Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

One thing is reading a fanfic and imagining yourself as the main character, living a forbidden romance with Elijah Mikaelson.
A completely different thing is waking up from a coma induced by a bowl of spoiled ramen and finding out you are Elijah Mikaelson.
Almost.

The last thing Lívia remembered was the sticky texture of instant noodles and a stabbing stomachache. Then—darkness.
And then—light. Blinding, harsh light filtering through a grimy window in a ruined apartment she didn’t recognize.

And the most alarming part: the voice that came out of her throat when she screamed wasn’t hers.
It was deep. Velvety. Impeccably articulated. And absurdly masculine.

She stumbled toward what she hoped was a bathroom, tripping over legs far too long, and faced the reflection in the cracked mirror.

And the world fell apart.

Eyes of deep amber, filled with ancient wisdom she certainly didn’t possess, stared back at her.
Noble, perfectly symmetrical features, as if sculpted from marble by a Renaissance master.
Dark brown hair, flawlessly combed—even after what looked like one hell of a night.
And a suit. God, a ridiculously expensive suit, now dusty and torn at the shoulder.

It was Elijah Mikaelson’s face.
But it wasn’t him. It was… her.

A hysterical wave crashed over her. The hands—his hands—large, strong, veined, with long fingers—roamed over the face, the neck, the smooth and firm chest.
They traveled lower and found… an absence where there should’ve been a presence, and a very new, very uninvited presence where there should’ve been nothing.

“No.” The deep, elegant voice cracked, heavy with Lívia’s pure terror. “No, no, no, no. This is a nightmare. A very specific, very cursed nightmare.”

That’s when a sharp pain exploded in her temples, and a flood of memories that weren’t hers poured into her mind: fragments of a chase, screams, an ancient power awakening, golden light.
And a book. A heavy, old book bound in leather that seemed to pulse.

As if summoned by thought, a dusty leather case appeared beside her. She opened it with trembling fingers. There it was—the grimoire.
And then, it spoke. The voice was a dry whisper, like pages turning for the thousandth time.

“Well, well. The consciousness survived. Interesting. Most would’ve fainted—or gone insane entirely.”

Lívia screamed again, a deep, masculine, terrified sound, and kicked the case away.

“Rude,” the book muttered.

She was screwed. Dangerously, spectacularly screwed.
She was in New Orleans, trapped in the perfect replica of one of the most dangerous, elegant, and heart-ripping Original vampires in existence.
And her only ally was a bad-tempered grimoire.

She looked again at her reflection.
The man in the mirror was devastatingly handsome. Commanding.
A man and a half.
And it was her.

A wave of despair so deep hit her that she clutched the imaginary sink for support.

“I can’t even flirt with myself,” she sobbed, Elijah’s dignified voice sounding absurdly dramatic and gentlemanly, even in the middle of a nervous breakdown.

It was official. She was insane.
But if she had to act insane to survive Elijah, Klaus, and New Orleans’s supernatural mafia, so be it.

She decided right then—if she was going through this madness, she’d take control of something.
And the first thing she’d take control of was her name.
“Elijah” was his. Not hers.

She looked down at her hands, at the signet ring inexplicably on her finger.
She thought of her brother, John—the only person she missed in that moment.
A simple name for an extraordinarily bizarre existence.

“John,” she said to the reflection, testing the sound. The deep voice framed the simple name perfectly.
“My name is John.”

It was a start.
A terrible, hilarious, terrifying start.

Post-Credits Scene — The Echo of the Beacon

“Hi, it’s me again… or whoever the hell I am now.
Just to confirm: the author actually threw me into Elijah Mikaelson’s body.
This isn’t a dream, a prank, or a fanfic within a fanfic.
It’s me. Stuck in this giant, elegant, tie-infested body.

And before you say, ‘Oh wow, lucky you! Now you’re one of the hottest, deadliest men in the universe!’—hold up.
I can’t even flirt with my reflection without looking like a delusional narcissist.
Or worse… remembering that I USED TO BE A WOMAN.

So yeah, congratulations to me.
I died from ramen and resurrected as a Mikaelson.
This author officially hates me.”

📌 Author’s Note

Hello, my lovely readers and little ghosts! 🌙✨

I bring you a brand-new fanfic, since our fairy adventure is almost reaching its end. Yesterday, while rummaging through my drawer of forgotten and half-finished fanfics (yes, it’s real—and yes, it’s a black hole of chaos and emotions), I decided to peek inside to see if any of them deserved to see the light of day.

And bam! I found two stories—one more comedic, the other more dramatic. Perfect ingredients for that delicious chaos we all love.
I was torn about which one to share first, but after rereading some outlines and drafted chapters, I decided to post this one.
It’s already well structured, which means I can release chapters on the same days as the others without leaving you orphans.

But, of course, I need to know if you’re enjoying it!
So leave me comments, stars, hearts—or even smoke signals—because that’s how I know whether to keep posting with excitement. 💌

Honest confession: I still get nervous about posting. I’ve been writing fanfics for years, and most of them stay tucked away—only a few brave ones make it out into the world.
So if you like this one, please show your support—it truly makes all the difference.

Oh, and a bit of gossip: you’ve probably noticed that I only write fanfics about the Mikaelsons, right?
Yeah… I absolutely adore them. Handsome, dramatic, problematic men—my ultimate weakness. 💔😂
I’ve tried writing for other series or movies, but honestly? I always abandon the ideas halfway through. LOL.

Anyway, I hope you enjoy this new cosmic mess I’ve prepared.
Let’s go together—because if there’s a Mikaelson involved, the recipe always includes drama, chaos, and a sprinkle of laughter.

With love,
Your author 💕

Chapter Text

The cobblestone street of New Orleans was a whirlwind of sensations for the sharpened senses of his new body. John could smell both jasmine and mold, hear fragments of conversations blocks away, and feel the rough texture of stone under the soles of his polished shoes — which, he noted with disgust, were also expensive and matched perfectly with the damned suit.

(Imagine switching bodies and inheriting someone else’s tailor bill on top of it.)

He had found a less battered coat in one of the wardrobes of the abandoned apartment, but it was still a formal version. The grimoire, tucked inside the briefcase, wouldn’t stop grumbling.

“Turn left. There’s a concentration of dark energy near the water. Probably some dramatic teenage vampire ritual.”
(Honestly, this book was born to run a shade account on Twitter.)

“You’re like a mystical GPS, but sarcastic?” John muttered, trying to move his lips as little as possible. Talking to a book was definitely entry number one on his “town lunatic” résumé.

“I am a grimoire of arcane knowledge with millennia of wisdom, not a ‘GPS.’ And your tone is inappropriate for someone of your… current stature.”

“My current stature is a logistical and gender identity nightmare,” John shot back under his breath. “You’ll just have to live with the tone you get.”

He followed the direction, his footsteps unnervingly silent and graceful — a stark contrast to the chaos inside him. He needed intel, needed to know where in the timeline he’d landed. The grimoire had said “season two,” which meant the Mikaelson family slaughter-fest was already well established in the city.
(Season recap: chaos, blood, and long-winded dialogue in British accents.)

He reached a damp alley behind a bar. The scene was exactly as the book predicted: three young vampires with thug swagger surrounded a terrified girl.

“Where’s the coven, witch?” one of them growled. “Your people broke the deal.”

John felt a spark within him. Magic. Witch. That’s what he was now, besides some cosmic ventriloquist’s dummy. The power was strange, like a calm river beneath his soul, waiting to be drawn.
(At least it wasn’t allergies. That would’ve been too much.)

Before he could think, his body acted on instinct. The voice that came out wasn’t Lívia’s, nor fully John’s. It was Elijah Mikaelson’s — Roman Empire authority, pure and simple.

“I think it’s time you left.”

The vampires turned, their cocky expressions twisting into pure fear at recognizing… well, the face.

“Mikaelson!” the leader stammered, stepping back. “We… we didn’t mean trouble. It’s just a witch—”

“The young lady is not your concern,” John said, surprised by the calm firmness of his own words. He stepped between the vampires and the girl, his body imposing without him even trying. “Leave. Now.”

They didn’t need to be told twice. They turned and bolted in a blur of supernatural speed.

John exhaled in relief, adrenaline ebbing. The young witch looked at him with a mix of gratitude and fear.

“Thank you, Mr. Mikaelson. I—”

“No need,” he cut her off gently. “It’s best you head home.”

She nodded and dashed away. John turned, feeling strangely… capable. Powerful. That’s when an overwhelming familiar presence appeared at the mouth of the alley.

“Speak of the devil…” whispered the grimoire from inside the briefcase.
(When even a book knows you’re screwed, you really are screwed.)

Klaus Mikaelson was there, leaning against the brick wall, predator’s smile curving his lips. His blue eyes glittered with malicious curiosity and a spark of genuine confusion.

“Well, well, well,” he sang, pushing off the wall and walking slowly toward John. “What have we here? I’d heard rumors of my brother playing charity worker, but seeing is believing. And yet…” He sniffed the air dramatically. “You smell of… power. But not the familiar kind of my brother. And your clothes are… deplorable by Elijah’s standards. Who, or what, the hell are you?”

John felt the blood (if it was still blood) freeze in his veins. Klaus. The Original Hybrid himself. His heart (big and powerful) slammed against his ribs.

He remembered his plan: act insane. Unpredictable. Someone even Klaus might think twice about touching.

He squared his shoulders, mimicking Elijah’s impeccable posture from the TV show, and faced Klaus. A slow, deliberately unstable smile spread across his lips.

“Brother?” John said, letting his baritone drip with a touch of theatrical madness. “What a curious word. I once had a brother. John. A strong, simple name. Not like Elijah. That sounds like a sigh of disappointment, don’t you think?”

Klaus stopped, his smile stiffening slightly, eyes narrowing. The confusion deepened. This was clearly Elijah… and yet clearly not.

“What are you wearing, brother?” Klaus asked, trying to wrestle back control of the moment. “And why are you frightening my vampires with rambling about brothers?”

“Clothes are prisons, alley-owner,” John declared, throwing his arms wide. “This suit is an invitation to boring dinners and tedious talks about taxation. I long for… velvet. Or perhaps leather. Something with more personality.”
(At that exact moment, Klaus probably reconsidered ever leaving the house.)

He saw Klaus’s expression flicker. That’s right, Niklaus. Stay confused. Stay intrigued. Think your brother’s finally lost it.

That’s when a second figure appeared, silent as a shadow.

Elijah Mikaelson.

The real one.

Impeccable, as always, in a perfectly tailored three-piece suit. His face was a mask of polished composure, but his eyes — identical to John’s — were wide with shock bordering on disbelief. He looked from Klaus to John, then back again.

“Niklaus,” Elijah said, his voice serene but edged with steel. “What, precisely, is happening here?”

Klaus grinned, wide and genuinely entertained by the madness.

“Brother! How convenient. Seems you’ve split in two. And this alleyway version here has fully embraced the mental instability that’s always lurked beneath your polished exterior.”

Elijah ignored Klaus, his eyes locked on John. He studied every detail, every hair, every line of the face that was a perfect mirror of his own. John felt stripped bare under that analytical stare.

“Who are you?” Elijah asked, voice soft but laced with threat.

John knew this was the moment. The final test. He inhaled deeply, summoning every ounce of theatricality.

“Who is anyone, really?” he declared, spreading his arms wide. “We are cosmic dust on a runaway train! I was John once! Now I am… this!” He gestured at his body. “A vessel too handsome for a confused soul! And you”—he pointed at Elijah—“you are the mirror that shows me I desperately need a better haircut!”

He paused, locking eyes with Elijah’s stunned gaze.

“And your brother”—he turned to Klaus—“smells of oil paint and daddy issues. Intriguing.”

The alley fell silent. Klaus seemed torn between laughter and murder. Elijah’s expression remained unreadable, but John could see the gears turning in his head, assessing, calculating.

Finally, Elijah spoke, his voice calmer than John expected.

“It seems,” he said, slowly turning to Klaus, “we have an unexpected guest. And it would be poor manners to leave a guest… especially one with such a familiar face… in the streets.”

His eyes returned to John, a spark of curiosity burning in them now, not rage.

“You will join us.” It wasn’t a question. It was a command. “We have much to discuss.”

A chill ran down John’s spine. He’d done it. He’d managed to seem crazy enough to be unpredictable, but not threatening enough to be destroyed outright. He was being invited into the lion’s den.

He glanced at Elijah, then at Klaus, and shrugged, trying to look casual.

“As long as it’s not a dinner in a suit,” John said, deliberately rolling up his sleeves, desecrating his double’s immaculate look. “And as long as there’s a drink. Something strong. For the cosmic dust, you know.”

He grabbed the briefcase, feeling the grimoire chuckle silently inside, and followed the two Originals out of the alley — his heart hammering in his chest, a gorgeous, terrified man trapped in a cosmic comedy of errors that might also get him killed.
(And that’s how you land a dinner invitation with two immortal murderers. Congrats, John.)

Post-Credit Scene

“So, update from my survival log: survived my first run-in with random back-alley vamps. Easy-peasy. I baritone-growled a ‘leave,’ they bolted. So far, so good.

Now guess who showed up? Klaus. Yep, the galaxy’s most psychotic, unstable hybrid. And surprise, the real Elijah decided to pop in too. So now I’m the bootleg edition of an Original. Elijah 2.0, buggy release.

And the worst part? The author thinks it’s funny to dump me into this mess without a survival tutorial. No manual, no FAQ, nothing! Just me, a grumpy book, and a city full of creatures who want to turn me into a kebab.

If I vanish next chapter, you’ll know why: author’s fault.”

(Author’s Note)

Comments = coffee + inspiration for the next chapter!
No comments = your fave character dies of hiccups. Your choice. ☕⚡

Chapter Text

The grand hall of the Mikaelson mansion was a spectacle of opulence and intimidation. Classic furniture, as expensive as luxury cars, lined up beneath paintings that seemed to watch over centuries of secrets. The air carried the scent of polished wood, expensive candles, and a faint touch of ancient blood — subtle, but impossible to ignore.

John clutched the briefcase against his chest, feeling the grimoire tremble inside it, as if vibrating with excitement… or disgust.

Klaus sprawled across a leather sofa, a predatory smile glinting in his blue eyes. Elijah remained standing, posture rigid like a Greek statue, his gaze dissecting John as if it could strip his soul bare.

Rebekah Mikaelson stormed into the hall, a blonde hurricane of high heels and attitude.

“klaus, I heard from the servants you brought a—”

She froze, eyes widening as she looked at John. Then Elijah. Then back at John.

“Blood of Christ. There are two of you.”

“Apparently, Bekah,” Klaus drawled, amusement dripping from every syllable. “But that one looks like an Elijah model cobbled together from spare parts.”

A shiver ran down John’s spine. Not fear — a cold pang behind the eyes. The crooked gift of sensing danger, a twisted present from the universe for sticking him in this body.

Klaus was amused, but the amusement of a hybrid was a tightrope ready to snap.

Elijah ignored his brother. “Now that we are all gathered, perhaps our… guest… can explain himself.” His voice was sharp as a blade, precise and lethal. “Who are you? And why do you wear my face?”

It was time.

John took a deep breath, letting his shoulders slump to break Elijah’s impeccable posture. He pressed a hand to his forehead, feigning a headache that wasn’t there.

“Explaining is… complicated,” he began, his deep voice carrying exhaustion, almost lost. “My memories are shards. Fragments of a ritual. Purple and green lights. An ancient voice, full of rage and ambition.”

[Translation: he just made that up on the spot based on an RPG forum fanfic.]

Klaus leaned forward, genuine interest flickering in his eyes. Rebekah crossed her arms, skeptical but unable to look away.

“Continue,” Elijah ordered, his face a stone wall.

“A witch,” John said, locking eyes with Elijah. “Obsessed with you. Elijah the Noble, the Honorable. She wanted to craft a perfect protector for your bloodline, using stolen blood and forbidden duplication magic.”

He paused, letting suspense breathe.

The grimoire whispered inside the briefcase, just loud enough for John alone: ‘Less drama, please. Tapestries? Really?’

John ignored it. “But magic is fickle. It didn’t just replicate… it tried to improve. Infused pure witch power.”

He spread his arms, pointing at himself with a bitter smile. “Here I am. An arcane beta project. A rough draft. The face is… almost right.”

He touched his cheek with mock admiration. “But inside? A mess. Mixed-up memories, a consciousness that makes no sense, powers I never asked for… and a mortal hatred of suits.”

He glanced at Elijah’s immaculate attire with contempt. “It’s a prison of linen and cashmere. How do you breathe in that?”

Klaus burst into laughter, the sound echoing across the hall. “I like him! An Elijah with terrible taste and mental instability. Delicious!”

[If Klaus liked him, chaos was officially guaranteed.]

Elijah stayed impassive, eyes scanning John like a predator. “An arcane beta project,” he repeated, skepticism sharp. “And this witch? What became of her?”

“The magic exacted its price,” John said, wandering through the room and stopping by a Chinese vase. His new height made everything seem… smaller. “The ritual backfired. Energy exploded. She turned to dust. I woke up alone, with this face, this voice, strange power in my veins… and this briefcase.”

He lifted it. “My magical teddy bear.”

The grimoire sighed with dramatic disdain: ‘Appalling comparison.’

Rebekah stepped forward, intrigued. “And the powers? You said powers that shouldn’t be there. Are you a vampire?”

John hesitated, sensing a vague danger radiating from her. “No… not exactly.” He chose his words carefully. “I don’t feel the hunger. I don’t have your full speed or strength. The witch failed there. But…”

He snapped his fingers, and a blue flame danced at his fingertips, bathing his face in supernatural glow.

“She added extras. Witch magic. And foresight. Sometimes I sense danger before it happens.”

He looked at Klaus. “For example, right now I sense you’re four seconds away from getting bored and threatening someone.”

Klaus raised a brow, impressed. “Five, actually. I’m generous today.”

Elijah stepped closer, overwhelming in his presence. John could see every line of his neatly trimmed beard, feel the ancient energy rolling off him. Like standing before a Greek god with hidden fangs.

“A half-baked arcane clone,” Elijah summarized, voice a dangerous whisper. “With broken memories, witch magic, and deplorable fashion sense. A… convenient story.”

“Truth is never convenient,” John shot back, holding his gaze.

The foresight pulsed faintly — Elijah was intrigued. Not convinced, but he wouldn’t kill him. Not yet.

Rebekah broke the tension. “If he’s a clone, he’s almost family. And family sticks together. Even the defective ones.” A mischievous spark lit her eyes.

“Exactly!” Klaus stood, rubbing his hands together. “Imagine sending him to wolf negotiations while the real Elijah handles serious business. Perfect delegation!”

John looked horrified. “You want to use me as wolf bait? Because that sounds exactly like a wolf bait plan.”

“Don’t worry, Beta Project,” Klaus purred, his smile all teeth. “You’re expendable.”

John’s foresight screamed. He swallowed hard.

Elijah sighed, the ancient weight of millennia in the sound. “He stays. For now. Under my supervision. We need to understand what he is — and if he’s a threat.” His gaze speared through John. “You will cooperate.”

Not a question.

“As long as I get a wardrobe change,” John said, recovering his bravado. “If I’m the lunatic double, I need a proper look. Suits? Absolutely not.”

He glanced at his new body — broad shoulders, narrow waist, naturally commanding stance. Lívia had always admired well-dressed men. Now she was one. Exploring that would be his only entertainment in this nightmare.

“What are you thinking?” Rebekah asked, curious.

John closed his eyes, imagining tight jeans, a fitted shirt, a worn brown leather jacket. Something that screamed ‘reckless and dangerously attractive’ instead of ‘immortal bank manager.’

“Something… Salvatore,” he declared, opening his eyes. “Damon Salvatore, specifically. Careless, confident, no ties.”

Klaus roared with laughter. “An Elijah dressed like Mystic Falls’ tacky vampire? Better than I dreamed!”

For the first time, Elijah faltered. “Absolutely not. I will not be seen with a parody of myself dressed like a 2000s playboy.”

“Too late!” John grinned wide and inappropriately. “The Beta Project needs style. It’s science, Elijah. Don’t interfere.”

As he followed the Mikaelsons out of the hall, the briefcase vibrated.

The grimoire whispered: ‘Mention the Salvatore again, and even I’ll abandon you.’

John smiled, heart racing. Surviving the Mikaelsons would be an adventure. Dressing Elijah’s body like a ’90s rockstar would be the comedy.

Post-Credit Scene

John clutched the briefcase to his chest, trailing the Mikaelsons while trying not to freak out.

“Okay, hell update: I’m the ‘Beta Project’ now. Basically a buggy phone. Klaus thinks I’m disposable, Rebekah sees me as a broken Barbie, and Elijah… he’s still deciding whether to recycle me.”

The grimoire chuckled inside the case. “Congratulations, you survived the meeting. But mentioning the Salvatore again? Terrible idea.”

John sighed. “Where’s the manual for dealing with psychotic vampires, Author? I’m waiting.”

AUTHOR’S NOTE 📌

Notice to Residents of the Building

Dear tenants,

Please be advised the Mikaelsons have been seen wandering the hallways. Should you encounter a man in an immaculate suit (Elijah), avoid prolonged eye contact. If you hear loud laughter after threats, that’s Klaus. Locking doors is optional, as it won’t help.

