crazy fanboy with a knife and a grudge.
Her lips twisted into a bitter smile. "Of all the ways to go… stabbed by a Vampire Diaries fanatic."
But as she looked around the ethereal forest, the absurdity of her death only deepened her confusion. This wasn't heaven. It didn't feel like hell either. It felt… otherworldly, like she had crossed into some strange in-between place that neither belonged to the living nor the dead.
The forest was alive in ways she couldn't quite explain. Every leaf, every branch seemed to shimmer under the moonlight as though it were part of some grand, ancient magic. The air hummed with an energy she had never felt before, something primal and untouched.
She pushed herself to her feet, feeling oddly light, as though her body had shed its physical limitations. Her movements were effortless, graceful even, like she was no longer bound by the laws of the world she once knew.
"What is this place?" she asked aloud, though there was no one around to answer.
The silence was deafening. No birds, no animals, just the soft rustle of leaves and the quiet whisper of the wind through the trees. She felt like she was being watched, but when she turned, there was no one—just the endless stretch of fog and trees, bathed in the silver glow of the moon.
A flicker of movement caught her eye, and for a moment, she thought she saw a shadow dart between the trees. Her heart skipped a beat, and she stepped back, her senses on high alert. The forest might be beautiful, but there was something unsettling about it too. Something lurking in the shadows, just out of reach.
"Hello?" she called, her voice echoing in the stillness.
No answer.
'Alright, so this isn't creepy. Not. at. all,' she thought sarcastically.
Then, out of the corner of her eye, the fog shifted, parting like a curtain as a figure stepped through. Tall and imposing, draped in flowing robes as dark as the night itself, the figure moved with a grace that was almost unnatural. Her face was pale, almost luminescent under the moonlight, and her eyes—deep, endless pools of darkness—locked onto Damiana with a gaze that sent a shiver down her spine.
The Primordial Goddess of the Night stood before her, her presence overwhelming, as if the very essence of the darkness was embodied in her. Her lips curved into a slow, knowing smile, and when she spoke, her voice was like velvet, smooth and dark.
"Welcome, child," Nyx said, her words echoing through the forest as if the trees themselves were listening.
Damiana swallowed, unsure of what to say, her mind racing to piece together what was happening. She had died. There was no question about that. She had felt the knife, had watched the blood pool around her as the life drained from her body. And now, here she was, standing in this ethereal forest, face-to-face with a goddess she had only ever heard of in myths.
"You died before your time," Nyx said, as if reading her thoughts. Her voice was calm, but there was an undeniable power behind it, like the shifting of the night itself. "But fate has a funny way of redirecting lost souls."
Damiana's mouth went dry. "So… what happens now?"
Nyx stepped forward, her robes swirling around her as though they were made of the very shadows themselves. "You were taken from your world unjustly. But I have watched you for a long time, Damiana. You carry the night within you, more than any mortal soul I've seen in centuries. That is why I have chosen you."
Damiana blinked, trying to process what Nyx was saying. "Chosen me for what?"
Nyx smiled, a slow, eerie smile that made the hairs on the back of Damiana's neck stand on end. "To become my child. To walk the night as one of mine."
The words hung in the air, heavy and full of meaning. Damiana's heart raced, her mind spinning. She had no idea what Nyx meant, but the sheer weight of it made her pulse quicken.
Nyx raised her hand, and with a wave of her fingers, two large, intricately carved wheels appeared, floating in the air between them. One wheel was marked with symbols, each representing a different race—vampire, werewolf, fae, and more. The other was marked with words Damiana couldn't quite decipher, but she could feel the energy radiating from it.
"You will spin these wheels," Nyx said, her voice soft but commanding. "And they will decide your fate."
Damiana stared at the wheels, her chest tight with anticipation and fear. "What if I don't want to?"
Nyx's smile widened, her dark eyes glinting in the moonlight. "You don't have a choice, my dear."
The goddess gestured toward the wheels, and though every instinct told her to turn and run, Damiana's feet remained rooted to the spot. She knew, deep down, that there was no escaping this. No going back.
Taking a deep breath, she stepped forward, her hand hovering over the first wheel.
"Go ahead," Nyx urged, her voice like a whisper in the night. "Let fate decide."