The moment Elijah left, I couldn't shake the feeling of being trapped. Trapped in a body I didn't entirely control, trapped under the weight of a legacy I didn't ask for.
Elijah had seen through my act. He hadn't outright called me out on it, but the look in his eyes told me that he knew something was wrong. Klaus had always been a master of deception, of wearing his mask so perfectly that no one ever truly questioned him. But I wasn't Klaus. I wasn't the same man. I had no idea how much longer I could keep up this charade.
The hunger gnawed at my insides again, but I ignored it this time. I couldn't let it control me. I had to prove to myself—no, to *them*—that I could carve my own path, that I could handle this power without becoming the monster Klaus had been.
But the more I tried to deny it, the more I could feel Klaus's presence creeping in, like a shadow in my mind, pushing me toward violence, toward the darkness that he had once embraced so easily. His memories, his instincts—they felt like chains that bound me.
I walked the halls of the mansion, aimless. The world outside beckoned, full of life and danger. I could feel the pulse of the city, feel the blood running through the veins of its inhabitants, calling to me. It was tempting, so tempting. But there was something more to this city, something that wasn't as simple as hunger or power.
I couldn't explain it, but I could feel the pull of the past here. The remnants of Klaus's reign were still strong in New Orleans. The city had a life of its own, a dark, complex life. And I was inextricably linked to it now.
I stopped in front of the grand mirror in the hallway, staring at my reflection. Klaus's face stared back at me, but I didn't recognize it. This man, this monster, was not me. He wasn't *who* I was meant to be. I could feel a flicker of my former self, the person I had been before being reborn in Klaus's body. But it was fleeting. A ghost.
I leaned closer to the mirror, my fingers trailing over the glass. The reflection wavered, as if mocking me. What did I really want? Was there even a way to escape Klaus's past, to erase the blood on my hands, the blood on *his* hands?
A knock on the door broke my reverie, and I turned quickly, my heart racing for reasons I couldn't explain. I didn't know why, but I felt... vulnerable in that moment. Like someone might see through me, strip away the facade and reveal the raw, unhealed wound beneath.
"Come in," I said, my voice betraying none of the internal conflict I felt. I could still hear the remnants of Klaus's arrogance in my tone, but beneath it, there was something softer, something unsure.
The door creaked open, and a familiar figure entered. It was Marcel—Klaus's former protégé, once a trusted ally, now an adversary in his own right. The air between us was thick with history, thick with everything unsaid. Marcel had been a key player in Klaus's rise to power in New Orleans. He knew more about Klaus's motivations, his weaknesses, than anyone. And that made him dangerous to me.
"Thought I'd find you here," Marcel said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. He leaned against the doorframe, his eyes scanning me with a mixture of suspicion and curiosity. "The king returns, and the first thing he does is hide in his old haunts. Pathetic."
I bristled at his words, but I forced myself to keep calm. I couldn't let my emotions get the best of me. Klaus might have reacted with rage, might have threatened Marcel with death, but I couldn't. I wasn't him.
"I'm not hiding," I replied, keeping my tone neutral. "I'm thinking."
"Thinking, huh?" Marcel took a step closer, studying me closely. "About what? The city? Or about the mess you've inherited?"
The bite in his voice stung, but I didn't let it show. He had every right to question me. Klaus had been a tyrant, a manipulator, and now that same presence was living inside me. I could feel the weight of it pressing down on me, and I wasn't sure how much longer I could keep it from consuming me.
"You don't get to question me," I said, the words coming out sharper than I intended. But I couldn't stop them. "You don't know what this is like."
"Oh, I know," Marcel replied, stepping into the room with more confidence now. "I know exactly what it's like. The power, the hunger. It changes you. Turns you into something... else. Klaus, he never cared. But you? You seem to think you're different. You think you can just walk away from his mistakes. But you can't. Not with the city in your blood."
I stood up straighter, my fists clenched by my sides. I felt the pull of power, the way Klaus's blood seemed to surge in me whenever I got angry. The hunger was close, the need to feed, to *control*… but I pushed it down. I had to push it down.
"I'm not him," I said, quieter this time, but the words were still firm. "And I don't plan to be."
Marcel raised an eyebrow, crossing his arms over his chest. He didn't seem convinced, but then again, why would he be? No one knew better than Marcel how hard it was to fight the blood that ran in our veins. How easy it was to slip back into the role of monster.
"You say that," Marcel muttered. "But I've seen what Klaus does to people who challenge him. The question is, do you have the strength to stand against that? Because if you don't, I'll be the first one to remind you that New Orleans doesn't belong to you. Not yet."
I felt a flicker of something inside me—a surge of anger, maybe, or maybe fear. Was Marcel right? Was I doomed to fall into the same patterns as Klaus, to follow in his footsteps and become the monster I feared I might be? I wasn't sure. But the hunger—*his* hunger—still clawed at me from the inside. It told me to fight back, to assert dominance. It told me to prove that I was in control.
But I wasn't ready for that. Not yet.
"You're right about one thing," I said slowly, my voice laced with steel. "I have a lot to prove. To you, to this city, to myself. But I'll do it on my terms. And you'd be wise to remember that."
Marcel narrowed his eyes, but he said nothing more. He knew that I wasn't Klaus, that I wasn't going to lash out in the same way. But he was also smart enough to know that he couldn't push me too far—not yet.
With a final glance, Marcel turned and left the room, his footsteps echoing down the hallway.
I let out a slow breath, my body relaxing for the first time in what felt like hours. I was standing at a crossroads, caught between two worlds—the one Klaus had left behind, and the one I could create for myself.
I had to be strong. I couldn't let the hunger take over. I couldn't let myself become the monster they all expected me to be.
But the question was: could I?
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