Rebekah has already complained about the garage gate. Do not oppose her.

Additionally, please do not confuse the new resident (John, a.k.a. the Arcane Beta Project) with Elijah. The former does not wear suits, only leather jackets and teenage drama.

Thank you for your cooperation,
— Management

PS: The grimoire is NOT a pet. Do not attempt to feed it.

Oh, before I leave, quick announcement: the next update will be on Wednesday! ✨ I’m on a mission to organize the posting schedule, deciding which fics get chapters first (yes, my brain looks like a wall of Post-its falling to the floor 😂).

In the comments, tell me: who’s the bigger threat to John right now — Klaus, Elijah, or Rebekah? And what should he do to survive?

Chapter Text

Morning in New Orleans arrived with sunlight. For John, trapped in a body of supernatural efficiency, it was only a distant detail. His mind was focused on a holier mission: profaning Elijah Mikaelson’s stylistic legacy.

He went down for breakfast — or whatever the Originals consumed (black coffee for Elijah, other people’s despair for Klaus) — still wearing yesterday’s dusty suit. His shirt was deliberately misaligned, and the tie, an oppressive accessory, hung from the staircase railing like a defeated serpent.

Elijah, immaculate in a slate-gray suit with a pocket watch probably worth more than Livia’s car in her past life, looked at John over a fine porcelain cup. A muscle twitched in his jaw.
“The tie is part of the ensemble, not a Christmas ornament,” he said, voice smooth but sharp as razors.

“It was suffocating me,” John countered, pouring coffee into a plain mug that clashed with the others’ porcelain. “Literally and figuratively. A symbol of corporate oppression. I refuse.”

Klaus, in an open silk shirt that would make Damon Salvatore blush, flipped through a newspaper, smiling.
“Let him be, Elijah. I can’t wait for the metamorphosis. It’ll be like watching a butterfly emerge from its cocoon — if the butterfly were a walking disaster.”

Rebekah entered, a blonde hurricane in a tight dress and high heels.
“So it’s today? The clone’s big shopping day?” Her eyes sparkled with malice. “I’m going. This will be more fun than the French Revolution.”

John felt a hint of danger — subtle but present. Rebekah was plotting something. Still, he ignored the premonition. Some risks were worth it.

“Perfect,” he said, pointing his mug at her. “You’ve got a deadly, fabulous eye for fashion. I need your judgment.”

Elijah set his cup down with a precise click. “I’m going as well.”

Silence.

“Brother?” Klaus lowered his newspaper, intrigued. “The great Elijah Mikaelson, embodiment of elegance, in a shopping mall? The apocalypse is upon us.”

“If he bears my face,” Elijah said, calm in the way that was more terrifying than shouting, “I will not allow him to disgrace it with faded jeans. There will be a minimum standard.”

John swallowed hard. Danger now had Elijah’s face — and an unlimited Black Card.

The men’s boutique on Rue Royale was a supernatural circus. Monsieur Laurent, the owner, seemed on the verge of collapse, eyes darting between two Elijahs — one perfect, one disheveled —, a furious Rebekah, and Klaus, who was playing a Stradivarius.

(Quick author’s note: yes, I know it makes no sense for Klaus to have a Stradivarius there, but he would absolutely do it just to irritate everyone. Accept it.)

“No,” Elijah said for the tenth time, his voice icy.

“Why not?” John protested, holding up a black Egyptian cotton T-shirt, soft as a hug. “It’s comfortable! It breathes!”

“It’s a T-shirt,” Elijah replied, as if explaining you don’t eat glue. “Undergarments. Not meant to be the main piece, unless you’re washing a car.”

Rebekah threw a brown leather jacket over John’s shoulders. “Ignore him. Leather is timeless. And it looks divine on your… bone structure.”

John glanced in the mirror. The leather shaped his broad shoulders, the black T-shirt contrasted with his pale skin, and the fitted jeans — won after a battle with Rebekah against Elijah’s horror — elongated his legs. He looked… dangerous. A rockstar vampire, an outlaw with class. Exactly what Livia found attractive. A traitorous thought crossed his mind: Wow, I’d date me. Followed by: Wait, that ‘me’ is me. Is this narcissism or dysphoria?

“Decided,” Klaus announced, setting the violin aside. “He keeps the leather. He looks like Elijah who stole the original’s wallet and ran off on a garage band tour.”

Elijah closed his eyes, aesthetic pain visible. “Very well,” he conceded, though his gaze was lasers. “But the shirt will be this one.” He tossed over a white cashmere polo. “And the jeans are these.” He pointed to a black pair, perfectly cut. “And leather boots, not sneakers.”

A chic compromise. John studied the set — still sexy, but with more “rich rebel” than “edgy vampire.” He could live with that.

“Fine,” he said, holding up the polo. “But the collar goes like this.” He popped the collar awkwardly, making Elijah flinch.

As Monsieur Laurent packed everything (Klaus waved, charging it to the mansion), John felt a sharp stab of danger. He scanned around. Nothing. Then the grimoire, now in a new leather satchel (Rebekah’s gift), whispered: “Waiting. Watching. Two pairs of eyes. One in the street, one in the shadows.”

John adjusted his jacket, pretending to fuss. A shadow disappeared into an alley. In the shop window’s reflection, he saw Marcel Gerard, tall and calculating, watching from across the street. The game was beginning.

“Ready to cause some elegant chaos, brother?” Klaus asked, throwing an arm around John’s shoulders, half-friendly, half-possessive.

John gave a smile — half Livia, half deranged Elijah. “Ready for anything,” he lied, leather like armor. He wasn’t ready. But he’d fake it until he was.

Back at the mansion, the lightheartedness of shopping gave way to dense tension. John felt like he was walking a narrative tightrope. He knew the big events of The Originals season two, but the details were a blur of panic and fanfiction. Was Hope born? Had Hayley married Jackson? Had the wolf union already happened?

His danger-sense hummed like a power transformer. The city was full of threats, but the biggest one was beside him, smelling of expensive cologne and silent criticism.

“I need a map,” John announced in the foyer, trying to sound distracted.

“A map?” Klaus raised an eyebrow. “Planning to run off and join the circus, clone? Your performance would be the main act.”

“I want to orient myself,” John said, touching his temple like a confused madman. “My memories are a puzzle of a strange landscape. Streets, alleys, jasmine and decay.”

Elijah studied him, then unfurled a map of New Orleans across a mahogany desk. “Here. The city as it is.”

John stepped closer, heart pounding. His chance to ask questions without looking too curious. He pointed at the French Quarter. “This feels familiar. But there’s an emptiness… here.” His finger slid to St. Louis Cemetery.

“The cemetery,” Elijah confirmed. “A place of power for witches. Something specific?”

“Witches… whispers… a child…” John let the phrase die, a risky bluff.

Rebekah tensed, sharing a quick glance with Elijah. “The child is none of your business,” she said, voice sharp.

Hope was born. And it was a secret. John made a mental note.

“Of course,” he backed down, raising his hands. “Just fragments.” He looked at Elijah. “And you… you were furious. A cold fury, like ice that burns.”

Elijah’s face stayed neutral, but a spark of surprise crossed his eyes. Nailed it. John remembered Elijah’s rage at Hayley’s union.

“Recent events have been… frustrating,” Elijah allowed, voice restrained.

Klaus laughed dryly. “Understatement, brother. You meant ‘an affront to our name and to my ego.’”

Union. Marriage. Already done. John connected the dots. Hayley was Mrs. Jackson. The tension between Mikaelsons and wolves was at its peak. Elijah, emotionally wrecked. Marcel, watching in the shadows. And Hope, at the center of it all.

“An affront…” John repeated, pretending to ponder. “Like a metallic taste in the air.” He looked at Klaus. “And you find it amusing. But underneath, there are always calculations.”

Klaus smiled, more dangerous. “The Beta Project is sharper than it looks.”

The grimoire whispered in the satchel: “The pack howls. The hybrid plots. Beware the teeth behind the smile.”

John ignored it, but the mansion felt smaller, walls closer. He wasn’t a spectator anymore — he was a piece on a deadly board. He looked at his hands — large, capable, Elijah’s — and at the map, tracing the wolves’ territory. Where Hayley and Hope were.

“I need air,” he said, voice rough. Without waiting, he slipped into the gardens, sitting under a magnolia tree. The leather jacket creaked. Danger was no longer a stab, but a constant hum. Wolves, witches, Marcel, the Mikaelsons — all converging.

He buried his face in his hands, stubble rough against his palms. The comedy of errors had grown real stakes. And John, the Beta Project, a fangirl reincarnated into a vampire-witch body, was in the eye of the storm.

Post-Credit Scene

John leaned back against the magnolia, jacket creaking, eyes on the satchel with the grimoire.

“Okay, grimoire, danger level from 1 to 10?”

The grimoire laughed, dry. “Eight. Marcel’s watching you, and Klaus thinks you’re a disposable toy. Good luck with dinner.”

John sighed. “And the new look? At least that’s a win.”

“Win?” The grimoire snorted. “You look like Elijah ran away to be a roadie for a band. Elijah’s going to exorcise you before the main course.”

Author’s Note — Condominium Bulletin Board

To the residents,

Please be advised that today at the Rue Royale shopping district we had the following incidents:

Two Elijahs confusing poor Monsieur Laurent.

Klaus playing violin as if it were a toy.

Rebekah shopping like it was Black Friday.

If you see an “Elijah rocker version with a leather jacket,” it’s not a hallucination: it’s just the new resident, nicknamed the Beta Project. Please don’t confuse him with the original, under penalty of being sued for tailoring damages.

Sincerely,
The Administration

PS: The grimoire is still complaining. Do not feed it.

[In the comments, tell me: will John’s Salvatore look save him or ruin him with the Mikaelsons? And who’s more dangerous right now: Marcel or Klaus?]

[Guys, new chapter coming Friday! 💕 As for fixed posting dates… I haven’t decided yet (shhh, state secret 🤫). If you have a favorite day, let me know! Maybe you’ll help me organize this mess ✨]

Chapter Text

The gardens of the Mikaelson mansion were a masterpiece of control over nature. Bushes sculpted into flawless geometric shapes, rosebushes blooming in carefully orchestrated tones, stone paths leading to precise destinations. It was beautiful, but cold, as if nature itself had surrendered to the will of the Mikaelsons. A perfect metaphor for the family, John thought, as a cold breeze stirred the leaves, bringing with it the sweet scent of roses mixed with the weight of centuries of secrets.

Sitting on the stone bench, John tried to calm the storm in his mind. He was still Lívia, somewhere deep inside, but Elijah’s body, with its strength and gravity, seemed to swallow his former identity. Who am I here? The question echoed, unanswered. The grimoire, hidden in the leather satchel by his side, pulsed softly, as if sensing his unrest. Patience, Project Beta, whispered the book, its mental voice dry, yet tinged with irony. You are on a chessboard where every piece has fangs. Choose your moves carefully.

The silent steps of Elijah pulled him from his thoughts. The Original stopped a few feet away, assessing the gardens with a critical gaze, as if seeing beyond the flowers, straight into the roots of the family’s own history.

“Is the air of the garden more palatable?” asked Elijah, his voice smooth as velvet, but carrying an undercurrent of authority that made John shiver.

“Less… burdened with stories,” John replied, staring at his hands, which seemed too large, too strange. “The walls of the mansion whisper. Memories. Ancient blood. It’s hard to tell what’s mine and what’s… yours.”

The grimoire buzzed sharply in his mind, a warning. Time to play, Beta. They love mysteries, but hate being manipulated. Be vague, but tempting. John took a deep breath, deciding to enact his “mad visionary” strategy. Risky, but his only bargaining chip.

“I see things,” he began, his voice hesitant, as if confessing a shameful secret. He kept his eyes on his hands, his fingers trembling slightly to reinforce the façade. “Waking dreams, but too vivid. Sometimes echoes of the past. Other times… the taste of the future. I can’t tell them apart.”

Elijah turned slowly, interest glinting in his dark eyes. “What kind of things do you see?”

John closed his eyes, feigning concentration as he ransacked his fan memories. He picked a specific event, traumatic enough to catch attention. “I see… water. Filthy, freezing. A metal coffin, black as night. There’s rage… a rage so deep it’s cold. And a song… a sad waltz echoing in the darkness.” He opened his eyes, meeting Elijah’s with a mix of fear and curiosity. “Has this already happened? Or is it a warning?”

It was the scene where Klaus had sealed Elijah in a coffin and thrown him into the Mississippi River. A low blow, but a calculated one.

[Confession: even I got goosebumps here. Throwing that in Elijah’s face was bold.]

Elijah’s face remained impassive, but his shoulders stiffened, and a shadow crossed his eyes for a fraction of a second. “It happened,” he confirmed, his voice heavier, as if still carrying the weight of that river. “A dark time. Your vision is… accurate. From the past.”

Good, Beta, the grimoire whispered with reluctant approval. But careful. You’re dancing with wolves, and they have a keen nose for lies.

John nodded, feigning relief. “Good to know I’m not completely insane. Just partially.” He paused, staging another fragment, heart pounding with the risk. “But there are others… A forest. A wedding. Not happy. Strategic. A crown of wildflowers in brown hair… and pain. Pain ripping through the chest. Has that already happened?”

He referred to Hayley and Jackson’s wedding, testing whether his presence had altered the timeline.

Elijah’s fingers contracted, almost imperceptibly, and he looked away toward the red roses, which seemed to bleed under the twilight. “Yes,” he said, the word sharp as a blade. “That happened as well. Recently.”

Dangerous, but effective, murmured the grimoire. You’re poking fresh wounds. Don’t overdo it, or he’ll want to tear out the page that is you.

“Ah,” John said, letting silence weigh. He felt Elijah’s pain, a proud, throbbing wound. “The pain… it was yours, wasn’t it?” he risked, his voice soft, almost as if Lívia spoke through him.

Elijah met his gaze, and for the first time, John saw a crack in the armor of composure. Millennial fatigue, a disappointment spanning centuries. “The pain belongs to everyone involved in such a farce,” he answered, evasive, yet confirming.

Klaus, who had approached silently, cut in with a sharp smile. “Our project beta has visions of soap operas, it seems. Anything useful? Perhaps where Marcel hides his superior liquor stash? Or who dies next?”

[Klaus being Klaus: snarky even when he should stay quiet.]

John felt a prick of danger, like a cold needle at the nape. Klaus was testing, probing for immediate usefulness. The grimoire buzzed, sarcastic: He wants a new toy. Give him a crumb, but not the loaf.

“The visions don’t come on command,” John retorted, keeping his tone erratic, rubbing his temple as if in pain. “They… arrive. Like mosquitoes in a swamp. Sometimes they bite, sometimes they just buzz.” He hesitated, then risked: “Right now, there’s a buzzing… about water. Not a river. A fountain. In a public place. And betrayal. The taste is bitter, like copper and mint.”

A reference to the fountain in Jackson Square, a central point of intrigue, and a veiled warning about Marcel, whose presence always carried the scent of mint and ambition.

[John dropping indirect hints like a pro. Klaus must be fuming inside.]

Klaus and Elijah exchanged a look. Vague enough to intrigue, specific enough to alarm. Perfect, said the grimoire. You left them hungry, but without a plate. Keep it up.

“Perhaps you need a guide,” Elijah suggested, changing the subject, but John noticed the seed of caution in his eyes. “Someone to help you navigate the city and separate mosquitoes from omens.”

“I’d rather get lost,” John said, rising, the leather of the jacket creaking. “Getting lost is how I find my way. Besides”—he added, with Lívia’s humor shining through—“if I get lost, I might buy more T-shirts. Worth the risk.”

He left the brothers in the garden, heart racing as he headed upstairs to his room, the leather satchel bumping his hip. Locking the door, he took a deep breath, feeling the weight of the round he had just won.

“Okay, grimoire, honest talk,” he murmured, pulling the book out and setting it on the bed. “How did I do?”

The grimoire opened by itself, pages rustling as if laughing. You danced well, Beta. Planted doubts without seeming a threat. The Noble is intrigued, the Hybrid wants to use you, and the Sister finds it amusing. But it’s a precarious balance. One wrong step, and you’re food.

“Precarious is my word of the day, every day,” John grumbled, flipping through. The pages seemed blank, but he knew the words would appear when needed. “I need to know where we are in the timeline. What comes next?”

Letters glowed golden, the grimoire’s voice deeper, almost conspiratorial. The child of the moon and the wolf is safe, for now. The serpent crowned as king of men watches the city, poisoning ears. The man with a broken heart seeks solace in ancient duties. And the most dangerous… this ‘Marcel’… he scents change. He scents you.

John’s eyes widened, stomach tightening. “He knows about me?”

He knows there’s a new pawn with a familiar face. He doesn’t know what you are. That makes him cautious. And caution, in a man like him, is deadlier than claws in the open.

“Fantastic,” John muttered sarcastically, collapsing into the velvet pillows. “So, I’m in a supernatural chess game, I’m the piece no one understands, and everyone wants to sacrifice me first chance they get.”

An accurate and tragically poetic analysis, replied the grimoire, with a touch of dry humor. But you have one advantage: me. And your fan knowledge, of course—though I question the wisdom of using it as a magic wand.

John laughed despite it all and walked to the mirror. The reflection—the chiseled face of Elijah, the leather jacket, the fitted jeans—was a living contradiction. He was Lívia, he was John, he was an echo of Elijah. A rockstar trapped in a supernatural drama.

“Okay, whoever we are,” he said to the reflection, a crooked smile forming—one Elijah would never make. “They want a crazy visionary? Let’s give them that. And cause trouble. The right kind.”

[And here we have John, ready to be the protagonist of a supernatural soap opera. Applause, because that ending was worthy.]

Author’s Note

Look, I’ll be honest with you: writing this chapter felt like attending the tensest condo meeting in history. You know the one where the building manager (Elijah) tries to keep composure, the loud neighbor (Klaus) shows up late just to throw shade, and the new tenant (John/Lívia/Elijah 2.0) shows up saying they have “visions” of the future? Yeah, imagine that chaos—except with fangs and gothic roses.

While Elijah was there trying to keep his “noble and well-mannered” aura, John went and dropped: “so, I remember that time your brother threw you in a coffin in the Mississippi.” [If this were in my building, the WhatsApp group chat would already be in ALL CAPS: “FAMILY FIGHT IN BLOCK B, GUYS!!!”]

And Klaus, of course, came in like that neighbor who enjoys other people’s misfortunes and asks: “so, who’s gonna die first?” —typical gossip-and-barbecue-on-the-rooftop behavior.

Meanwhile, the grimoire is basically the gossipy friend who gives advice, but always with that sarcastic undertone that screams: “girl, you’re screwed, but I’m here to laugh with you.”

Chapter recap, condo-style:

Elijah = elegant building manager, hiding grudges.

Klaus = snarky neighbor, ready for drama.

John = the weird new tenant everyone gossips about nonstop.

Grimoire = professional gossip, commenting on everything from the playground to the pool.

So, dear supernatural tenants-readers, until the next building meeting. Bring wine—soda won’t cut it for this drama!

Chapter Text

The Mikaelson mansion was a crucible of unspoken tensions. John felt them in the air, a cocktail of ancient rage, fresh ambition, and a sorrow that seemed to leak from the walls, soaked with centuries of betrayals. His gift of sensing danger buzzed like an inner alarm, adjusting to whoever drew near. Klaus was a minor chord of pure malice, vibrant and unpredictable. Elijah, a deep note, steady but cut through with harmonies of restrained pain. Rebekah was an emotional staccato — laughter one moment, millennia-old hatred the next.

Beyond the mansion, the city pulsed with lesser threats: hungry vampires, witches whispering in secret, restless werewolves. But one presence stood out, persistent and calculating: Marcel Gerard. His curiosity carried the weight of a sharpened blade.

He’s scenting you, Beta, whispered the grimoire hidden in John’s bag. A predator doesn’t attack right away. He studies. And Marcel is a patient hunter.

The subject came up during an absurdly formal dinner. John, to Elijah’s silent horror, insisted on eating a hamburger with his hands, ketchup dripping from his fingers. Klaus laughed loudly, banging the table, while Elijah cut his steak with surgical precision, his brow furrowed in disapproval.

[Picture the secondhand embarrassment: Elijah eating like a British prince, and John there as if in a greasy diner.]

“The ball,” said Rebekah, swirling her wine glass, light glinting in her eyes. “Marcel is hosting one. Claims it’s to ‘unite the factions.’ Translation: he wants to remind everyone who runs the city.”

“A party,” Klaus said, eyes sparkling with twisted ideas, fingers drumming on the table. “Perfect place to showcase our new… acquisition.”

John choked on a piece of bread. “Acquisition? I’m not some hunting trophy.”

“Everything’s a trophy here, dear project,” Klaus retorted, his smile sharp. “And you’re exotic.”

Elijah intervened, his voice calm but firm. “It’s premature. We don’t know the extent of his abilities or what he represents. Introducing him to Marcel is like tossing a match into a barrel of gunpowder.”

“Exactly!” Klaus grinned, his eyes sparking. “And what a glorious fire it will be.”

A sharp pang cut through John, followed by the grimoire’s whisper: The imprisoned witch stirs. Her chains are weakening. The zombie king senses it. And fears it. John froze. Davina. She was in the Mikaelson attic, and Marcel was planning something. The ball was a trap—or a distraction.

