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The mansion felt eerily silent after Elijah's departure, an overwhelming quiet that pressed against my chest. I should have been used to silence by now, after everything Klaus had been through, everything he'd left behind. But this silence was different. It wasn't the absence of noise; it was the absence of identity. I had inherited Klaus's body, his powers, and all the burdens of his past, but I still had no idea who I really was or who I could become.
The mirror that hung on the wall seemed to mock me as I stared at my reflection. Klaus's face looked back at me, a perfect replica of the man he had been. His jawline was sharp, his eyes colder than I remembered, but there was no denying that I was him, and yet not him. The body was Klaus's, but the soul beneath it—the one that should have been mine—felt foreign, a visitor in a host that had no space left for it.
The hunger, that insatiable thirst for blood, gnawed at me constantly now. Every time I let my mind wander, I could feel it bubbling beneath the surface, threatening to tear me apart. It wasn't a hunger for food or sustenance—it was a hunger for power, for control. A hunger to be the one in charge, the one who could shape the world as he saw fit. The same hunger that had driven Klaus to build his empire, to manipulate those around him with promises of power and blood.
I took a deep breath and tried to calm myself. The hunger wasn't going to control me—not if I could help it. I had come here with one purpose in mind: to find out who I could become without Klaus's influence pulling at every decision I made.
I was jolted from my thoughts by the sound of the door opening, the familiar soft click of it against the frame. I turned to see Marcel standing there, his dark eyes scanning me with the same curiosity and distrust he always had.
"Thought I'd find you here," he said, his voice carrying a weight of unspoken challenges.
I did not respond immediately, choosing instead to keep my gaze fixed on him. There was so much history between us—the good, the bad, the betrayals and the alliances—but in that moment, none of it seemed to matter. Klaus's former protégé had grown into something more—an enemy in his own right, but one who still knew me better than most.
Marcel stepped into the room, his posture relaxed but the tension in his eyes never quite dissipating. "You're hiding, Klaus. Again. And you don't do that. So, I'm curious—what's going on?"
I clenched my fists. He was right, in a way. Klaus had always kept his distance from everyone, keeping himself locked away in his own thoughts and schemes. But I wasn't Klaus. I had made the decision not to follow in his footsteps, to find my own way. And yet here I was, standing in the shadow of his legacy, unable to escape it.
"I'm not hiding," I said, trying to keep the anger from my voice. "I'm thinking."
"Thinking, huh?" Marcel's lips curled into a smirk. "About what? The city? Or about the mess you've inherited?"
His words struck harder than I expected, piercing through the layers of calm I had worked so hard to maintain. I couldn't help it; the anger bubbled up, the rage that had always been a part of Klaus's essence coming to the surface. For a moment, I wondered if I was even capable of keeping control—of keeping *myself* in control.
"I'm not here to discuss my thoughts with you, Marcel," I said, taking a step toward him, my voice colder than I intended. "You may think you know me, but you don't. You never really did."
Marcel's expression shifted slightly, his smirk faltering, but he didn't back down. If anything, his stance grew firmer. "Then prove it. Prove you're not Klaus. Show me you can make a decision that doesn't lead to more bloodshed, more destruction. Show me you have a purpose here other than trying to be something you're not."
I froze. The words stung, more than I cared to admit. Klaus had built a life on destruction. It was how he made his mark in the world—by leaving a trail of blood behind him, bending people to his will with promises of power. But I wasn't Klaus. At least, I didn't want to be.
I wanted to believe that I could do better. I wanted to believe that I could rise above the shadow that loomed over me and carve out something real—something that wasn't defined by the monster I now carried inside.
But the hunger. The desire to tear everything down and rebuild it, to control the lives of everyone around me, to shape the world with an iron fist… it was so tempting. Too tempting.
Marcel watched me closely, the silence between us thick with unspoken words. He didn't need to say it—I knew what he was thinking. I had the power to be something great, or something terrible. He had seen it all before, in Klaus.
"You can't outrun your past," Marcel said quietly, his voice carrying a note of caution that struck me deep. "You can't run from who you are."
I felt a surge of frustration, the hunger pulling at me, urging me to lash out, to show Marcel just how powerful I had become. But I held it in. I clenched my fists tighter, focusing all my energy on not letting the hunger consume me.
"I'm not Klaus," I repeated, more firmly this time. "And I'm not going to make the same mistakes he did."
Marcel regarded me for a long moment, his gaze sharp as a blade. Finally, he nodded slowly, as if weighing my words. "You say that now," he said, "but time will tell. And you better be ready, because New Orleans doesn't forgive mistakes. Not like you think."
With that, he turned and walked out of the room, leaving me alone with my thoughts. I didn't feel relieved; if anything, I felt more unsettled than ever. I wasn't sure what was worse—the hunger gnawing at me or the weight of everyone's expectations.
As I stood there in the silence of Klaus's mansion, I realized something: the city, the people, the power—all of it was tangled together in a web that I wasn't sure I could escape. But one thing was certain: I couldn't go back. There was no undoing the past. No running from the blood on my hands.
I could only move forward—and pray that I didn't become the monster I feared I was turning into.
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