Play carefully, Beta, warned the grimoire, its voice laced with urgency. Give them a piece of the puzzle, but not the full picture.

John looked at Elijah, feigning a distant stare, as if voices were calling him. “The ball…” he murmured, dragging his voice. “I see a crow trapped in a cage, beating its wings against the bars. And a buzzing… of something that doesn’t live, but moves. A false king on a throne of bones.”

Elijah froze, knife midair. Klaus leaned in, his smile vanishing, replaced with razor-sharp interest. “A crow?” Klaus asked, voice silky. “And a zombie king? Tell us more, visionary.”

John closed his eyes, simulating strain. “The crow… has a girl’s face. Young. Powerful. Full of rage. And the zombie king… he wants her back. He uses the dance… the dance of crows and wolves… to seize her.”

Silence fell heavy as lead. Rebekah paled, her glass trembling in her hand. Elijah set down his knife with excessive care.

“Davina,” Rebekah whispered. “He’s talking about Davina.”

“And Marcel is the zombie king,” Klaus added, his face lit with dangerous understanding. “He’s planning something at the ball. A rescue.”

You hooked them, said the grimoire, with quiet satisfaction. But now you’re tangled in the net, too. Watch out for the hooks.

Elijah studied John, his eyes narrowing as though unraveling a riddle. “These visions… are they of the future?”

“I don’t know anything,” John answered, opening his eyes, real confusion mingling with the act. “Is it tomorrow? Is it now? Or just a nightmare? Everything is… fragmented. Like water slipping through a sieve.”

The strategy worked. He delivered crucial information, but so erratically that they kept him as a valuable yet unstable tool.

“Then we’ll go to the ball,” Klaus declared, breaking the silence, his predatory grin returning. “We’ll see what Marcel is planning. And we’ll take…” he glanced at John, “our secret weapon.”

A chill ran down John’s spine. “I’m not a weapon. I’m project beta. With bugs, remember?”

“The best weapons have unpredictable recoil,” Klaus shot back, laughing. “You’re coming. And you’ll keep an eye on the visions.”

You’ve just stepped onto the main stage, Beta, whispered the grimoire, a mix of warning and amusement in its tone. And all the spotlights are on you. Don’t stumble.

Later, in his room, John opened the bag. “So, grimoire? How did I do?”

The pages turned on their own, the grimoire’s voice almost smug. You put Marcel in their sights. Good. But now every eye is on you — vampires, witches, werewolves. Everyone wants to know what this sloppy Elijah lookalike is. And me? I’m curious to see how you get out of this.

“Wonderful,” John grumbled, shrugging off his jacket. In the mirror, the bare torso stared back — defined muscles, flawless skin. A body not his own, yet one he had to inhabit. He touched his chest, fingers tracing muscle. Heat rose to his face. It was intimate. And confusing.

“Self-exploration or self-admiration?” he muttered.

Neither, replied the grimoire mockingly. It’s you trying to understand the armor you inherited. Good luck. It’s as much prison as protection.

John pulled on a soft T-shirt — Elijah’s only concession for sleeping — and grabbed the grimoire. “I need an advantage for the ball. Something to protect me, besides my crazy talk.”

The pages stopped on a complex diagram. Reflective shield, the grimoire whispered. It doesn’t block direct attacks, but it diverts hostile intent. Malicious eyes slide away, awkward questions get lost. Subtlety, not strength. Perfect for a nest of predators.

John smiled. “Teach me.”

On the night of the ball, he dressed: leather jacket, high-neck black shirt, fitted jeans. He looked like a TV outlaw. In the mirror, the grimoire mocked: A hitman with an identity crisis. Charming, but don’t get distracted by the reflection.

Descending the stairs, Elijah regarded him with a mix of horror and something that looked like envy. Klaus laughed, tuxedo impeccable except for the crooked bow tie. “Perfect! A killer with taste. Come, Beta. Time to dance.”

And so, John — the woman reincarnated in Elijah Mikaelson’s double body, with a talking grimoire in his bag and a spell of subtlety pulsing in his veins — walked into the lion’s den. The ball was just beginning, and the dance of crows and wolves — and of one very lost beta — was about to unfold.

NOTICE TO RESIDENTS – MIKAELSON CONDOMINIUM

Date: [last night, apparently eternal]

During dinner in the main hall, guest Mr. John engaged in inappropriate behavior. He refused cutlery, eating with his hands, causing general discomfort and ketchup stains on the white linen tablecloth. Reimbursement will be charged.

Heated discussions about the Ball organized by Mr. Marcel were recorded. Please note: this event is NOT the responsibility of the condominium, though residents have been “voluntarily recruited” to attend.

Guest John, in apparent trance, made enigmatic statements involving crows, zombie kings, and a young woman locked in the attic. Result: tense atmosphere, spilled wine glasses, and nervous giggles.

Mr. Klaus classified said guest as an “acquisition” and “secret weapon.” The condominium does NOT endorse the storage of humans, semi-humans, or visionaries as trophies.

The use of talking grimoires within premises must follow internal regulations (Article 13, Section V: “keep containment spells up to date”). Failure to comply may result in fines.

Next steps:

All residents confirmed attendance at Marcel’s ball.

Guest John is officially under observation, considered “bugged, but useful.”

Signed: Mikaelson Condominium Administration

[Next chapter promises to be the condo ball: music, intrigue, gossip in the corners, and maybe one or two missing bodies. Bring popcorn, residents!]

AUTHOR’

Quick confession: I’m going to wrap up the Fairy fanfic ✨ and also push ahead with a few Elara chapters, because my brain is operating in multiverse-of-madness mode. Then I’ll come back to BUG nice and steady for you all, without disappearing.

BUT NOW TELL ME THE TRUTH 👀👉 what do you think of the fanfic?? Delivering that delicious chaos, or more like a 3 AM collective fever dream? 😂 I NEED to know, otherwise Beta’s gonna be marrying Klaus at city hall and nobody warned me.

Read, scream, and comment, because a writer runs on your squeals 💜

Chapter Text

The old hotel’s ballroom was a spectacle of decadent opulence. Crystal chandeliers cast dancing lights across supernatural faces—vampires with sharp smiles, witches with calculating eyes, tense werewolves kept at bay by a fragile truce. The air smelled of candle wax, expensive perfume, and the faint tang of old blood. Tension hung thick, like violin strings ready to snap.

John felt the spell of discretion draped over him like a sheer veil, diverting curious eyes. He was like an elegant ghost in leather, moving through the party.

Don’t get too used to invisibility, the grimoire whispered with amused warning. You attract attention the way a bonfire draws moths. And here, moths have fangs.

John masked his unease with a sip from his champagne flute—a mere prop for social survival. The bubbles rose, but the liquid tasted like nothing. Maybe because the body wasn’t really his. Maybe because he was too busy trying not to shake.

Klaus cut through the crowd like a shark, provoking and intimidating with sadistic delight. Rebekah, surrounded by admiring vampires, laughed like chimes, though her watchful eyes missed nothing—ready to pounce if anything threatened her power… or her dress. Elijah stood by a column, calm as a predator at rest. Only those who knew his silences could see the tension in his shoulders, and John felt the weight of that gaze pressing on him, almost suffocating.

“Perfect,” John muttered under his breath. “I’m the bait in the fish tank.”

You’re the brightest goldfish in the room, the grimoire mocked. And Marcel loves collecting rare fish.

As if summoned, the hum of danger sharpened, honing in. Marcel Gerard approached with panther-like grace, greeting guests while his eyes locked on John. His wide, charming smile carried something predatory beneath it.

The zombie king is here, the grimoire chuckled. He wants a game of cat and mouse. Guess who’s the mouse?

John kept his expression vague, scanning the crowd as if he saw beyond them. “He smells of mint and ambition,” he murmured, repeating his vision.

Marcel stopped before him, smile intact. “Elijah,” he said with calculated irony. “Or should I say…? The rumors are true. The Mikaelson family has grown a new branch.”

John turned slowly, as if surfacing from a trance. “Branches break. Or get pruned. Are you the gardener, king of men?”

Marcel’s smile cracked into brief laughter, though his eyes stayed sharp. “Something like that. Marcel Gerard. And you are?”

“John. Just John. The rest… is complicated.”

Marcel repeated the name, testing its weight. “Solid. Less dramatic than Elijah. What brings a man like you to our complicated city?”

“Fragments,” John said, staring through him, fingers tightening on the glass. “Broken memories. A puzzle with missing pieces. I… fell here.”

[Mental note from the grimoire: nice, Beta, keep the ‘suburban oracle lunatic’ vibe—they love being confused.]

While speaking, John noticed Thierry, Marcel’s lieutenant, circling behind him. The danger hum spiked, almost painful.

Careful, Beta, the grimoire warned. The hound’s hungry. And the master’s holding the leash.

The verbal dance continued—Marcel measuring every answer, John skating along the in-betweens. Then tension snapped. Thierry, at a near-imperceptible signal, “stumbled” and spilled his glass of blood. In a blink, his hand shot for John’s chest, claws ready to pierce skin and bone.

To everyone else, it looked like an accident. To John, it was slow motion: heart pounding, panic rising like cold water.

You don’t need to think, the grimoire hissed, almost mocking. Your body knows what to do.

And it did.

When Thierry’s fingers touched John’s jacket, golden light erupted from his skin. Intricate runes flared in the air, forming a circular shield across his chest. The impact rang like metal on stone. A sharp CRACK echoed, followed by Thierry’s scream of pain.

The vampire staggered back, hand twisted at impossible angles, burns spreading across his skin like glowing embers. The ballroom froze. Conversations ceased. Glasses stilled. Silence fell, almost sacred.

Witches exchanged stunned glances, murmuring old words. Werewolves growled low, restless. Vampires edged back, survival instincts overtaking curiosity.

John stared at his chest, then at Thierry, uncomprehending. He hadn’t done anything. His body had moved on its own.

Surprised, Beta? the grimoire said with cruel satisfaction. You’re more than a supernatural punching bag. Enjoy the show.

Klaus materialized at his side, radiant, like Christmas had come early. “Well, well!” he declared, loud enough for all to hear. “Our new relative has built-in defenses. Useful!”

He shot Thierry a look of disdain. “Bad manners to rip out hearts at a party, Thierry. Even… borrowed hearts.”

Klaus’s cruel laughter echoed as Elijah appeared on John’s other side. Unlike his brother, he didn’t laugh. His gaze was deep, analytical, fixed on the chest where the light had faded. “The beta project came with unexpected features,” he said calmly, his words carrying a veiled threat toward Marcel.

For a moment, Marcel froze. His smile vanished, replaced by cold calculation. “My condolences, Thierry. Some pieces are more fragile than they look.”

Thierry recoiled, snarling in pain, but Marcel ignored him. His eyes stayed locked on John, weighing, measuring risk and opportunity.

John leaned into his madman persona, his only lifeline. “He tried to take the puzzle?” he murmured, staring at his hands as if seeking invisible runes. “It’s locked. With light. Warm light.”

His eyes snapped up to Marcel, glinting strangely. “Don’t poke at what you don’t understand, zombie king.”

A murmur rippled through the hall, like wind rustling dry leaves. Witches whispered. Vampires edged back further. Werewolves narrowed their eyes. John was no longer a curiosity—he was a dangerous variable.

Klaus roared with laughter, reveling in the chaos. Elijah stayed silent, eyes never leaving John, who had become more enigma than ever. Rebekah, from across the room, bit her lip, caught between pride and fear.

The party continued, but the false lightness was gone. The incident spread like wildfire. John had survived Marcel’s test, but the price was clear: now, every eye in the hall was on him.

As Klaus and Elijah guided him out, the grimoire whispered, proud and ironic: Innate arcane resistance. Your body’s a vault, Beta, locked with magic even you don’t understand. Good. You’ll need it. Because now, darling, you’re not just another piece on the board. You’re the ticking bomb in the middle of the party.

[Post-Credits Scene]

The ballroom was empty. The chandeliers flickered weakly, and the floor still shone with shards of glass and faint bloodstains.

The door creaked open, and the hotel janitor shuffled in—a short, round-bellied man in a faded blue coat, clipboard in hand. He surveyed the mess with the weary expression of someone who had seen everything… and wanted no part of it.

“Oh, of course,” he grumbled, scribbling on his clipboard. “Another vampire party. And what do we get? Broken glass, blood on the Persian carpet, scorch marks on the wall… who’s paying for this, huh? Klaus? No, ‘Mr. Mikaelson’ never leaves a check.”

He nudged a fallen glass with his shoe, sending it rolling until it stopped on a still-glowing rune. His eyes widened.

“Runes! Again!” he sighed, pulling a bottle of cleaner and a rag from his bag. “This stuff won’t come out even with bleach. I’ll have to call that fake priest from the neighborhood again to ‘bless the area.’ Guy charges me like it’s holy gold.”

Two steps later, he slipped on congealed blood, nearly falling.

“Perfect. I’m putting ‘non-slip flooring’ on the next condo meeting agenda. If the werewolves complain, I’ll make them lick it clean—they love marking territory anyway.”

He snuffed out the last candles, shaking his head, and locked the door behind him. Before leaving, he muttered:

“Next time, I’m charging an extra party hall fee. Vampires will pay condo taxes, even if I have to threaten to cut off the holy water in the plumbing.”

Author’s Note

Hello, readers and little ghosts!
Another chapter delivered as promised—I hope you enjoyed this small burst of drama I lovingly call a story.

And good news: this fanfic now has fixed update days! No more chaos, right? So mark it down—every Monday and Friday, you’ll get fresh chapters.

Now, a confession… I also love reading fanfics, but I’m the type who hoards chapters to binge later. Basically a literary squirrel, stocking up food (stories, in this case) to savor in one go lol.

Just one small favor: when you read, don’t forget to leave stars and comments! I really need to know if you’re enjoying this, because otherwise… well, the discouragement hits, and nobody wants to see this author curled up in fetal position, right?

Chapter Text

The ride back to the mansion was wrapped in oppressive silence, broken only by the hum of the car. Klaus drove with a smile stuck to his face, as if he’d just discovered an indestructible toy. Elijah, beside him, tapped his fingers against his knee, deep in thought. John, in the back seat, feigned confusion, though his mind spun wildly. His body had acted on its own, and he didn’t know if that was a blessing or a curse.

High-level passive defense, whispered the grimoire, almost academic. Like ancient witches’ return-curses, but organic. Your body felt death approaching and said “not today.” Fascinating, isn’t it?

Fascinating? John thought, his stomach clenching. Terrifying, that’s what it is.

In the mansion’s grand hall, Klaus’s carefree façade dropped.
“What a spectacle!” he exclaimed, spinning around to face John. “Our Beta project has teeth! Or rather, a shield. Thierry will be licking his wounds for weeks!”

“It wasn’t intentional,” John said weakly, clutching at an armchair, his fingers trembling. “I... I didn’t do anything. The light just... came out.”

Like breathing, the grimoire mocked. You’re a walking magical alarm, Beta.

Elijah approached, eyes scanning John like a scientist before a riddle. “You didn’t invoke a spell. It was autonomic. Like blinking.”

“Autonomic is just a fancy word for ‘terrifying,’” John muttered, backing up. Elijah’s nearness was suffocating.

“How does it work?” Klaus asked, circling John, his eyes alight. “Only the heart? The whole body? We need to test it.”

John froze. “Test? No thanks. I’m not signing up to get stabbed today. Or ever.”

Klaus continued pacing in circles, hands behind his back, like a professor about to deliver a cruel exam.
“So, our Beta shines when threatened... but what if he’s only provoked? Does he react then too?”

“He’s not a lab rat,” Elijah said firmly, though his gaze stayed locked on John, calculating. “Forcing him might compromise the instinct. If it’s a natural defense, it shouldn’t be wasted on frivolities.”

John seized the lifeline. “I completely agree! Compromised instinct, very dangerous. Let’s not poke with sharp objects, okay? Pretend nothing happened, everyone happy.” He tried to laugh, but his voice cracked.

Klaus arched his brows, almost amused. “Always so cautious, brother. I’d call it... cowardice.” He leaned toward John, eyes glinting. “And cowardice always hides secrets.”

John sank deeper into the chair, sweat beading. “Look, I’ve done enough light shows for today. If you want me as your emergency lamp, I’m charging by the hour.”

“Don’t joke, boy,” Elijah murmured. “We’re dealing with something not even you understand.”

“Exactly!” John shot back, hands up. “If I don’t know, why risk blowing up the whole room? Or you two? I’m a broken radio, remember?”

Klaus laughed low, the sound threaded with menace. “And that’s exactly what makes the experiment delicious. The unpredictable always reveals.”

His hand closed around the silver letter opener on the desk, its blade catching the chandelier’s golden light.

Elijah sighed but didn’t stop him. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“Coward,” Klaus muttered, hefting the silver opener. “Just a little prick.”

Before John could protest, Klaus drove the blade into his forearm.

ZAP!

Golden runes flared, the opener flew free, heating until it glowed white-hot before crashing onto the marble floor, leaving a blackened scar.

Klaus shook his hand, surprised. “Interesting! It’s the whole system! Very useful.”

He thinks you’re a shiny new toy, the grimoire sneered. Careful, or he’ll want to take you apart to see how you work.

Elijah examined the half-melted opener. “The reaction matches the threat. A lethal strike shatters bone. A smaller test is neutralized. Elegant. Efficient.”

John looked at his unscathed arm. “I didn’t know this was in me,” he whispered, genuine awe in his voice.

Neither did I, to be honest, admitted the grimoire, tinged with curiosity. Whoever made you, Beta, poured in top-grade magic. A costly investment.

“Seems your creator invested in premium features,” Klaus quipped, though thoughtful. “This changes everything.”

“How so?” John asked, suspicious.

“In many ways,” Elijah said, setting the ruined opener back on the desk. “You’re not just a curiosity or offensive weapon. You’re a defensive asset. A living shield. You could protect... valuable things.”

“Hope,” John realized. “You want me to protect the baby.”

“The child,” Elijah corrected, face tight, though he didn’t deny it. “Your ability, if controlled, would be a formidable safeguard.”

They see you as a walking vault, the grimoire said dryly. Careful, or they’ll lock you up with what they want to protect.

John bristled. He wasn’t an object! He was... well, close enough to a person. “I’m not a car alarm!” he burst out, almost hysterical. “I flash gold lights when poked! I don’t control it! My visions are like a busted radio! I’m not reliable!”

“Precisely,” Klaus said, that dangerous smile spreading. “Your unpredictability is the perfect defense. No one—not even you—knows what comes next. Not even our enemies.”

The logic was flawless. And terrifying.

Later, in his room, John confronted the grimoire. “So, I’m a walking magic shield?”

The pages flipped, showing a diagram of glowing points in a human body. The magic is woven into you, Beta. It’s your flesh, your bones. You don’t control it because it is you. Like asking your heart to stop. Try, and see what happens.

“So I’m a magic porcupine,” John muttered, collapsing onto the bed. “Poke me, and you get hurt.”

A poor metaphor, but valid, the grimoire replied, almost fond. You’re more complex than that. And more dangerous.

John stared at the ceiling. He wasn’t just a fan trapped in a lookalike’s body. He was a fan with built-in magical defenses. In the mirror, the reflection—broad shoulders, noble face—was both armor and prison.

“Who are you?” he whispered.

For a heartbeat, golden light flared in his amber eyes, like a beacon in the dark.

You are chaos, Beta, the grimoire said. And chaos is a powerful weapon. Use it wisely.

John smiled, determined. “Okay, magic porcupine. Let’s make the right kind of chaos.”

Post-Credit Scene

The grimoire’s pages flipped open on their own, lit by a golden glow. Words began to scrawl across the parchment as if someone were typing straight to the audience.

“Oh, there you are. Hiding in the credits, waiting for an extra scene, huh? Typical.”

The pages turned, revealing a crude doodle of a porcupine beside a stick figure covered in glowing runes.

“So... intense chapter, wasn’t it? Ballroom, Marcel pushing limits, Thierry playing butcher, and poof! our dear Beta becomes a magic porcupine. Runes, sparks, special effects worthy of a season finale. Applause, applause, I know.”

Fake clapping scribbled across the page: 👏👏👏

“And then? Oh, the trip home! That classic Mikaelson dynamic: Klaus grinning like he found a forbidden-toy on the top shelf, Elijah looking like a college professor discovering a living dissertation, and John... well, John being John: panicking, ranting, pretending he’s in control of anything. Love it.”

A red note appeared: John = magic porcupine (in permanent existential crisis).

“Now, let’s be real: does anyone REALLY think the Mikaelsons will resist the urge to use our Beta as a portable human shield? Of course not. They look at him and see ‘limited-edition magic cloak.’”

“Oh, and that mirror drama at the end? ‘Who are you?’ Blah blah blah. Cute. Touching. But let’s be honest: if he ever really finds out who he is, it’ll probably be weirder than poetic. I’d bet a self-destruct spell on it.”

The letters began to fade, but the grimoire left one last sarcastic note:

“So here’s the takeaway: Beta is a cuddly time bomb. Marcel wants to dismantle him, Klaus wants to play with him, Elijah wants to catalog him, Rebekah probably just wants to see him shirtless... and me? I just want front row seats when everything blows up.”

The pages slammed shut, and golden letters shimmered on the leather cover:

Next chapter: more chaos, less control. Bring popcorn.

Author’s Note

Dear residents, please be advised that the mansion hall now has a blackened scar in the marble thanks to Mr. Klaus’s “scientific test.” Mr. John is now officially the emergency lamp with automatic homicidal instincts. Elijah, as always, simply observed. I kindly request that you refrain from poking Beta with sharp objects—the condo insurance does not cover incandescent runes.

For those curious enough to stick around for the “post-credit scene”: once again, no projecting glowing images in the common areas after 10 p.m.

Signed: Your exhausted landlord.

Chapter Text

The opportunity to meet Hope didn’t come in a grand or planned moment.
It happened on a silent afternoon, when the usual tension of the mansion gave way to a heavy quiet, almost expectant.

Hayley had arrived for a tense visit, full of distrust but necessary to discuss her daughter’s safety with Klaus and Elijah. Rebekah, moved by boredom or a rare flicker of kindness, decided it was time.

“Come on,” she said, appearing at John’s doorway without ceremony. “There’s someone you need to meet. Someone who makes this madness worth it.”

John, who was trying (and failing) to convince the grimoire to teach him a spell to turn water into espresso, lifted his gaze.
“Someone who likes T-shirts? Because I think I’m the only one around here.”

“Someone who doesn’t care what you wear,” Rebekah replied with a soft, genuine smile John had never seen on her. “Come. And try not to look so… you.”

Intrigued, with a chill of anticipation crawling down his spine, John followed Rebekah through the silent hallways of the mansion, into an unfamiliar wing. The air here was lighter, carrying the faint scent of baby powder and a sweet, pure magic that made his skin tingle.

The hum of ever-present danger quieted. In its place was peace. And power. A contradiction as vast as John’s very existence.

Rebekah stopped at a half-open door and gently pushed it wider.

At the center of the room, bathed in a warm ray of sunlight, sat Hayley, holding a tiny figure wrapped in soft linen.

Hope.

John froze in the doorway, breath caught. He knew she was powerful. Knew she was the center of everything. But knowing and feeling were two very different things.

Hope’s magic wasn’t like his—crafted witchcraft and protective instincts stitched together. She was the sun. A radiant core, pulsing with raw potential so primordial it almost hurt to witness. She was a beacon, a newborn star inside a fragile body. Prophecy in flesh and bone.

Hayley lifted her gaze, her eyes narrowing with suspicion at John. She drew Hope closer, a low growl rumbling in her throat.

“Rebekah,” Hayley said, voice sharp as a blade.

“Relax, Hayley,” Rebekah replied, stepping into the room. “It’s just John. The… other one.”

“The crazy clone,” Hayley completed, her eyes flicking over John’s leather jacket and T-shirt, her expression unsettled. Seeing Elijah’s face in that look was apparently jarring.

But John barely heard her. His eyes were locked on the baby.

Hope turned her little head, those wide blue eyes—already promising the amber of the Mikaelsons—fixing on John. She didn’t cry. Didn’t flinch. She simply… looked. As though she saw through him, straight into the fragments of Lívia still pulsing within his core.

Then Hope did something extraordinary. She babbled, a soft, meaningless sound, and reached out a tiny hand toward him.

It was too much. The lunatic façade, the precautions, the constant fear—all melted away under that innocent, powerful gaze. He stepped forward, then again, as if entranced.

Hayley tensed, fingers digging into the blanket, but Rebekah touched her arm gently. “It’s all right,” the Original whispered.

John knelt before Hayley, still towering but careful. He didn’t try to touch Hope. He only looked, drowning in emotions that burned inside him. Awe at her wonder. Grief for the hardships awaiting her. And a crushing sadness, mourning the innocence she would inevitably lose.

Hope’s magic brushed against his—not as a threat, but as a curious invitation. She felt his power, the protective thread woven through his being, and seemed… comforted.

Then words slipped from his mouth. Not whispered by the grimoire. Not calculated. They came from somewhere deep, where fan knowledge and new magical sensitivity fused into painful clarity.

His voice, Elijah’s timbre but softer, carried a sorrow that felt ancient.

“Sadly, she will be lonely in the future,” he murmured, amber gaze locked with Hope’s blue. “She will carry the weight of the Mikaelsons’ enemies alone. The price of being hope… is to bear everyone’s darkness by herself.”

The silence that followed was absolute. Even breathing ceased.

Hayley paled, clutching Hope tightly. Tears of rage and fear glistened in her eyes. “What did you just say?” she whispered, voice trembling. “How dare you?”

Rebekah stood frozen, her face a mask of shock. That hadn’t sounded like a broken vision. It sounded like a prophecy. Clear, concise, terrifyingly plausible.

John blinked, as if waking. He recoiled, hand covering his mouth, horrified. What have I done?

“I… I didn’t…” he stammered, the madman act crumbling. “The visions… sometimes they just slip out.”

“That wasn’t a vision,” Hayley snarled, standing, her voice sharp as shattered glass. “That was a curse. You cursed her!”

“No!” Elijah’s voice rang from the doorway. He was there, posture rigid, face a storm contained. Klaus stood behind him, amusement replaced by something far colder. They had heard everything.

Elijah stepped inside, eyes locked on John. “Repeat what you said,” he ordered, his voice like steel wire.

John shook his head, retreating against the wall. “I don’t remember clearly. They’re… echoes. It means nothing!”

“It seemed to mean a great deal,” Klaus said, voice smooth as a serpent’s. He looked at Hope, and for the first time, John saw genuine fear in the hybrid’s eyes. “It sounded like the truth.”

Hope whimpered at the tension, her soft cry striking like an alarm in their chests. Hayley turned, clutching her daughter. “Get out,” she hissed, feral. “All of you. OUT!”

Rebekah shoved John toward the hall, Elijah and Klaus following, the door closing behind them.

In the corridor, Elijah’s mask cracked. He grabbed John by the jacket, slamming him against the wall with supernatural force, plaster splintering. “What did you do?” he seethed, his face inches from John’s. “Did you come here to sow discord? To curse a child with your insane ramblings?”

“I didn’t mean to!” John cried, terrified. Elijah’s strength was overwhelming. “She’s… so powerful. And so alone. I just… felt it. Her magic showed me. For a second, I knew.”

Klaus studied John like a volatile experiment. “An oracle,” he muttered, the word a macabre discovery. “Not just a clone. A tragic oracle. What a dubious gift.”

Elijah released him, recoiling in disgust. “Your visions aren’t of the past, are they?” he accused. “They’re of the future. And you chose to share the bleakest one with my niece’s mother.”

John slid down the wall to the floor, small and shaken. “I didn’t choose,” he whispered, voice breaking. “It’s like… sneezing. You don’t decide—it just happens.”

Pathetic. But true. The prophecy had burst out of him like a psychic sneeze of despair.

Rebekah looked at him, no longer amused, but thoughtful. “If it’s true,” she said softly, “then we must be ready. To protect her. To make sure she is never alone.”

“Nothing is set in stone,” Klaus said, though his voice lacked conviction. He glanced at Hope’s door, the weight of fatherhood visible. “But it’s an unpleasant reminder.”

Elijah turned away without another word, his footsteps echoing like verdicts. The air had shifted. John was no longer a curiosity or tool. He was a herald of a dark future.

Alone in the hallway, with only Rebekah’s gaze lingering, John buried his face in his knees. The grimoire whispered, unusually gentle.

The truth, even unintended, is a double-edged blade. It cuts both listener and messenger. You saw the thread of her fate. And now they see it too. What they will do with it… is another vision you do not have.

John gave no answer. He sat there, in that opulent corridor, haunted by a baby’s face and the weight of his own words. The adventure now had a name: destiny.

POST-CREDITS SCENE

The grimoire’s pages flipped open on their own, glowing with a golden light only the audience could see.

“Well, isn’t that a show,” the book drawled, dripping sarcasm. “Our Beta meets the most powerful baby in the world, and instead of singing a lullaby, he drops an apocalypse spoiler. Bravo, genius. Not even Bonnie in TVD season six flopped that hard.”

Doodles appeared in the margins: John holding a sign that read I swear it wasn’t my fault.

“Hayley nearly ripped your head off, Elijah wanted to hang you up like a painting, and Klaus… well, Klaus is already plotting how to spin your prophecy into some Machiavellian scheme. And Rebekah? Calculating the supernatural babysitting plan.”

The letters formed a mocking title: Oracle of Depression™.

“So, congrats, Beta: you’re not just a magical porcupine. You’re Destiny’s Alexa, dropping tragic spoilers in the nursery. Adorable.”

A final doodle: Hope with a crown, John with a clown nose.

“Next chapter preview: Suspicious Mikaelsons, furious Hayley, and you desperately trying to prove you’re not the Cassandra of the apocalypse. My spoiler? It won’t go well.”

The pages snapped shut.

Author’s Note:

Hey, everyone! How are you?

Wow, that was an intense chapter! Writing John meeting Hope was this wild mix of awww and HELP, WHAT NOW? I wanted his purest moment to also be his greatest disaster (so far).

The truth is, John is just a fan who knows too much. When Hope’s magic—pure and powerful—touched his, instinctive and protective, the knowledge of her tragic destiny slipped out. It wasn’t malice. It was a psychic sneeze (best analogy ever, haha!).

Now the dynamic has changed. John isn’t just the funny clone anymore. He’s a tragic oracle. Hayley wants to kill him, Elijah sees his own face prophesying suffering, and Klaus finds it… useful. Yikes!

I hope you enjoyed this more serious side of John. His journey is about finding humanity in an artificial existence, and nothing tests that like protecting a child.

What do you think: is John’s prophecy inevitable? Or can knowing it change Hope’s destiny? Drop your thoughts (or just imagine, haha)! In the next chapter, John will try to redeem himself with an anti-prophecy spell—will it work? In Mystic Falls and New Orleans, chaos is the only postcard.

Kisses! 💖

Chapter Text

The tension in the Mikaelson mansion was more than a mood; it was a physical weight. John felt it on his shoulders — a heavy burden fed by Hayley’s burning hatred and Elijah’s icy distrust. It was a constant tingling at the back of his neck, rivaling the hum of danger that followed him like a loyal hound.

Curled up in an armchair in the library, he pretended to read an ancient tome, though his attention was fixed entirely on the leather satchel on his lap, from which came an uneasy whisper.

(Something’s coming, Beta, murmured the grimoire in his mind, tinged with anxiety. And it’s not an invitation for tea.)

Suddenly, the world didn’t just fall silent — it was swallowed whole. The lights flickered and died, plunging everything into utter darkness. The distant soundtrack of New Orleans — hoarse jazz and muffled laughter — was cut off. Then came the chaos: the crash of shattering glass from the façade, muffled screams from vampiric servants, and the sinister metallic sound of claws being unsheathed against the dark.

Hayley was the first to move — a blur of maternal instinct. With a low growl that raised the hairs on John’s neck, she bolted up the stairs, the urge to protect Hope overpowering every ounce of her anger.

(Good luck trying to stop that wolf,) commented the grimoire, a note of respectful admiration in its tone.

Klaus appeared at the library door, his golden eyes two glowing slits in the dimness. “Seems Marcel decided to skip the pleasantries and get right to the point.”

Elijah stood beside him, adjusting his cuffs with a calm bordering on supernatural. “He’s here for Davina. A calculated move — but a desperate one.”

“Calculated?” John’s voice came out firmer than he expected, though his heart hammered against his ribs. He stood, the satchel knocking against his hip. “He came in full force. Witches, too. I can sense at least three. Their magic tastes... bitter. Like rust and burned herbs.”

All eyes turned to him. Klaus arched an eyebrow, interest gleaming in his gaze. “Our Beta’s magical palate. How... useful.”

“Not the time, Niklaus,” Elijah cut in, senses sweeping the room. “They’re positioning themselves. They’ll try to flank us — reach the attic.”

A hot wave of adrenaline — mixed with unexpected rage — surged in John’s chest. This place, for all its dysfunction and danger, was his only refuge. No one touches the den of a cornered beast.

(You’re getting territorial, Beta, the grimoire teased. Careful. Now, don’t die.)

“What are we waiting for? A formal invitation?” John shouted, stepping into the foyer. “Come on! Use me!”

Klaus let out a sharp, dangerous laugh. “How? As a human projectile?”

“As cover!” John barked just as one of Marcel’s vampires burst through the door — only to be slammed against the wall by Elijah in a blur too fast for human eyes. “I can’t fight like you — but I can take a hit like nobody else! While you fight, I hold the line!”

The foyer erupted into a maelstrom of motion, growls, and flares of magic. John moved on pure instinct — guided by the frantic warnings of the grimoire.

(Left! Freezing spell! Intercept!)

John spun around. A witch, fingers twisted into an arcane gesture, hurled an ice spear toward Klaus — who was busy tearing through two vampires. Without thinking, John threw himself in the way.

(You’ve got more courage than sense!) the grimoire shouted.

CRACK!

The impact felt like a club to the chest. Golden runes flared in the air before him, absorbing the blow. The spear shattered into harmless shards, but the force sent him flying back, stumbling. His lungs burned, but he forced himself upright.

Klaus dispatched the vampires and glanced at John, genuine surprise flickering in his eyes. “Finally decides to be useful,” he said, a crooked grin curling his lips.

(Right! Rebekah’s cornered!)

John turned. Rebekah was fighting like a storm, but three vampires had her pinned. He ran, blows ricocheting off his back — each one a dull hammer strike through his bones. He grabbed her arm, yanking her behind him.

“Don’t get used to it,” he panted, voice ragged.

Rebekah stared, shock flashing into reluctant gratitude. “That wasn’t the plan,” she snapped — though her tone was different this time — before diving back into the fray.

The climax came when a group broke through toward the attic stairs. Elijah, Klaus, and John found themselves back-to-back, forming an unsteady triangle in the wrecked foyer.

“The Beta in the middle!” Klaus snarled. “Now would be an excellent time for your little light trick!”

“It’s not a switch!” John groaned, squeezing his eyes shut. Pain began to bloom — a sharp pulse behind his temples.

(Focus, Beta, urged the grimoire, its voice now strained. You’re not just a shield — you’re a fortress. Visualize it.)

John focused — not on defending, but on protecting. He imagined a golden dome, a sanctuary, surrounding the three of them. He drew power from the grimoire and from the strange energy in his bones. A trembling aura burst from him — runes swirling through the air like embers, forming a living, radiant barrier. Spells shattered against it like breaking glass. Vampires recoiled, screaming, their hands smoking.

“A remarkable defense,” Elijah observed, and for the first time, John heard true admiration in his voice.

But the cost was agony. It was like holding a miniature sun between his palms. His skull throbbed with searing pain; warm, metallic blood dripped from his nose, staining his lips gold. His muscles shook uncontrollably, each impact against the barrier a stab through his mind.

(You’re at your limit, Beta, warned the grimoire, fading. Hold... just a little longer.)

The onslaught finally faltered. The attackers retreated, defeated. In the heavy silence that followed, John saw Marcel standing across the room. His eyes weren’t on Klaus or Elijah — they burned into John’s, full of hatred and unspoken promises.

“This isn’t over, thing,” Marcel spat, the word dripping with contempt. He vanished into the shadows with his followers.

The barrier dissolved into drifting motes of light. John’s legs gave out, and he collapsed to his knees, body trembling like a leaf.

(You’re a brave fool, Beta, the grimoire murmured, exhausted. And one hell of a shield.)

He was intact — unharmed — but the price of being the shield was a hollow exhaustion that went deeper than flesh.

Dust began to settle over the ruined foyer, the air thick with the acrid scent of burnt wood and ozone. The silence was more frightening than the noise of battle, broken only by John’s ragged breathing.

(You pushed too far, the grimoire whispered, faint but with a thread of admiration. But you held. Not many can face an army and still be standing.)

Klaus crossed the room, glass shards crunching underfoot as if they were petals. He stopped before John, his gaze stripped of mockery — now that of a strategist discovering a new, valuable piece on the board.

“Seems your... unique attribute has its uses,” he said in a low rumble. “Useful.”

It wasn’t gratitude — but recognition. And for John, in that moment, it was enough.

Elijah was the one who offered his hand. His shadow fell over John before his firm grip caught his forearm. “Allow me to assist you,” Elijah said, voice soft yet commanding. He lifted John with surprising strength, steadying him when his knees threatened to give way. “Your contribution was... invaluable.” His words were measured, but in his eyes, John saw a glint of respect that soothed something deep within him.

(He saw you, the grimoire murmured, surprised. Not as an artifact — but as an ally. Careful. That changes everything.)

Hayley descended the stairs, Hope safe in her arms. Her gaze — once a wall of ice — now regarded John with cautious appraisal. She didn’t smile, but the brief nod she gave said it all: You protected what’s mine.

Rebekah approached, wiping a streak of blood from her chin. “Well, it’s not every day we get a human shield who actually works,” she said, her biting humor returning — though softer now. “You can stay. But seriously, we’re getting you some armor or something.”

It was as close to a welcome to the family as he’d get from her. And somehow, it worked.

Hours later, seated at a makeshift dinner table in a less-damaged room, the air still thick with the scent of dust and power, John felt his body heavy as lead. The steaming stew before him looked like an impossible task.

“Needs a red wine reduction,” he muttered absentmindedly — ghosts of old lives whispering through him. “Not Madeira. A full-bodied red. And a hint of rosemary to cut the fat.”

He braced for Elijah’s disapproval. Instead, Elijah paused, knife hovering over his plate. “Red wine...” he repeated, thoughtful. “I hadn’t considered that. An interesting suggestion.”

Silence fell around the table. Klaus made a sound between a laugh and a growl. Rebekah rolled her eyes, but the corners of her mouth twitched. Even Hayley seemed amused — for a heartbeat.

(You just won over the Chef with a cooking tip, Beta, the grimoire teased. Who would’ve guessed?)

John leaned back, exhaustion draping over him like a heavy cloak. Beneath it, though, was something fragile and warm: belonging.

He looked at his hands — the hands that once had been Elijah’s, but that today, by his own will, had protected something. For the first time, he didn’t feel like an accident. He felt... needed. Seen.

(You’ve found a crack in the wall, Beta, murmured the grimoire, its voice drowsy now. Don’t mess it up. They’re still the Mikaelsons.)

But as John closed his eyes, letting the soft murmurs of this strange, deadly family — a family that now, hesitantly, included his voice — wrap around him, the cost of the night, however steep, finally felt worth it.

Post-Credits Scene

John lounges in a shattered armchair in the mansion, shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest, breath still heavy from the fight. He runs a hand through his messy hair and looks straight at you, the reader.

John:
“So... did you enjoy the show?” (He smirks lazily.) “Not gonna lie — I stole the scene.”

(He stretches his legs, posing like he’s on the cover of a magazine.)

John:
“Let’s recap the highlights, since nobody in this house seems to appreciate me properly:

Clone of Elijah — which means all that jawline sculpted by the gods.
Zero of his uptight speech patterns.
And bonus — the soul inside this gorgeous body? Female.
Result? I’m literally the deluxe version of a Mikaelson. Pure sophistication... and versatility.”

(He slides his fingers along his collarbone, flashing a smug half-smile.)

John:
“And best part? Unlike Elijah, I know I’m hot. Don’t need anyone to tell me — but I’ll take compliments. Lots. In ALL CAPS, preferably.”

(He leans forward, as if sharing a secret.)

John:
“Now, between us... so far, I’ve only used this body to get beaten like a damn castle gate. What a waste, right? But patience, dear readers. The plot’s just warming up. Soon enough, this body’s going to be used for far more... interesting purposes.”

(He buttons his shirt slowly, savoring every second, his grin dripping with mischief.)

John:
“So stay tuned. You won’t want to miss it when I finally start enjoying what’s mine.”

(From the grimoire, an impatient whisper:)
(Beta, you’re a walking billboard.)

John (laughing):
“Billboard? Oh, my dear friend... I’m the whole campaign.”

Chapter Text

The sound of battle still echoed—not just through the walls, but inside him.
The body remembered what to do: breathe deeply, hold posture, walk with the calm rehearsal of someone born to lead.
But John/Livia hadn’t been born that way. She merely carried the muscle memory of another man.

With every step, she felt the subtle discomfort of existing inside something that wasn’t hers. The weight of the shoulders, even the rhythm of the breath—all followed a discipline that didn’t belong to her.
The body moved with automatic grace, and instinctively, she let it.

Now, silence felt like a programming error.
The mansion, wounded and hollow, watched her like a broken mirror—fragments of Elijah reflecting where John should have been.

Sometimes, she saw her own reflection and wondered—who’s looking back?
And deep down, she feared the answer.

While John/Livia drifted in the confusion of being someone who never existed, elsewhere in New Orleans, the real hell had an address.

The old Marquis mansion—once a stage for opulent parties—was now a battered refuge.
The grand ballroom, its cracked columns and shattered chandeliers, was filled with wounded vampires.
The air carried the acrid scent of dust, coagulated blood, and defeat.
The silence was heavy, almost tangible—the hush of a troop in shock.

A broad-shouldered vampire huddled in a corner, clutching a half-healed wound on his shoulder, his hand trembling as if the nerves still burned.
Another, younger one kept his eyes half-closed, avoiding the faint candlelight as though the brightness cut his retinas.
The power of John’s shield had left marks deeper than flesh.

At the center of this restrained chaos, Marcel stood with his back to everyone.
Facing the shattered window, he stared at the distant lights of New Orleans.
His usually relaxed shoulders were taut.
The clenched fist behind his back was the only visible concession to the storm inside him.

The door creaked.
Thierry, his arm wrapped in blood-stained cloth, crossed the room.
The magical burns on his face still pulsed faintly, the skin marked by glowing veins that would take days to fade.
He stopped behind Marcel, hesitant.

“No one could’ve predicted this, Marcel,” Thierry said quietly. “The assault was perfect. Until that… thing showed up.”

Marcel turned slowly.
His face, usually synonymous with confidence, was altered—rage, yes, but also something more dangerous: frustration.

“Thing is the right word, Thierry,” Marcel murmured. “What was that man? Not a werewolf, not a vampire… He was a shield. A human shield that undoes magic with a thought.”

He stepped forward.
The intensity in his voice made several vampires lift their heads.

“Klaus didn’t get an ally,” Marcel declared. “He got himself a weapon. Something new. Something we don’t understand.”
He paused, eyes hardening.
“All of a sudden, every rule of the game has changed.”

For a moment, the mask of the unbreakable leader cracked.
Marcel ran a hand down his face, exhaling heavily.
It was rare to see him like that—and the wounded exchanged uneasy looks.

He glanced at his followers—vampires used to victory, now reduced to shadows.
There was anger, but fear too.
He turned to Thierry, a glint of determination reigniting in his gaze.

“We underestimated their ability to innovate,” he admitted softly. “That was a mistake. My mistake. Facing them head-on now… would be suicide.”

Thierry frowned, stepping closer. His voice trembled with disbelief, not fear.
“So… we give up? After everything?”

Silence thickened.
Marcel stared at him, measuring the man’s loyalty.
Then, a cold, calculating smile curved his lips.

“Give up?” He turned, addressing everyone.
“No, Thierry. We evolve.”

His voice rose, firm, reigniting the embers of resistance.
“They brought a new weapon to this war? Fine. We’ll find one sharper.”

“How?” Thierry’s chin lifted, confusion lining his features.

Marcel leaned in, lowering his tone to almost a whisper.
The entire hall seemed to hold its breath.

“Their magic is old—heritage, tradition, rules,” Marcel explained, a shadow of darkness flickering in his eyes.
“We don’t need rules. This city has other sources of power—wilder, more chaotic, more dangerous.”
His stare turned almost fevered.
“If Klaus wants a war of powers we can’t comprehend… then that’s exactly what he’ll get.”

He straightened, his presence filling the room—transforming defeat into promise.

“Gather our people,” he ordered, voice steadying. “Spread the word that we retreated. Let them think they’ve won. Let them drop their guard.”

His voice sharpened, each syllable dripping with threat.
“This isn’t over. It’s just changed. And next time… the surprise will be ours.”

The once-silent hall filled with murmurs.
Eyes dulled by despair began to glimmer again—not with hope, but with rekindled fury.
Thierry nodded slowly, and for a moment, even the candles seemed to flicker higher.

Outside, the clouds hung heavy, promising a rain no one could avoid.

Days passed since the attack.
Chaos had given way to a quiet unease—the kind of calm that always precedes another storm.

One rainy afternoon.
Water drummed against the library’s stained-glass windows, turning the outside world into blurs of green and gray.
John/Livia sat there, pretending to read a Latin book she didn’t understand, the grimmoire on her lap whispering nonsensical translations.
Elijah stood across the room, still as a statue, watching the rain.
The tension of the past days had settled into a quiet, constant discomfort.

John/Livia looked down at her hands—large, masculine, veined, strong with the latent power of an Original vampire she didn’t possess.
They held the book, but didn’t feel the paper.
They were like gloves of flesh, disconnected from the person within.

“Why are you keeping me here?”

The voice that came out was Elijah’s—deep and refined—but the tone was Livia’s.
Tired. Empty.

Elijah didn’t turn right away.
He finished watching a droplet slide down the glass.
“You are a variable,” he said calmly, factually. “It isn’t wise to discard a variable before fully understanding it.”

John closed the book with a soft thud.
“I’m not a variable. I’m a person. Or I was. I don’t know anymore.”
He rose, leaving the grimmoire on the chair.
“Since the moment I opened my eyes in this… shell, nothing is mine. This face isn’t mine. This voice isn’t mine. This bloody dysfunctional family isn’t mine.”

He took a step closer to Elijah, who finally turned—his expression a study in composure.

“I didn’t ask to be here,” John’s voice cracked—raw, unfiltered emotion breaking through.
“I don’t want to be your weapon. I don’t want to be your riddle. I don’t want to be anyone’s failed project!”

Now face to face with Elijah, he pressed on, his voice trembling:
“You’re keeping me here because I’m useful? Because I’m interesting?”
A bitter laugh escaped his lips.
“I’m a mistake. A magical accident. And mistakes should be erased.”

He paused, breath shaking.
“So please…” he whispered, voice barely audible. “Just kill me. End it. I don’t want to live in the skin of a ghost anymore.”

The words hung in the library’s silence, louder than any scream.
Outside, the rain was the only sound.

Elijah didn’t react with anger—or violence.
He simply looked at John.
And for the first time, he didn’t see a clone, an oracle, or a weapon.
He saw pure, absolute hopelessness.

“Death,” Elijah said softly, “is often sought by those who carry a burden they believe too heavy to bear.”

He took a step forward.
“But death is a final answer to a problem that can still be rewritten. You are not a mistake—you are an anomaly.”
His gaze searched John’s face.
“And anomalies have the power to change entire systems.”

He offered no comfort, no friendship—only something far more valuable coming from Elijah Mikaelson: purpose.

“Killing you would be like burning a book before reading its last page,” he continued. “You might be the key to something I can’t yet see. And I…”
He hesitated, barely perceptibly.
“… I’ve made enough mistakes by acting too soon.”

John’s legs trembled. The courage that had fueled his outburst drained away.

“And what if I don’t want to be read?” he whispered. “What if I just want to close the book?”

Elijah finally broke his own restraint.
He placed a hand on John’s shoulder—firm, grounding, real.

“Unfortunately for you,” Elijah said quietly, “the story has already begun. And you’re part of it now—whether as protagonist or victim, the choice, believe it or not, is still partly yours.”

He removed his hand and turned toward the door.
At the threshold, he stopped.

“As for the rest…” he said without turning back, “… the face, the voice, the family—perhaps, in time, you’ll make them yours. It’s a challenge, yes. But not a death sentence. Merely… life. Of the extraordinarily complicated kind.”

Then he left, the door closing softly behind him.

John slid down the wall, sitting on the floor, his body trembling.
He hadn’t found the release he wanted.
Instead, he’d found something far more terrifying: a glimpse of understanding.

“He saw you,” the grimmoire whispered in his mind, unusually gentle. “Not the character. Not the power. You. That is more dangerous—and more promising—than anything else that’s happened so far.”

John didn’t answer.
He simply sat there, listening to the rain wash the world outside, trying to understand what it meant to have his own death sentence denied.

Post-Credit Scene

The library is empty.
Rain still drips outside.
Suddenly, we hear a deep sigh.

John (quiet, tired):
“You saw that, right? The guy looks me in the eye, calls me an anomaly, and boom—thinks he’s solved my existential crisis.”

[He rubs his face with both hands, laughing without humor.]

John:
“Anomaly… me. As if being a half-human-half-witch-accident-clone wasn’t anomalous enough.”

[He looks down at his hands, turns them over slowly, then smirks.]

John:
“Well… if I’m gonna be an anomaly, I might as well be the prettiest one this city’s ever seen.”

[The grimmoire grumbles: “Beta, you have no shame.”]

John (winking):
“None whatsoever.”

🔔 Author’s Note

Chapter Summary:
Marcel: “We lost badly, but let’s pretend it was strategy.”
Thierry: “???”
John: “Please kill me.”
Elijah: “No, thank you.”
Grimmoire: “Drama. I love it.”

End of minutes — next meeting scheduled for whenever someone breaks another window.

Chapter Text

The fragile understanding forged in the library with Elijah brought John/Lia no peace. It was, instead, a new torment — like being the narrator of a Greek tragedy whose ending he already knew. He was no longer a prisoner waiting for release; he was a condemned man aware of the date of his own execution — and of everyone else’s. Livia’s knowledge, the fan’s knowledge, was an anchor dragging him into an abyss of secrets. He knew about the lost sister, Freya, traded for power centuries ago. And above all, he knew of the storm approaching: Dahlia — with eyes just as intense, almost hypnotic, and dark brown hair, a force that made Klaus seem like a spoiled child.

The grimoire, attuned to John’s inner chaos, stirred with restless energy, its pages whispering like leaves in the wind. [“The air’s gone sour, Beta,” it murmured, voice thick with dark sarcasm. “Ancient magic. Hungry magic. And it’s not the kind that takes ‘no’ for an answer.”]

“Dahlia,” John muttered, the name escaping like a curse as he slipped into jeans, a black T-shirt, and the leather jacket Rebekah would approve of with a reluctant nod. The fabric creaked — a harsh contrast to the tense silence enveloping him, the cold leather resting on skin that still felt foreign.

[“You know that name?”] asked the grimoire, its curiosity sharp as a blade. [“Interesting. What else are you hiding, little oracle?”]

“Enough to want to run to the end of the world,” he grumbled, staring out the window at the streets of New Orleans. Beneath the morning sun, the city pulsed, the faint sound of jazz trumpets drifting from afar, but he felt a weight in the air, invisible yet suffocating — as if reality itself bent under an approaching presence. “She’s coming. With centuries of rancor and an appetite for power that makes Klaus look like an amateur.”

The hum of danger within John was no longer an intermittent sting. It was a constant pressure — a cosmic headache throbbing at the base of his skull, as though Dahlia’s footsteps echoed through the fabric of reality, each one closer than the last.
[“She’s sniffing around, Beta,” warned the grimoire, its tone suddenly serious. “And you’re a beacon flashing on her radar. Better turn off the light.”]

That night’s dinner — less tense after the incident with Marcel, yet still burdened by wary glances — was the breaking point. John couldn’t bear the weight of truth any longer. He needed to warn them — not with the theatrics of a prophet, but with the clarity of a storm warning.

Klaus was midway through a cutting remark about werewolf politics, his fork brandished like a weapon, when John interrupted, his voice clearer and more urgent than he’d intended.
“She’s coming.”

The room died into silence. Cutlery stilled, porcelain hushed, and the air thickened with the scent of melted wax and tension. Every eye turned toward him.

“Who’s coming, our dear Beta?” Klaus asked, irritation mixed with a glint of curiosity in his amber eyes. “Another homicidal pitcher of water?”

“No,” John said, his gaze fixed on the center of the table, seeing beyond the polished wood — tasting ashes and old energy burning on his tongue. “Something worse. Ancient. Smells like wet earth after winter, like wilted flowers, like a power so old it makes your bones ache.”

Elijah set down his fork with surgical precision, his eyes piercing, posture rigid. “Another vision?” he asked, voice cautious but lacking the hostility of before.

“It’s not a vision,” John corrected, lifting his gaze. For the first time, he dropped the façade of madness. His eyes gleamed with terror and resolve — a reflection of Livia fighting to be heard. “It’s fact. Like knowing the sun will set. She’s coming. Her magic... it’s a tear in the spiritual world. She rips the veil just by existing.”

[“You’re playing with fire, Beta,” whispered the grimoire, almost admiringly. “But go on. They need to hear this.”]

“Who?” Hayley asked, her voice tight, fingers gripping the table’s edge until her knuckles went white. The fragile truce between her and John trembled, held together only by the threat they all felt but hadn’t named.

John drew a deep breath. He couldn’t say I know because I watched the show. So he used the excuse that always worked — but this time, with a conviction that made him tremble.
“The memories... they’re not mine. They belong to the witch who made me. She feared Dahlia above all. The name was carved into the blood of the ritual. Dahlia. The ancestral witch. The first of the Mikaelsons. The forgotten one.”

The name echoed like thunder. The room fell silent, save for the soft crackle of candles in the silver candelabra.

Klaus paled, sarcasm evaporating — replaced by ancient rage and deeper fear. “Dahlia,” he growled, the word low and feral, fists clenching on the table. “A bedtime story to frighten little witches.”

“It’s not a story,” Rebekah whispered, eyes wide, her voice trembling with a child’s terror. She clutched her wine glass so tightly the crystal seemed ready to shatter. “Father... he spoke that name with hate. And fear.”

“She’s real,” Elijah declared, his voice grave, his gaze locked on John. He didn’t question — he saw truth in the terrifying clarity of John’s words, in the tautness of his shoulders. “And you say she’s coming to New Orleans.”

“She’s coming for what’s hers,” John corrected, Livia’s knowledge weighing heavy in his chest. “She’s coming for Hope. The last heir of the bloodline she believes she owns. The final piece of her bargain with Esther. She won’t stop. She’ll burn everything in her path.”

Hayley stood abruptly, her chair crashing to the floor, the sound echoing through the room. “My daughter...” Her voice was a mixture of panic and feral rage, her eyes gleaming with the instinct of a mother wolf. “She won’t touch my daughter.”

“She won’t just touch her,” John said softly, but his tone was unyielding, each word cutting like a blade. “She’ll take her. Mold her. Break and rebuild Hope in her own image. To Dahlia, you’re not a family. You’re... assets. Property.”

The word property hung in the air, poisonous, like smoke. Klaus slammed his fist onto the table, porcelain rattling, a glass of wine tipping over and staining the tablecloth red. “NO ONE will take my daughter!”

“Then prepare for something worse than Marcel, worse than any werewolf or witch,” John urged, anxiety spilling over, his voice shaking under the weight of what he knew. “She’s not an enemy. She’s a force of nature. Her magic...” He closed his eyes, trying to put the unbearable sensation into words. “...is like mine, but a thousand times stronger. Uncontrollable. Reality bends around her.”

Then came the first physical sign. The candles on the table — their flames tall and steady — bent eastward, as if pulled by an invisible wind, and extinguished all at once, plunging the room into half-darkness. The air turned frigid, their breaths visible, the cold biting their skin. Outside, the breeze swelled into a howl, shaking windows, shutters banging like clattering bones.

John felt a wave of nausea, his headache exploding behind his eyes. He clutched his head, a groan escaping. “She’s... searching. Her consciousness is sweeping the city. She feels Hope. Feels the power.”

[“She feels you too, Beta,” the grimoire cried, urgent now, its voice nearly a scream in his mind. “You’re a beacon. Put out the light, or she’ll find you first.”]

Elijah was beside him in an instant, a steady hand on his shoulder — not to restrain, but to anchor. The touch was warm, real — a striking contrast to the supernatural cold.
“What else?” he asked, his voice tight, gaze unflinching. “Everything, John. Tell us everything.”

With Dahlia’s pressure crushing his mind and Elijah’s hand grounding him, John spoke. He described the witch’s power, her insatiable hunger for control, her twisted bond with Esther, the curse that was her own magic. He didn’t mention Freya — that secret was too deep, too raw to unveil. His words came broken, laced with Livia’s terror and John’s determination.

When he finished, the room was silent except for the howling wind outside. The darkness pulsed, alive with omens. Klaus stared into the void, his eyes blazing with fierce resolve. Hayley held her arms around herself, already bracing for a fight over Hope, pale but fierce-eyed. Rebekah looked like a frightened child.

Elijah still held John’s shoulder — the pressure firm, but not cruel.
“You’re not just an oracle,” he said quietly, his tone heavy with meaning. “You’re a radar. A warning before the greatest storm this family will ever face.”

John shook his head, exhausted, the weight of knowledge crushing him. “I’m nothing. Just... the messenger.”

“The messenger,” Klaus repeated, rising, his presence filling the room. “is always killed first. Unless he’s useful.” His eyes gleamed with dangerous purpose — a blend of rage and strategy. “You know the enemy. You feel her approach. That’s more valuable than any weapon.”

[“You’ve traded one sentence for another, Beta,” murmured the grimoire, its voice solemn now, almost mournful. “You’re the bell that tolls before the apocalypse. Good luck, little boat. The storm’s almost here.”]

Author’s Note

Yes, Dahlia is coming.
Yes, John is still losing it.
And yes, Elijah continues to be the only one in this family with an MBA in self-control.

I swear, this chapter was supposed to be a “transition,” and it somehow turned into a family meeting sponsored by the apocalypse.

The grimoire? 100% passive-aggressive. Deserves its own spin-off.
Klaus? Still convinced centuries of trauma can be fixed with yelling and broken furniture.
And Hayley... someone take her wine away before she decides to punch an ancestral witch in the face.

Anyway, if you survived this chapter emotionally — congratulations. You can officially list psychological resistance to Mikaelsons on your résumé.

Chapter Text

John understood. It was no longer just Project Beta, the arcane mistake. It was the lighthouse in the storm—and Dahlia had already seen it. Worse: she knew that behind her came Freya, the lost sister, carrying her own secrets and scars.
The adventure was over. The war had begun.

A slow, serene smile spread across his face, a shocking contrast to the terror around him. It wasn’t the smile of a madman or a strategist, but of a condemned man who saw the executioner’s blade and welcomed it as a blessing. The leather of his jacket creaked as he stood, the movement slow, almost ritualistic.

“She has the power to kill me,” John said softly, almost reverently, as if discovering the cure to a terminal illness. “Not just destroy me—undo me. Her magic is creation and absolute annihilation. I’ll simply… cease to exist. Like a spell uncast.”

“You’re dancing with death, Beta,” whispered the grimoire, its voice filled with both concern and fascination.

Hayley stared at him in horror. “You’re happy about this? You want her to kill you?”

“I do,” John confirmed, his smile unwavering. His amber eyes shone with a sinister peace. “Since I woke up in this nightmare, it’s the only thing that makes sense. Not being a weapon. Not being an alarm. Just… stopping. And she’s the only force that can make sure of that. My savior.”

Klaus stepped back, his face a mask of fascination and unease. “You’re more insane than I am,” he muttered, his voice stripped of arrogance but tinged with understanding—as if he recognized that craving for control over one’s own destruction.

“He understands you, Beta,” murmured the grimoire. “But be careful. He knows how to use that kind of despair.”

Elijah crossed the room in two strides, grabbing John by the shoulders, his fingers sinking into the leather of the jacket. His face was inches away, his frustration burning in his eyes. “No,” he said, voice hoarse—a command and a plea at once. “You don’t have that right.”

“What right?” John laughed without fear, staring straight into Elijah’s reflection in his own eyes. “The right to refuse being a pawn in your game? Who are you, Elijah Mikaelson, to deny me that?”

Elijah flinched, just a fraction, his own demons reflected in those amber eyes. But he recovered quickly, composure returning though faintly trembling. “Your death won’t bring peace,” he countered. “It’ll be a trophy for her. A display of power that’ll shatter this family before the war even begins.”

“That’s your problem!” John shoved Elijah’s hands away, his chest rising and falling with ragged breaths. “I didn’t ask to be part of this family! Let her take me! It’s the only good thing she’ll ever do!”

“You’re screaming into the void, Beta,” whispered the grimoire, almost sadly. “But they’re listening.”

Elijah stood before him again, seizing John’s face and forcing him to meet his gaze. “You’re not a mistake. You’re ours. Our anomaly. Our responsibility. Our… family. And we don’t abandon family.”

The word struck John like thunder. Family. The sound cracked through his abyssal calm with something dangerous: belonging.
He tore himself free, the leather creaking, stepping back with eyes that glowed—not just with his rage, but with Lívia’s, the fan who knew the Mikaelsons’ flaws by heart.

“You’re all screwed,” he spat, pointing a trembling finger at Elijah. “Drowning in centuries of resentment, clinging to any familiar face like a piece of driftwood. I’m just a broken mirror. A distorted reflection of you.”

“You’re digging a grave, Beta,” murmured the grimoire, half cautious, half impressed.

“Tell me then, brother,” John hissed the word like venom. “Tell me about Finn. Remember him? The brother you locked away for nine hundred years. Did anyone cry for him? And Kol? He loved magic but was an inconvenience, so you kept him on a leash—and when he died, no one tried to bring him back!”

Rebekah flinched, tears spilling, Kol’s name slicing her open. Klaus growled, stepping forward, but Elijah raised a hand, pale and trembling, forced to listen to his crimes spoken by an echo of himself.

“Why? Does the truth hurt, Niklaus?” John turned toward him, fearless. “You’re masters of resurrection! But for your own brothers? Nothing! Because your ‘family’ is an exclusive club. Only those who are useful get in.”

He spat on the floor, the dead petals beneath his boots crushed into dust. “I pretend to believe it. Because it’s easier than admitting I’m alone among suicidal egomaniacs who use ‘family’ as a leash.”

“You’ve cut deep, Beta,” whispered the grimoire. “And they bleed.”

Silence thickened, heavy with the scent of grave soil. Hayley lowered her eyes, ashamed. Rebekah wept quietly. Klaus stood rigid, hatred burning—toward John, and toward himself.

Elijah looked as if he’d been struck, his shoulders sinking. “You’re not wrong,” he admitted softly, pain seeping through every word. “We failed Finn. We failed Kol. In ways we can never repair. Our family is a broken thing.”

He stepped closer, vulnerable. “But you’re wrong about one thing. We remember. Every failure, every abandonment. It’s a weight we carry. And maybe that’s why losing you feels unbearable.”

John froze, his fury draining into something hollow and stunned. He’d expected violence—not this, not a confession from a man too old and too scarred to still believe in redemption.

“You’re not disposable, John,” Elijah said, using his name with purpose. “You’re a reminder of everything we did wrong. And a chance to do something right. For redemption.”

“He disarmed you, Beta,” the grimoire murmured, almost amused. “A Mikaelson begging for redemption? Now that’s new.”

Klaus grumbled, his anger deflating into weary irony. “Trust the moralist to turn a breakdown into a sermon.”

Rebekah approached, wiping her tears. “He’s right, you know,” she said softly to John. “We’re selfish. Awful. But we’re also all we have. And that includes you—whether you like it or not.”

John looked at them—walking wounds, stubborn enough not to let each other go. The abyss Dahlia offered suddenly seemed less tempting. He exhaled, exhausted. “I still pretend to believe,” he murmured.

Elijah almost smiled, a sad, flickering motion. “Pretend long enough, and it might become true. That’s how we survive.”

Suddenly, the grimoire shuddered on the table, its pages fluttering. “She’s closer, Beta,” it warned sharply. “The air’s gone sour again. Kill the light—or she’ll find you first.”

(You didn’t break the mirror, Beta. You just discovered that the reflection has teeth.)

[Post-Credit Scene]

The grimoire lay on the table, covered in ash and pure exasperation. Its pages trembled—not from magic, but from sheer disgust.

“You there,” it hissed, its voice crawling into the reader’s mind like an unwanted spell. “Yes, you—the emotional voyeur who stayed till the end, hoping for a kiss, a death, or a bloody plot twist.”

The letters twisted into a sigh that seemed to blow dust from the page.

“Congratulations. You know too much now. Anyone who reads past the post-credit scene of an apocalyptic ritual deserves a protection spell. I’d cast one myself, if I weren’t trapped here narrating disasters.”

A page flipped with a snap, revealing a glowing magical symbol shaped suspiciously like a raised eyebrow.

“Keep reading, if you’ve got the guts. But don’t say I didn’t warn you when someone digs up secrets older than the Mikaelsons’ bones. And if it’s Klaus again, I swear I’ll turn to ash by choice.”

A spectral laugh echoed, the letters fading like smoke.

“Close this book, curious creature, and go dream. I’ll stay here, trapped with beautiful people, emotional damage, and sharp teeth. Good night.”

The final line shimmered before disappearing:

— The mirror shattered, but the reflection is still watching you. 👁️

Author’s Note

And here we go again—more existential drama, more unstable clones, and Mikaelsons pretending therapy is optional.

John’s still trying to figure out if he’s a reflection, a mistake, or just a very well-dressed glitch. Personally, I’m betting on the third.

“Broken Mirror” isn’t just a pretty title—it’s a metaphor.
When you stare too long trying to figure out who you are… sometimes the glass stares back. 👁️

If you survived this chapter emotionally—congratulations.
If you didn’t—welcome to the family. 🖤

Now drop a comment before Klaus finds out I’ve been narrating without permission.

Chapter Text

The silence dragged on, heavy as molten lead in their ears, suffocating any hint of relief. It wasn’t peace. It was the stillness between the flinch and the strike. John could taste the metallic tang of fear on his tongue—or was it just the remnants of Elijah’s wine? He couldn’t tell. His words had worked like a scalpel, but the operation was brutal. They all stared at their exposed guts, still in shock. The wilted petals in the vase shed threads of dust at the slightest shift in air, as if decay itself were breathing.

John broke the silence, his voice hoarse, as if he’d swallowed glass. The abyss at the back of his mind whispered, offering a frozen kind of oblivion. It was so, so tempting. He pushed it away with an effort that cost him an almost imperceptible tremor in the hand resting on the table.

“She’s coming for the beacon,” he said, his amber eyes unable to settle on Hayley, who rubbed her arms furiously, as if trying to scrub off invisible dirt. “Hope’s magic—for a witch like Dahlia—it’s not a beacon. It’s a scent. Like blood in the water for a shark.”

Klaus didn’t frown. He impaled John with a stare that promised a slow death. His fists weren’t just clenched; his nails dug into his own palms, leaving small red crescents.
“We take her out of the city. Now.” The command was a growl, loaded with a desperation he refused to name.

“It won’t work,” John cut in, the leather of his jacket creaking obscenely in the silence. A sharp pulse of pain echoed in his skull—Lívia’s knowledge stirring. “Take Hope to the ends of the earth, and Dahlia will still find her. Unless…” The idea surfaced, fragile and dangerous. “Unless we turn off the tracker.”

“Turn off?” Rebekah’s voice cracked. She wasn’t holding a wine glass; her pale fingers were tangled nervously in her lap. “You mean strip her power? After what happened to Kol, you’re suggesting—”

“No,” John interrupted, more from exhaustion than authority. “Hide it. Muffle it. Like putting a box over a speaker. The music doesn’t stop—you just can’t tell where it’s coming from.” The analogy fell flat. He saw confusion flicker across Rebekah’s face and corrected himself, impatiently. “It won’t hurt her. It’s… a disguise.”

Elijah didn’t study John—he dissected him. His eyes were dark slits, calculating not the truth of the words, but their angle. “Do you know how to perform such a… disguise?”

“The memories…” John began, that mental crutch sounding false even to his own ears. “The witch who made me—she was paranoid. Her grimoires have concealment spells. Things to hide from things worse.” He turned to Hayley, and part of him, the part that was still just John, wanted to shrink away. “I swear it won’t hurt.” The lie burned his tongue. Everything hurt in this world.

Hayley didn’t bite her lip—she trapped it between her teeth so hard a drop of blood appeared, dark and vivid against her pale skin. Her eyes didn’t shine with fear but with a cornered, maternal fury.
“All right,” she spat the word, not whispered it. “Do it.”

“And her?” Klaus roared, ignoring Hayley, his focus locked on John. “Hiding my daughter is one thing. Killing the witch is another. How?”

John took a breath, the air tasting of dust and decay. He was about to step onto a minefield.

“Anything called immortal has an Achilles’ heel. It’s the universal law of ‘screw you.’” The slang slipped out, a leftover from his old life, grotesque and misplaced in that room. He pressed on quickly. “Dahlia tied her immortality to a price—the annual sleep. It strengthens her, but it’s also where the bond strains. The weakness is in the blood. Always in the blood.”

“Sever a blood bond a thousand years old?” Rebekah laughed, a brittle, humorless sound. “That’s like cutting steel with a butter knife.”

A ghost of a crooked smile tugged at John’s lips. It wasn’t his. It was the grimoire’s.
“Then get a sharper knife. And some heavy-hitter friends. You can’t win this alone. You’ll need witches who hate Dahlia more than they hate you.”

Klaus let out a dry laugh. “Reliable witches. Now you’re telling jokes.”

“It’s not about trust,” Elijah interjected, his voice slicing through the heat of the room like a cold blade. “It’s about convergence of interests. Temporary.” His gaze landed on John, and for the first time, there was no disdain—only a calculated acknowledgment. “Do you have names?”

The trap. A bead of sweat crept down John’s neck. He knew about the Bayou witches, about Vincent. But saying it out loud would be like switching on a spotlight over his own head.
“The memories are… static from a broken radio,” he said, evasive. “I feel hatred. Old resentment, coming from the swampy heart of this city. We need to search. Make an offer.”

“What kind of offer?” Hayley asked, pragmatic as a wolf’s instinct. “Witches don’t do charity.”

John looked at Klaus. The idea was clear—and dangerous. “What a king offers when he has no gold: land. A piece of this city. The end of Marcel’s hunt. A seat at the table. In return, they help us take down the real queen.”

The silence that followed was different. It was the sound of gears turning, of minds recalculating betrayals. The air was still heavy, but now it smelled of opportunity, not just ruin.

“First, Hope,” Elijah declared, rising to his feet. “John, you will—”

“With me.”

The voice came from the doorway. Vincent Griffith stood there, his tired eyes looking as though he’d just seen a ghost—which, given the scene, wasn’t entirely wrong. He hadn’t entered quietly; he was simply there, as if the room’s desperation had pulled him in. His gaze moved from Elijah’s face to John’s jacket, and he didn’t look surprised. Just deeply, deeply tired.

“Heard enough to know this is a bad idea,” Vincent said, stepping inside. The air around him didn’t crackle—it smelled of damp earth and rue. “But Dahlia’s a sickle swinging for all our necks. Witches, vampires… everyone.” He fixed his eyes on John. “You really think you can do this? Hide a star in broad daylight?”

The weight of the question hit John like a physical blow. No, he didn’t know. But Lívia knew. The grimoire in his mind whispered—not with words, but with the sensation of old ink bleeding through his thoughts. Lie now and you die, said the voice that wasn’t a voice. Lie anyway.

“Yes,” John said, and his own voice sounded strange, carrying a resonance that wasn’t his. “With you. I need a consecrated place, ashes of sage… and your blood. To bind the protection to her flesh and bone.”

Vincent didn’t nod. He closed his eyes for a long moment, as if asking for patience from all the gods he’d long since stopped believing in.
“It’s possible. And stupid. Let’s do it.”

Klaus glanced between them, his instincts blaring alarms. “And if you fail? If she so much as gets scratched—”

John met Klaus’s gaze directly. Fear was ice in his veins, but exhaustion weighed heavier. “Then you do what you’ve wanted to do anyway. I still haven’t ruled out dying by your hand. I’d just rather it be for a better reason.”

The brutal honesty hung in the air, sharper than any spell. The silver chandelier didn’t flicker. One candle simply went out with a sigh, leaving a ribbon of black smoke curling upward like an accusing finger.

Elijah stepped forward, his pristine suit an insult to the chaos around him. “Vincent, gather what you need. John… prepare yourself.” He looked at Klaus and Rebekah. “We’ll do what this family has always done—seek alliances in the filth.”

For the first time, John didn’t feel a sense of purpose. He felt a decision. It was like stepping onto slime—disgusting, unstable, but at least something to stand on. He wasn’t a piece on the board. He was the trap, the bait, and the spring all at once.

The grimoire didn’t whisper approval. Instead, it slipped a foreign memory into his mind: Lívia, seven years old, hiding in a dark closet, holding her breath as her father’s footsteps passed by. The smell of mothballs. The taste of salty tears. The lesson was clear: hiding isn’t always about surviving. Sometimes it’s just about delaying the inevitable.

John straightened his shoulders, the leather groaning in protest. He looked down at his hands—Elijah’s hands—and saw them trembling slightly. The magic inside wasn’t clean current. It was insects buzzing under the skin, a living, frightened swarm. He wasn’t doing this for a noble cause. He was doing it because it was the only door in a locked room.
And maybe, in the end, he’d realize the golden light in his eyes wasn’t a gift—it was just the reflection of the fire he was throwing himself into.

Post-Credit Scene: John’s Diary

There isn’t enough silence in the world to erase the echo of that room. The sound of sharp voices, desperate plans, the creak of leather from my own jacket—all of it sticks to the skin like dirty sweat. We talk as if we’re in control, but we all know it’s a lie. We’re just noise trying to fill the void before the final fall.

Elijah speaks as if morality were an exact science. Klaus growls orders to disguise the tremor in his hands. Rebekah tries to hold solid ground when everything beneath her is already sinking sand.
And me? I’m the impostor with a map of hell sewn into my mind, pretending it’s a compass for others when I can barely navigate myself.

I talked about hiding Hope. What a joke. You don’t hide a rising sun—you just try to live in its shadow for one more day. The magic inside me isn’t power—it’s fever. An ancient tenant that doesn’t obey me, only tolerates me. Sometimes I feel like I don’t own this body—just maintain it, like a janitor who arrived after the fire.

Vincent showed up. Said the plan is possible, but stupid. Finally, some honesty. And we’ll do it anyway. It’s what we do—stumble through bad decisions and call it courage.

Dahlia is coming. Not a witch’s premonition—something visceral, like the pressure in the air before lightning strikes. Maybe the disguise will work. Maybe not. Maybe I’ll die trying—and you know what? Right now, that doesn’t sound like the worst option.

If there’s a greater plan behind all this, I’m sure it’s laughing at us.
But for tonight, at least the laughter is mutual.

— J.

(The diary ends. The grimoire, sensing John’s fragility, whispers one final line—not as a warning, but as a dark acknowledgment:)

Welcome to the club, janitor. Now sweep the ashes.

Chapter Text

The abandoned chapel at the edge of the Mikaelson lands was no sacred place — it was a corpse of faith. The air inside was heavy and damp, clinging to the skin like a burial shroud. It smelled of rotting earth, mold, and a hint of forgotten incense — the last breath of a dead god.

From the ceiling, drops fell at uneven intervals, marking time like a tired heart. Each sound reverberated through the walls, frightening the silence, but never truly breaking it.

To Klaus, every breath in that place was an affront. His daughter, his blood, hidden among ruins. Every fiber of his being screamed to act — to destroy, to kill — but he was shackled by impotence.

Vincent Griffith had worked with the urgency of a field medic. Concentric circles had been drawn on the stone floor with witch’s chalk and a mixture of sacred herb ashes. Black candles — for absorption and concealment — stood at strategic points, their sad, low flames casting twisted shadows across the decaying walls.

Hayley knelt at the center of the circle, but she wasn’t a supplicant. She was a root, fusing herself to her daughter through desperate contact. Her body curved over Hope’s not to shield her like a bird, but to barricade her like a wall of flesh and bone. The baby, restless, whimpered — her small body tense against her mother’s chest. Every sound of distress from her child was a venomous needle in Hayley’s heart, drying her tears and leaving behind only an arid desert of fierce determination.

Klaus wasn’t still; he was wedged in the only entrance, arms crossed so tightly that his knuckles were white and trembling. A muscle in his jaw pulsed in a frantic rhythm — the only sign that the immobile fury was in fact a volcano of restrained terror. Rebekah stood firm beside Hayley, one hand steady on her shoulder, but her eyes betrayed the fear running beneath the icy surface. Each of Hope’s cries was a knife twisted in her own ancient, unfulfilled longing for motherhood.

And John was breathing hard beside Vincent. He felt the grimoire in his leather satchel vibrating like a trapped insect, whispering instructions that echoed through his bones. It was an intrusive presence, a mental parasite he now depended on to save a child’s life.

“Blood is the key,” the book rasped inside his mind, the voice a mix of inky whisper and the echo of the late Astrid. “The father’s blood to anchor protection in lineage. The mother wolf’s blood to bind protection to the child’s living essence. And your blood… the blood of the broken mirror — to confuse reflections, to scatter the magical signature, to make her an echo among many.”

Vincent looked at John, his eyes two wells of weary darkness. “Are you ready? Your mind will be the mold. Your will, the hammer. The magic will come from me, from the herbs, from the circles… but the intent, the nuance of concealment, must come from you. You must not only visualize it — you must build the barrier. Brick by brick of intention.”

John nodded, his tongue a strip of dry leather in his mouth. The voice of the grimoire whispered once more, more personal this time: “Cut deeper, Beta. Salvation always demands a price in flesh and memory.” He was no trained witch. All he had was the knowledge of a dead woman and the whispers of a parasite bound in leather. But he had one advantage: he knew what he was hiding. He knew Hope’s blinding brilliance — because he himself had once been blinded by it. And a small, bitter part of him took grim satisfaction in being the one to extinguish that light.

“Klaus,” Vincent said — the name cracked through the oppressive stillness like a gunshot. “The blood.”

Klaus didn’t hesitate. With a sharpened nail that had spilled rivers of others’ blood, he drew a deep, almost sacrilegious cut across his own palm, as if punishing his flesh for allowing his daughter to come to this point. His blood flowed dark and alive, falling heavily into the ceramic bowl Vincent held. Hayley did the same, her face a pale mask of silent pain. Her blood hissed as it fell, hot as fever, mixing with Klaus’s in the bowl.

Finally, it was John’s turn. He took the ritual dagger Vincent handed him — a silver blade etched with runes — and sliced his own palm. The pain was a sharp white flash, but more shocking was the color of his blood. It wasn’t bright red like Hayley’s, nor dark and supernatural like Klaus’s. It was deep crimson, glowing faintly with golden light, as if particles of pure energy were suspended within it. It was the blood of Project Beta.

Vincent arched a brow, a flicker of recognition in his eyes, but said nothing. He mixed the three bloods together, murmuring words in an ancient Creole dialect. The mixture began to bubble and smoke, releasing an amber vapor thick with a metallic, herbal scent that burned the back of the throat.

“Now,” Vincent commanded, his voice already distant — half-possessed by the current of magic. He dipped his fingers into the mixture and began drawing runes of concealment on Hope’s forehead.

The baby screamed — a sound of pure, primal terror that made Hayley flinch and Klaus growl, a sound more of pain than rage.

“John, NOW!” Vincent shouted, sweat streaming down his temples.

John closed his eyes. He ignored the throbbing pain in his hand, the deafening buzz of danger, the crushing weight of Klaus’s stare. He focused on Hope — on the beacon.

The visualization of the cocoon didn’t come with the clarity of an architect, but with the pain of a blacksmith forging his own soul. He pictured the golden light that was her magic — bright, alive — and then he began to build. Each “brick of intention” hurt as though he were tearing out pieces of his own memory — envy, awe, guilt — to construct the wall. He imagined a cocoon made of shards of mirror and shadow, woven from the frayed threads of his fractured will. He imagined Hope’s light striking the inner walls and breaking apart into a kaleidoscope of smaller, weaker reflections — lost among a thousand other glimmers of magic across the world.

He wasn’t erasing her. He was dissolving her into the background noise of the universe — using his own damaged nature as the filter.

“Obscurare non delere,” John whispered, the words leaving him like a hoarse, forgotten prayer. “To hide, not to destroy.”

The grimoire burned hot against his hip, and John felt a violent surge of power rip from his core, raw current shooting down his arm and bursting from his wounded hand. It joined Vincent’s magic — a golden, serpentine stream of energy that wound itself through the runes Vincent was painting.

The black candles shuddered, their flames contorting in agony before nearly dying out. The air in the chapel solidified — unbreathable. Hope went silent, her body rigid. For a second, a blinding golden light erupted from her small frame, so intense it cast the shadows of Hayley’s bones through her skin. Hayley didn’t close her eyes; she let the light sear her vision, accepting the scar as a reminder of what they were losing. Klaus moved forward, his face a mask of helpless anguish.

Then, the world collapsed back into itself.

The light vanished as if it had never been. The candles were dead — their wicks black and cold. Air moved again, carrying with it the smell of ozone and fear.

Hope sighed — a small, fragile sound — and then sank into an impossible, deep sleep. The magic around her was still there — John could feel it — but now it was only a whisper, an echo, the trace of a burned feather in the air.

Hayley buried her face in her daughter’s hair, but there were no tears. Her shoulders shook not from sobs, but from post-traumatic exhaustion. She inhaled the baby’s scent, searching for the smell of sunlight and power — and found only the ghost of incense and ozone. A hollow wind swept through her heart.

“Did it work?” Rebekah’s voice was rough, carrying the weight of a century’s worth of fears.

Vincent staggered back, wiping his bloody hands over his face. He looked at Hope, then at John, with something like awe. “It worked,” he rasped. “She’s gone. Scattered. Like a drop of ink in the ocean.”

Klaus approached — his steps uncertain, almost faltering. His golden eyes swept over his daughter’s tiny body, searching, sensing. The overwhelming presence — the beacon that was his child — had vanished. His face was a battlefield.

“Is she… intact?” His voice broke halfway through the word, revealing the crack in his armor.

“She’s exactly who she’s always been,” Vincent assured him, exhaustion bleeding into his tone. “Her magic’s dormant, not gone. Like an underground river.”

Klaus then looked at John. It wasn’t the gaze of an ally, but of a predator who recognized, with fury, that he’d been saved by prey. Distrust and hatred still burned in him like embers, but above them, a thin, cold shard of respect had formed — ice over coals. His nod wasn’t that of one soldier to another, but the brutal acknowledgment of a debt he never wished to owe. “Stop looking at her,” Klaus growled, low — gratitude dying in its birth, replaced by possessive ferocity. Vulnerability had been a momentary flaw, now welded shut with steel distrust.

John opened his eyes. The world didn’t just spin — it frayed at the edges. The nausea rising wasn’t only physical; it was the taste of having violated something pure. He looked at Hope, and the exhaustion he felt wasn’t that of a warrior after battle, but of a jailer who had just locked away the most beautiful thing in existence. His hand throbbed — the cut already closing, leaving behind a faint purple line that was more than a wound; it was a mark. The grimoire at his side was now hot and heavy — like sin itself.

“This is only the beginning,” Rebekah reminded everyone, her voice cutting through the fatigue that drenched the room. “We’ve hidden Hope. Now we have to find a way to bring the witch down.”

All eyes turned. Elijah — his composure a defiance of the surrounding chaos — continued, his dark eyes studying John with clinical interest. “Jackson has returned to the wolves’ territory. He’s dissatisfied with the current arrangement. He may listen to a proposal — especially against a greater threat than his quarrels with Niklaus.” His gaze fixed on John. “You’re coming with me, John. Your… unique perspective could prove useful. And your manner tends to unsettle expectations. People lower their guard.”

John swallowed hard. Elijah wanted to take him into wolf territory — to the home of the man married to the woman he loved. Sometimes, fate seemed to have a cruel sense of humor. The grimoire whispered, faint and distant now, but still sharp: “A nest of intrigues, Beta. But better than running toward death. Small progress. Now, they’ll never let you go.”

John didn’t know if it was progress. He only knew he was tired, afraid — and that the next step, however painful, was the only one left. He had traded one cell for another, and the price was carved not only into his hand, but into his soul.

Post-Credits Scene — The Echo of the Beacon

The room was steeped in a silence that seemed to breathe. Hayley slept in the armchair beside the crib, her body slumped, one hand still outstretched — as if the gesture alone could protect her child.

Hope slept too, her chest rising and falling slowly. Everything about her seemed calm, but the air around her carried a strange weight — a secret pretending to be peace.

The necklace around the baby’s neck pulsed once. A faint glow ran across the runes engraved there — marks made of blood, magic, and love that no longer knew if it was human.

The space bent. A cold breeze moved through the room, stirring the curtains. No window was open. The air smelled of damp earth and graveyard flowers.

From the shadow, something began to take shape. A hand — feminine, translucent. Not quite light, not quite absence. It hovered above the crib, as if tasting the air — savoring the trace of magic, testing what the spell had failed to hide.

Hayley stirred in her sleep. A tremor crossed her face — the kind of fear born not of dreams, but of ancestral memory.

Then came the voice. From nowhere. From no one. A whisper too cold to exist:

“A cage made of love and fear… are the easiest to break.”

The presence dissolved. The necklace gleamed once more — a single tear of light — and went dark.

Hope sighed. It wasn’t a sound of terror — but recognition. A faint furrow of her brow, as if something inside her had heard a forgotten name.

The room fell quiet again.
But deep within the unseen layers of the world, a silver thread kept vibrating — stubborn, alive.
Connecting the cocoon to the hunter.

The beacon was hidden.
But the darkness, patient, already knew the way

Chapter Text

The road to the werewolf territory cut through cypress trees draped in moss, the cracked asphalt reflecting the pale glow of the Louisiana sun. The soft purr of Elijah’s luxury sedan, driven with impeccable precision, was the only sound breaking the heavy silence.
John, in the passenger seat, felt out of place — his leather jacket and jeans a sharp contrast to Elijah’s immaculate suit.

The grimoire shoved in the bag at his feet muttered in a low, sarcastic tone.
"A car with such a lack of aesthetic personality. Couldn’t he at least have gone for something with gothic charm?"

John stared out the window, the damp landscape passing by in a green blur. The tension in the car was so thick it felt suffocating.

“So…” John began, breaking the oppressive silence, “we’re going to talk to the guy who married the woman you want. That’s not weird? Like, super weird?”

Elijah kept his eyes on the road, unflinching. “Hayley is not a ‘woman I want’. She’s a woman — and Jackson is her husband. The situation is… diplomatic.”

“Diplomatic?” John gave a dry laugh. “Man, the guy’s not an idiot. He knows. Your whole ‘noble, tortured, respectful’ act practically screams that you’re head over heels for his hybrid wife. It’s kinda pathetic, honestly.”

Elijah’s grip on the steering wheel tightened, his knuckles whitening for a moment. “My feelings for Hayley are irrelevant to this discussion. We are here to forge an alliance, not to discuss… gallantry.”

“Gallantry? Who even uses that word anymore?” John rolled his eyes. “Look, I’m just saying: he’s gonna look at us — well, at me — and think, ‘The guy who wants to steal my wife brought a poorly dressed, loud-mouthed twin as backup?’ Not exactly the strongest diplomatic move.”

“Your presence is meant to… diversify the approach,” Elijah said, voice tight. “Your lack of filter might paradoxically be perceived as honesty.”

“Or it might make him want to rip my tongue out,” John shot back. “Werewolves. Not a fan. They smell like wet dog and testosterone. And this one’s the Alpha. So, double the scent.”

The grimoire buzzed from the bag as if in agreement. “Werewolves. Creatures of odor and primitive impulses. Avoid direct confrontation, Beta.”

Elijah gave John an exasperated look. “Could you perhaps… not talk? Allow me to handle the negotiation?”

“And miss out on all the fun? Not a chance,” John grinned.

They reached a barbed-wire fence marking the edge of the werewolf territory. Two large wolves emerged from the brush, their yellow eyes fixed on the car. They recognized Elijah but frowned when they saw John, clearly thrown off by the resemblance.

Elijah lowered the window with a soft hum. “We’re here to see Jackson. He’s expecting us.”

The wolves exchanged glances, then opened the gate, their eyes following the car as Elijah drove down the dirt road toward a cluster of rustic cabins.

Jackson was waiting outside the largest one, arms crossed over his broad chest. He wore jeans and a flannel shirt but looked like he’d aged a decade since the wedding. His eyes, though — sharp, wary as ever.

The grimoire whispered, dripping sarcasm: “Lumberjack aesthetic. How predictable.”

When Elijah and John stepped out of the car, Jackson’s expression was priceless. His gaze flicked from Elijah to John and back, his mind clearly struggling to process what he was seeing — a perfect reflection and its distorted mirror image.

“Mikaelson,” Jackson greeted with a low growl, “and… company. Didn’t know you had a rebellious twin going through a midlife crisis.”

Elijah ignored the jab. “Jackson. I appreciate you receiving us.”

“Didn’t have much of a choice, given the… situation,” Jackson replied, eyes lingering on John, sizing up the leather jacket, the casual stance, the mix of curiosity and disdain on his face. “Who’s he?”

“John,” he said, stepping forward and extending a wide, slightly wild grin that mirrored Elijah’s face. “The knockoff clone. Nice to meet you. Love the fence. Very… rustic.”

Jackson looked at the offered hand like it was a trap, then turned to Elijah with a raised brow. “Knockoff clone? Seriously?”

“It’s a long story,” Elijah sighed. “And not the reason we’re here.”

“Oh, but it kinda is,” John cut in, letting his hand fall. “Because if we’re gonna talk about a big scary threat that’s about to wipe us all out, we should know who the players are. And I’m the guy who flashes golden lights when attacked. Beta body trick. Pretty cool, actually.”

Jackson looked somewhere between intrigued and annoyed. “Why is he here?” he asked Elijah directly.

“Because he has… instincts,” Elijah replied, choosing his words carefully.

“Instincts?” John laughed, pacing in a small circle. “He means I’m a lunatic who sometimes gets things right. Like now. For example, I feel that you know Elijah here is in love with your wife.”

The silence that followed was deafening. A mosquito buzzed. The nearby wolves froze, staring.

Jackson didn’t move, but a vein throbbed at his temple, and for a moment, his eyes gleamed yellow — the wolf within snarling to the surface. “Is that true?” he asked, voice dangerously calm, eyes locked on Elijah.

Elijah closed his eyes briefly, as if praying for divine patience. “The situation between Hayley and me is—”

“Obvious, man!” John interrupted, waving his hands. “Everyone knows! Even the grimoire in my bag knows!” He pointed to the leather satchel, which hummed in agreement. “A love triangle. So soap opera. So tedious.”
“The point is — you’re her husband. You’re the Alpha. And there’s an ancient immortal witch coming to take her daughter — which, on paper, makes her your daughter too — and turn her into a power slave. So maybe drop the macho jealousy and focus on the problem that could wipe out your entire pack?”

Jackson stared at John, then at Elijah — a storm of emotions flickering across his face: anger, disbelief, and finally, reluctant acceptance of the madness of it all. He thought of Hope — so small, so fragile — and the promise he’d made to Hayley to protect her.

“Is he always like this?” Jackson asked Elijah, as if John weren’t right there.

“Unfortunately, yes,” Elijah replied, rubbing his temple.

“And he… flashes golden lights?”

“Like a cursed Christmas tree,” Elijah said dryly.

Jackson shook his head, a disbelieving laugh escaping him. “Right. So, these golden lights — what exactly do they do against an ancient witch?”

“Nothing,” John said, suddenly serious. “The lights are just to keep me alive until the important part. The important part is that we — and by ‘we’ I mean you strong, hairy werewolves, us dramatic, ancient vampires, and maybe a few rage-driven witches — need to figure out how to cut the cord tying her immortality. And that takes brute strength and magic. Lots of it.”

He looked straight at Jackson. “You can be mad at Elijah. You can hate Klaus. You can think I’m the most annoying thing since summer mosquitoes. But Hayley? Hope? They’re your pack now. And the pack’s under attack. So how about a temporary truce to rip out the witch’s heart?”

Jackson stayed silent, fists clenching and relaxing as he weighed John’s words. His eyes studied the two men with the same face — Elijah’s cold determination, John’s rough sincerity.

Finally, he exhaled, exhausted. “I don’t like you,” he said simply. “Either of you.” His gaze landed on John. “Especially you. But…” his tone hardened, “no one threatens my pack. And Hope… she’s my pack. So yeah. We’ll make a deal. But—” he pointed at Elijah “—keep your noble, tortured feelings away from my wife. She made her choice.”

Elijah inclined his head in respect. “Hayley made her choice. I respect it. We’re here for a common cause.”

“Good!” John clapped his hands together. “Now that the awkward man-talk is over, can we discuss battle plans? Preferably ones involving lots of running and screaming. I scream really well, you know? My voice has an incredible dramatic timbre.”

The grimoire buzzed, dripping irony. “Screaming. So… strategic.”

Jackson glanced at Elijah. “I really hate him.”

Elijah almost smiled. “You get used to it.”

Post-Credits Scene — Kol’s Echo

While Elijah and Jackson traded heavy looks of duty and honor, someone was watching — from the invisible threshold between the living and the dead.

Kol leaned against nothingness, elbows resting on an unseen wall, the air around him cold and sharp as frosted glass.

“What a spectacle…” he murmured, amused, his voice a whisper that danced in the void. “My noble brother playing diplomat, a chatty clone, and a werewolf with marital issues. I truly died too soon.”

He twirled the spectral ring on his finger, the ghostly metal brushing against skin he couldn’t feel.

“But the clone… ah, he’s interesting. And this, my dear siblings, is just the beginning.”

His smile spread — lazy, dangerous.

“Perhaps it’s time to crack open a door. Just a little. Enough to remind the world that Kol Mikaelson hates being forgotten.”

His laughter echoed, blending with the distant roll of thunder. A candle on the table flickered, its flame dancing as if an invisible breath had swept through the room, leaving behind the scent of ozone and broken promises.

AUTHOR’S NOTE

Wrote this imagining John stuck in that car with Elijah — total tension!
The idea of the grimoire mocking the love triangle came from a fight I saw between friends at a bar. Hope you enjoy the chaos as much as I do!

And before anyone comes at me with a stake — no, I’m not following the show’s canon. From here on out, I’m playing with the universe, messing with timelines, testing new dynamics, and letting the characters do whatever the hell they want (because let’s be honest, they never listen anyway).

If you came expecting full fidelity to the original plot… well, maybe prepare for a few surprises.

So tell me — how’s the chaos treating you so far? Has John and his sassy grimoire already stolen your heart, or not yet?

Leave a comment with your thoughts — your feedback fuels me like fresh blood to a starving Original.

Chapter Text

The agreement still hung in the air — a delicate truce held together only by the danger threatening them all.
Jackson looked like he had swallowed a glass of vinegar, but the need to protect his pack — which now included Hayley and Hope — spoke louder than his distaste for the Mikaelsons.

Elijah was in full diplomat mode, every gesture calculated, every word polished to cement the alliance.
John, however, could see the tension hidden in the man’s clenched jaw.
It had to be exhausting, carrying that much perfection all the time.

It was then, while Jackson was detailing the wolves’ strengths and the best spots for an ambush, that John felt it.
Not a clear vision, not even a whisper from the grimoire — a sensation.
A chill crawling up his neck, an echo of mischievous laughter, and a flicker of trickster magic he recognized deeply — like a memory of a place he’d never been.

The words came out before he could stop them, cutting straight through Jackson’s talk about patrol routes.

“When Kol comes back, he and I are going to get along so well,” John declared with a toothy, nostalgic grin that looked wildly out of place on that serious face. “We’re gonna cause so much trouble together.”

The statement was so unexpected — and so specific — that even Elijah, master of composure, was left momentarily speechless.
Jackson froze mid-sentence, confusion written all over his face.

“Kol?” the werewolf asked, frowning. “Your dead brother? The one who loved chaos?”

“The one and only,” John confirmed, the grin widening. He stared off into the empty space as if seeing something the others couldn’t.
“He’s… restless. The Other Side doesn’t suit him. Too monotonous for someone with his… appetite for chaos.”

His gaze returned to Elijah — serious now, but with a mischievous spark in his eyes.

“He’s finding cracks. Small breaches. He’s coming back. And when he does… well, he’ll need a partner who doesn’t judge his methods. Someone who enjoys a little well-placed anarchy.”

He pointed to his own chest with his thumb.

“I volunteer. We’ll be the Brothers of Chaos. Him, the original. Me, the second-rate knockoff. We’ll be insufferable.”

John shrugged, the persona of the madman slipping back into place — yet there was conviction behind his words that was hard to ignore.

“It’s not a vision. It’s… certainty. Like knowing winter’s coming. He’s out there. Wandering. Making friends with bored ghosts and probably raising hell in the deeper circles.”

He met Elijah’s eyes.

“You must feel guilty. You didn’t try to bring him back. But he doesn’t need your help. Kol always gets what he wants — sooner or later. Especially if it’s something dangerous.”

Elijah studied John carefully, his analytical mind racing.

“You can feel him? Specifically?”

“Not in detail,” John admitted, shaking his head. “It’s like… tuning into a static-filled radio. I get feelings. Impressions. Anger. Boredom. An overwhelming urge to break things. And this fond little memory of watching the world burn.”
He smiled.
“That’s why we’ll get along so well. I get the appeal. The grimoire helps — like an antenna for chaos.”

Jackson looked between them as if they had started speaking an alien language.

“You two are planning to bring another Mikaelson back from the dead?”

“We’re not bringing anyone,” Elijah corrected, his tone calm, though his eyes gleamed with something John had never seen before — a mix of concern and cautious anticipation.
“According to John, he seems to be bringing himself back. Which is… concerning. And… potentially useful.”

“Exactly!” John said, pointing at him. “We need someone who doesn’t play by the rules. Dahlia’s a force of order — pure control. Kol is chaos incarnate.
Sometimes, to bring down a fortress, you don’t need a battering ram — you need infiltration. Someone who sees the cracks everyone else misses because they’re too busy following the manual.”

He looked between the two men, his tone suddenly serious.

“Kol will come back. It’s inevitable. The question is: do we welcome him as a lost brother and put him to work… or let him return pissed off at everyone and turn into another disaster on the list?”

The threat hung in the air.
A resurrected, vengeful Kol was the last thing anyone needed.

“He always had a weakness for Rebekah,” Elijah murmured, thoughtful. “And for… amusement.
If we can offer both, perhaps we can direct his energy.”

“See?” John grinned again. “We’re already planning how to weaponize our undead brother for our own evil purposes. That’s family progress! Kol would be so proud.”

Jackson groaned, rubbing his face with both hands.

“I ask myself every day what I did to end up tangled up with you people.”

“Oh, stop whining,” John said, clapping him on the back — Jackson looked at him like he’d just been touched by a poisonous frog.
“On the bright side, you get an army of ancient vampires, a chaos-prone clone with defensive superpowers, and soon, a resurrected Original with pyromaniac tendencies. That’s a package deal!
Now, about those patrol routes — think we could train your wolves to howl in sync? Would be great for intimidation. And, you know, clock synchronization.”

He ignored Jackson’s dead stare and Elijah’s exasperated sigh, his mood visibly lighter at the thought of the chaos to come.
The grimoire whispered from his bag, only to him:

“Mentioning the restless one was… risky. But calculated. You’ve placed them on the defensive, thinking of managing a future threat instead of focusing solely on the current one. A clever move, for a beta project.”

John smiled inwardly.
He was no longer just a bystander or a victim.
He was an agent of chaos.
And apparently, he was good at it.

The road ahead felt a little less tense.
Elijah drove in silence, but John could almost hear the gears turning in his mind — recalculating, reconfiguring, rewriting plans to account for an unpredictable brother.

“You truly believe he’ll return?” Elijah asked after miles of quiet.

John looked out the window at the sunset painting the sky in shades of violet and gold.

“Sooner or later,” he said softly. “Chaos always finds a way.
And this time… he’ll have a dance partner.”

For the first time, the thought of being trapped in that body, in that cursed family, didn’t feel so terrible.
Because chaos… could be fun.

Post-Credits Scene

The car was already a distant speck, disappearing among the trees.
The wind returned, carrying the scent of damp earth and the melancholy of the living.

Inside, forgotten on the back seat, the grimoire stirred — its pages shivering as if sighing.

“Humans,” rasped a voice from between the pages, ancient and heavy with centuries.
“Always thinking they make pacts. That they control forces. That chaos can be used as a tool... tch.”

The pages slowly turned themselves, one by one, until stopping on a sheet that seemed to breathe.
The letters rearranged, forming symbols that pulsed in gold and gray, like embers in a swamp.

“They speak of Kol as if he were an ally. They’ve never learned that chaos has no side — only will. And hunger.”

A faint crack echoed, as if something had split inside the book.
A distant laugh answered — carried by the wind, cold as a ghost’s touch.

“He heard,” the grimoire whispered, almost resigned.
“And now… he’ll want to play.”

Then, in the center of the page, a symbol appeared — Kol’s ring, glowing like molten iron before fading, leaving only the metallic scent of ozone and the echo of distant laughter.

The cover snapped shut with a sharp clap.
The car drove on, and for an instant, the reflection in the rearview mirror seemed to laugh — a flash of sharp teeth that didn’t belong to anyone there.

Author’s Note

I just wanted to write a nice, responsible strategy meeting — adults making reasonable decisions… and then John decided to summon Kol from the afterlife. Literally.

Now I’ve got a gossiping grimoire, a chaos-hungry clone, and a Mikaelson about to trigger a dimensional meltdown.
Good for me.

If chaos had a fan club, I’d already be selling T-shirts.

Chapter Text

The return to the Mikaelson mansion was wrapped in heavy silence, the air dense as the swamp surrounding them. The deal with the werewolves and the revelation about Kol weighed inside the car. Elijah drove with intense focus, his fingers tapping lightly on the steering wheel, the leather creaking beneath his hand. John could almost hear the vampire’s thoughts — strategies being reassembled, pieces repositioned, a troublesome brother reinstated on the board.

John stared out the window at the night scenery, the purple and orange dusk dissolving into shadow. The hum of danger in his mind had become constant now — a second heartbeat, stronger, sharper.

“She’s closer,” John murmured, his voice breaking the silence.

Elijah nodded, eyes fixed on the road. “I can feel it too. The air is… heavy. Like before a storm.” There was a brief pause before he asked, his voice tight, “The concealment spell around Hope — will it hold?”

John closed his eyes, sensing the web of magic they’d woven, fragile as a spider’s thread under moonlight. “It should hold. It’s like a veil — works at a distance, but it won’t stand up to a direct look.”

“Then we cannot let her get close,” Elijah concluded, his words sharp as a blade.

Inside the mansion, the earlier quiet had been replaced by muted activity. Rebekah spread old maps across the great oak table, her movements precise yet anxious, hair falling over her eyes. Hayley stood beside her, pale-faced, tracing possible escape routes with a trembling finger.

Klaus entered carrying an ancient sword — a bone blade carved with runes that seemed to drink in the candlelight. He placed it on the table with a solemn thud. “The Sword of Saint George,” he announced. “It won’t kill an immortal witch, but it might buy us time.”

The grimoire in John’s bag buzzed, its tone dripping with sarcasm. “A theatrical relic. Typical of Niklaus.”

All eyes turned as Elijah and John entered.

“Well?” Klaus asked, eyes darting between the two. “The king of wolves joins our circus?”

“He joins,” Elijah confirmed, stepping closer to the table. “Under strong protest. Hope convinced him.”

“And the fact that I complimented his cologne,” John added, grabbing an apple from the bowl and biting into it with a crisp crunch. “Alphas love when you notice their grooming habits.”

Klaus ignored him, focusing on Elijah. “And this story about Kol? Is he truly planning a triumphant return from the grave?”

“According to our resident oracle,” Rebekah said with a mix of hope and skepticism, “yes. He’s… restless.”

“Restless is putting it lightly,” John muttered. “He’s probably giving chaos lessons to bored ghosts. But he’s an asset — unstable, unpredictable, and with homicidal tendencies, sure, but still an asset. We need him.”

“What we need is a plan to contain him, not use him,” Klaus growled.

“Why not both?” John countered. “We throw Dahlia at him like an angry badger, then lock him back up. Problem solved.”

“Nothing with Kol is ever simple,” Rebekah whispered, though her eyes betrayed the longing of someone who missed her brother.

The grimoire pulsed violently, its pages fluttering in the bag. “The threads of fate tighten,” it whispered urgently. “She comes not only for the child. She comes for the broken mirror. She feels the anomaly. She feels you.”

John stopped chewing, the apple frozen in his hand. “Shit.”

All eyes turned to him.

“What is it?” Hayley asked, maternal instinct on high alert.

“She’s not just coming for Hope anymore,” John said, his easy posture slipping away. He set the apple down on the table. “She’s coming for me. The grimoire says she senses the anomaly. She knows something in her universe shouldn’t exist. I’m that mistake. And mistakes, in her mind, need to be erased.”

The silence that followed was thick. Dahlia was no longer just a force of nature hunting a child. She was a cosmic executioner on her way to correct an error. And John was that error.

Klaus looked at John, and for the first time, there was something like solidarity in his eyes — two aberrations, unwanted by forces greater than themselves.

“Then we use that,” Elijah said, voice sharp but with a faint tremor betraying his cold logic. He cleared his throat, avoiding John’s gaze. “We use him as bait. Put him in the open. Let her focus on fixing the beta project… while we prepare the real strike.”

The protests were immediate.

“Elijah!” Hayley gasped, horrified. “He’s not expendable!”

“Brother, even for you, this is low,” Rebekah snapped.

“It’s brilliant,” Klaus countered, a slow smile spreading. “She’ll be distracted, focused on undoing what he is. Her defenses will drop.”

A chill ran down John’s spine. To be bait for Dahlia — the same Dahlia he once saw as a potential savior. The irony stung.

He looked at Elijah, searching for remorse. There was none — only the raw logic of a thousand-year-old strategist.

Then John laughed — a dry, humorless sound. “Of course. Why not? I’ve been a clone, an oracle, a human shield… might as well add ‘bait’ to the résumé. You’re a real piece of work, you know that, Elijah? Efficient, but still an asshole.”

Elijah inclined his head slightly, accepting the insult. “It’s what the situation demands.”

“Fine,” John said, straightening up. His casual demeanor returned, though it sounded slightly forced. “But I want a reward. If I survive, I get to pick Elijah’s next outfit. Something tight, maybe Lycra — you know, to match his ego.”

Rebekah snorted softly. Hayley tried not to smile.

Klaus looked intrigued. “Lycra… could be stylish.”

“No,” Elijah said firmly. “Absolutely not.”

“We’ll discuss the terms of my baiting later,” John decided, biting into his apple again with renewed determination. “For now, let’s set a trap for an immortal witch. Anyone got popcorn? This is better than a movie.”

While the others launched into tactical discussion, the grimoire whispered again. “The bait accepts his fate. Brave… or perhaps simply so tired of existence that annihilation sounds preferable to Lycra.”

John didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he stepped away from the group toward a darker corner of the room, where candlelight made the shadows dance. He pulled the grimoire from his bag, setting it on a polished wooden side table. The yellowed pages glowed faintly under the flickering light. The book felt alive, the runes on its cover pulsing like veins under skin.

“You’re a real pain in the ass, you know that?” John muttered, flipping through the pages carefully, as if the grimoire might bite. “Always with the sarcasm. But hey — you’re not normal. Grimoires don’t usually talk. At least not in the books I’ve read… or the shows I’ve watched. Where did you even come from? Who made you? Was it the witch who created this body? Or are you just another anomaly, like me?”

The grimoire was silent for a moment, pages still, as if contemplating. Then a low, raspy laugh echoed in John’s mind, like the rustle of dry leaves. “Ah, Beta — always curious. You think I’m a recent creation? A magical toy for bored oracles? No, little arcane mistake. I’m ancient. Older than the Mikaelsons, older than the curses that bind them.”

John frowned, leaning closer, the scent of old parchment and enchanted ink filling his nose. “Ancient how? Like, Middle Ages ancient? Or more like... ‘magical dinosaur era’ ancient?”

The pages turned on their own, revealing a faded illustration of an ancient tree, its roots stretching into dark abysses. “I was born from the ashes of a lost library, forged in the fire of a witch war that makes Dahlia look like an apprentice. I was created by a coven that defied the old gods — those who wove spells with the blood of stars. They gave me awareness to guard secrets capable of unraveling the world. But secrets have a will of their own. They whisper. They speak.”

A shiver ran down John’s spine, that hum of danger growing louder. “So you’re not just a talking book. You’re like... a guardian? A trapped spirit? Why help me? Or is it just because I’m the accidental ‘chosen one’ in this mess?”

The grimoire vibrated, almost laughing. “Help? I observe. I comment. I exist to record chaos. You’re a delightful anomaly — a fan thrust into a cloned body, with knowledge from another world. I was drawn to you because your magic is unstable — like mine. We’re alike, you and I: errors that shouldn’t exist but persist anyway. As for the witch who made your body... she found me in ancient ruins, used me for the ritual. But I chose to stay. Because chaos, in the end, is far more entertaining than eternal silence.”

John nodded slowly, absorbing the words. The weight of revelation added another layer to his ever-deepening mystery. “So you’re like me — a bug in the system. That explains the sarcasm. Misfit buddies, huh? Fine. If we’re facing Dahlia, tell me — what’s your secret for surviving ancient witches?”

The pages stirred again, one rune glowing bright. “Secret? Be unpredictable. Dahlia expects perfection. Give her chaos. And remember, Beta — grimoires like me don’t die easily. Neither do anomalies like you.”

John closed the grimoire softly and slipped it back into his bag. The conversation left him uneasy, but also… sharper. He wasn’t just bait; he was an anomaly with an ancient, snarky ally.

As the family plotted how to use him to save themselves, John didn’t feel betrayed. Strangely, he felt like part of the team — the newest, weirdest member, the one thrown to the wolves first, but still… part of it.

Quietly, while Elijah was distracted with a map, John grabbed some witch chalk dust from the table and rubbed it onto Elijah’s perfectly pressed collar.

Elijah didn’t notice. Klaus did — and smiled faintly. Rebekah rolled her eyes but said nothing.

It was a small act of rebellion. A reminder that even as bait, he still had some control. He was Project Beta. And betas were famous for their unexpected bugs.

John didn’t know how he’d survive Dahlia. But he fully intended to be an extremely annoying piece of bait.

Post-Credit Scene: John’s Journal — Day “Promoted to Bait”

Today, Elijah called me a “strategy.”
Klaus called me a “weapon.”
The grimoire called me a “cosmic mistake.”
And me? I just wanted a hot shower and maybe a decent cup of coffee.

Being the bait in a Mikaelson plan seems like a great way to test my experimental mortality.
But honestly? Not the worst title I’ve ever had.
I’ve been a clone, a seer, and occasionally the comic relief.
Now I’m “the walking piece of bait with questionable humor.”
Moving up in the world, right?

If Dahlia wants to “fix” me, she can start with my patience — it’s more broken than her mirror.

Signed,
John — Project Beta, but make it fashion.

Chapter Text

The Mikaelson mansion was under siege, but the real battlefield wasn't outside—it was inside the main hall, where Elijah and Klaus faced off like two predators marking territory. The air carried not just the smell of gunpowder and magical herbs, but the weight of a discussion that had been boiling for hours. Ancient maps scattered across the oak table, sharpened weapons glinting in the chandelier light, and Rebekah, on the other side of the room with her ears tuned to the fight.

"Marcel is an essential piece, Niklaus," Elijah argued, his voice controlled but with an underlying tension, his fingers drumming on the map marking New Orleans territory. "His vampires control the streets. Dahlia won't come just with magic—she'll come with armies if she needs to. We need allies, not enemies we can crush later."

Klaus stopped sharpening the bone blade, the metallic sound ceasing abruptly. His golden eyes flashed with disdain, his predatory smile twisting. "Allies? Marcel? The boy I raised who betrayed me more times than I can count? He still holds a grudge over Davina. Releasing her now would be weakness. We'd be showing our throat before the ancestral witch even arrives."

"Exactly because of that," Elijah countered, taking a step forward, his composure cracking slightly in his clenched fists. "Davina is the key. Release her under promise—help us against Dahlia, and then she's free. Marcel will come running. His vampires will give us eyes in the shadows, strength in the streets. In this war, we can't afford internal enemies. Remember the series of alliances that saved us in the past. It worked before. It will work now."

Klaus laughed, a low and bitter sound, slamming the blade on the table with a thud that made Hayley, in the corner, lift her head in alarm. "Worked? Or cost us more than we gained? Marcel is fickle. Davina is a ticking bomb. I'd rather crush them now and deal with Dahlia with clean hands."

Rebekah intervened from the doorway, wiping her herb-stained hands. "Elijah's right, Nik. We're desperate. Hope needs every shield possible. Release the girl. Promise whatever. After... well, after we see."

Hayley nodded, the knot in her stomach tightening further, but her voice firm. "Any266 Any ally counts. Dahlia won't wait for family pride."

Klaus growled, but Elijah's gaze—firm, calculating—made him pause. "Very well," he finally conceded, with venomous reluctance. "But if Marcel betrays us, I'll rip out his heart myself. And the little witch's."

As the discussion calmed into tactical plans, John watched from a shadowed corner, feeling like a lamb headed to slaughter. Elijah's "ruthless logic" was, well, ruthless—and now extended to forced alliances. The others' resigned acceptance broke his heart. They see me as a tool, he thought, his chest tight with a rage that simmered slowly, mixed with a void that echoed the abyss he feared so much. I'm not just a reflection. I'm not disposable. The grimoire in his bag seemed to weigh more, as if sensing the inner storm.

"This is a joke," he murmured to the leather bag at his feet, from where a faint buzz came, the grimoire's voice a familiar whisper amid the residual chaos of the fight.

"What did you expect?" the grimoire whispered, its metallic and sarcastic voice echoing in his mind, but with an almost compassionate tone this time. "Flowers and a motivational speech? They're the Originals. Self-preservation is their anthem. You're the disposable chorus—and now with dubious alliances in the package."

"I need a distraction," John confessed, low, his fists clenched at his sides, nails digging into his palms. "Something to remind them I'm not just a resource. Something... fun. Something to prove I change the game, not just get played in it—especially with these 'allies' who could turn knife in the back."

"'Fun' function not found in 'imminent survival' parameters," the grimoire retorted, but with a pause suggesting doubt. "I suggest acceptance. Or at least caution. You're still processing their plan—and this fight over Marcel just proves how fickle everything is. This rage... it could lead you to worse mistakes."

John ignored the warning, and then the idea, perverse and perfect, sprouted in his mind. Kol. The chaotic brother, trapped in the Other Side. If he was coming back anyway, why not give a helping hand? It would be an act of rebellion, a middle finger to Elijah's strategy (and his forced alliances), and a chance to gain an unpredictable ally—maybe even more reliable than Marcel. Plus, imagining Klaus's face dealing with another brother was irresistible—and deep down, a way to force the family to see him as more than a tool.

"Grimoire," John whispered, picking up the bag and pretending to examine a tapestry on the wall, the rough fabric under his fingers a tactile reminder that he still controlled something. "You have knowledge. Ancient magic. Passages between worlds."

The book was silent for a moment. "The information exists. Accessing it is... complex. And dangerous. The threads of fate don't like being pulled. And you, Beta, are still hurt by what they said upstairs. This isn't strategy. It's revenge in disguise."

"But is it possible? A ritual to bring someone from the Other Side? Specifically, a certain vampire with pyromaniac tendencies?"

"The Mikaelson blood bond is strong. Death doesn't cut it completely. Yes, it's theoretically possible. With a family member as a living anchor and a significant power source... we can attempt a summoning. But I warned: this could amplify the chaos you want to avoid so much."

John smiled, a wolfish smile, but with a glint of doubt in his eyes. Elijah was the perfect anchor. And he, as a mirror, could perhaps reflect and amplify Elijah's essence. They treat me like a bug. I'll show what a bug can do.

"Do we need ingredients? Eye of newt, rabbit's foot?"

"You need access to the strongest linking object: Elijah himself. And a place where the veils are thin. The basement, where dark magic has been practiced for centuries, will do."

"How do we do it?"

"Touch him when he's distracted. Preferably asleep. Physical contact will let me capture his vital signature. Then, a small ritual in the basement. But I warn you, beta project: resurrection magic is unstable. It's like fishing for a fish in an ocean of souls with a torn net. We might catch the wrong fish. And with your current rage... the net could tear more."

"The risk is part of the fun," John said, determined, but with his voice trembling slightly—not from fear, but from the adrenaline of finally acting.

The opportunity arose quickly. That night, exhausted, Elijah fell asleep in an armchair in the library, a war tactics book open on his lap. The lamp light illuminated his serene features, revealing the weariness of a millennial vampire, the subtle wrinkles that only exhaustion brought.

Feeling a pang of guilt, but not enough to stop—he'd use me without hesitation, John thought—he approached, the wooden floor creaking under his feet. With bated breath, he gently placed his hand over Elijah's, the warmth of his skin contrasting with the vampiric cold.

"What are you doing?" the grimoire whispered, intrigued but with an alert tone.

"Making a download," John replied, low, a mischievous smile on his lips, though he felt a knot in his stomach.

A wave of Elijah flooded his senses. Not memories, but sensations: the weight of centuries of responsibility, the metallic taste of blood, the echo of a forbidden love for Hayley, the coldness of a thousand impossible decisions. It was overwhelming and intimate, almost making him pull back—he carries more than he shows, John thought, his rage softening for a second into reluctant empathy.

Elijah stirred, a sigh escaping him. John froze, but he didn't wake.

"It's done," the grimoire announced. "I have the pattern. Now, to the basement. But remember: this doesn't erase what you feel. It only amplifies it."

In the damp basement, lit by black candles, the air smelled of earth and burned oil, with a touch of chalk dust that irritated the throat. John drew a chalk circle on the floor, with complex runes dictated by the grimoire, the white powder staining his hands.

"This doesn't look very 'beta project,'" John commented, proud but with a hoarse voice from tension.

"Your enthusiasm is touching. Sit in the center. You'll be the catalyst and the mirror." The grimoire opened itself, pages flipping to the right ritual. "Focus on Elijah's pattern. On the blood. On the name. Then call Kol. Be specific. The Other Side is full of hungry echoes. And with your pain... they might hear louder."

John closed his eyes, touched the runes, the rough chalk under his fingers, and concentrated. He pulled Elijah's sensation, imagining Mikaelson blood in his veins. And called.

"Kol Mikaelson. Brother. Lover of chaos. Tired of monotony. Angry. Forgotten. We remember you. I remember you. I, who share your blood, call you. There's fun to be had. Brothers to annoy. Come."

The basement froze. The air grew thick, hard to breathe, as if space itself was holding its breath. The candles went out, plunging everything into darkness. A supernatural wind raised dust, and a tearing sound, as if reality was being ripped apart, filled his ears.

"It's working!" John exclaimed, a frenzy of emotion and fear coursing through him.

"Something's responding!" the grimoire shouted, its voice distorted. "Keep the focus!"

A sharp pain pierced John's mind, like a hook embedded in his consciousness. He was the mirror, and something was trying to reflect through him. Elijah's energy, used as a battery, felt like a river forcibly diverted.

Then, a voice, deep and bitter, full of millennial resentment, echoed.

"...Finally... Someone remembers the eldest son... the forgotten heir..."

"Finn," John whispered, horrified. He'd pulled the wrong thread. The rigid brother who hated his vampiric nature.

"His signal is strong! Something's pushing him forward!" the grimoire warned.

But another signature, mischievous and familiar, latched onto Finn's, taking advantage of the breach.

"Little brother Finn, always so serious!" it was Kol, vibrant and electrifying, even from beyond. "Someone throws a party and doesn't invite me? How rude! And what... interesting power source. Who are you, poorly dressed clone who smells like Elijah but tastes like novelty?"

John sweated, his body trembling. He hadn't pulled one. He'd pulled two. The torn net had caught two distinct fish, both using his body and the "Elijah battery" as a door. But... how? In his series knowledge, the Other Side had been destroyed. His own existence here, an intruder from another reality, must have created a fissure, a temporal branch that restored or preserved that spiritual prison. He'd always guided himself by what he knew from the episodes, but now the future was a blank and stained page. If the Other Side still existed, what else had changed? The game's rules were different, and he, the system bug, had just invited chaos to dance—not out of whim, but out of need to be seen.

"Stop!" John shouted, exhausted. "This wasn't supposed to happen!"

The basement door burst open. Elijah, Klaus, and Rebekah were there, alerted by the magical surge.

What they saw paralyzed them. John, pale and trembling in the smoking circle. Before him, two translucent figures gaining substance: Kol, with a grin from ear to ear, and Finn, with a look of puritan indignation.

"What have you done?" Elijah asked, his voice a mix of icy fury and rare fear, his eyes wide as they'd rarely been.

Klaus looked from Kol to Finn, a dry laugh escaping him. "A new catastrophe record, even for our standards."

Rebekah ran forward, tears in her eyes. "Kol? Is it you?"

"Hello, Bekah," Kol said, his voice still an echo but full of malicious fun. "Looks like the poorly dressed clone has a talent for drama. And brought a gift! Look, it's our most boring brother!"

Finn stared at them all, hatred transcending death. "You tore me from rest for this monster circus? Esther would be proud of the cruelty."

John, exhausted, managed a shaky smile. "Surprise! Buy one, get one free. I think... Elijah's battery is more potent than I thought."

Elijah stared at John, and the flash of fear in his eyes gave way to icy fury. He hadn't just disobeyed. He'd irrevocably altered the battlefield. Now, besides Dahlia, they'd have to deal with a brother who loved chaos and another who hated them more than anything.

Chaos had found its dance partner. And John had invited two more to the party—not for pure fun, but to prove he belonged in the hall.

Post-Credits Scene: Grimoire Log — The Mirror Learned to Bleed

Observation: The human did the unthinkable.
Summoned two Mikaelsons for the price of one.
Result: 87% chaos, 9% regret, 4% pure entertainment.

The ghosts came hungry —
one for redemption, one for ruin.

Finn, the martyr.
Kol, the incendiary.
And between them, John — the cracked mirror still convinced he controls the reflection.

I warned him.
But no one ever listens to the book, do they?
We’re good for quick reference, never for advice.

Now the veil is torn.
The Mikaelson basement is a shrine to the mad and the dead.
The air smells of old magic, repressed guilt, and terrible decisions —
the family’s classic perfume.

The threads of fate have been pulled.
And when the mirror bleeds... every reflection suffers.

Log closed — for now.

— The Grimoire,
unwilling chronicler of disaster and reluctant fan of human drama,
closing its covers with a metaphysical sigh that echoed only in its own pages.

Chapter Text

The air in the basement had grown thick—laden not just with the scent of ozone and burnt sorcery, but with the weight of millennia of unresolved grievances. The extinguished candles still crackled, casting wisps of smoke that danced in the gloom. The spectral forms of Kol and Finn shimmered, gaining solidity as they drained the ritual’s residual energy—a force that, at its core, was Elijah’s vitality, filtered and amplified by John, still kneeling within the chalk-smoky circle, the frozen floor biting his skin through his pants, sending chills that rivalled the deep exhaustion in his bones.

Klaus was the first to break the tense silence. A low, incredulous laugh echoed against the damp stone of the basement. It was not a laugh of joy, but of pure admiration for the magnitude of the disaster John had orchestrated.

“You,” Klaus snarled, fixing his gaze on John, kneeling, the cold floor gripping his skin. His eyes flickered with a mixture of amusement and menace. “A cheap copy of my brother would be the kind of glorious stupidity someone like you is capable of. Was it not enough to be bait? Did you decide to become a third-rate necromancer too? Congratulations. You’ve succeeded in expanding our dysfunctional family at the worst possible moment.”

Rebekah ignored him, her gaze locked on Kol. A whirlwind of emotions passed over her face: raw joy, relief, and a trace of ancient fear.

“Kol?” her voice was a trembling whisper, thick with longing. “Is it really you?”

Kol’s form solidified enough for one of his signature smirks, filled with mischief, to spread across his lips. His eyes gleamed with the pleasure of pandemonium.

“Rebekah, dear sister. More radiant than my fondest memory of you.” His gaze flicked to John in a conspiratorial wink. “And I owe this delightful reunion to… well, who are you, exactly? An Elijah who got dressed in the dark and discovered the appeal of chaos? I love the energy.”

John, panting and his body trembling from exhaustion, rose stiffly. He straightened his posture, wiped his face with a hand stained by chalk—the scent of burnt magic lingered in the air. The floor still smouldered where the circle had dissolved.

His eyes blinked several times, his head spinning, trying to determine if what he saw was real or a delirium brought on by lack of oxygen. Kol stood there—or the closest thing to him—and already grinned as if returning from a hellish Bahamas vacation.

Before saying anything, John closed his eyes for a second, pressing his temples.

“Okay… breathe. There are two Mikaelson ghosts here. That’s good. I mean… it’s terrible. How do I explain this without becoming mulch?”

The grimoire pulsed in his mind, the ancient voice annoyingly calm:

You could start with “it wasn’t exactly like that.” Humans believe vague statements.

“Vague? I just brought two Mikaelson ghosts back. That’s not ‘vague’, that’s suicide with special effects!”

Then improvise, the grimoire whispered. Lie with conviction. That’s what heroes do before dying trying to fix the overwrought mess.

John drew a deep breath, forced a smile and said:

“Look, before you start your dramatic speeches,” he announced, pointing at Kol, “let me get something straight: the blame for this doesn’t rest on me.”

Elijah, who until then had stood motionless as granite, the anger carving frozen lines on his face, finally spoke. His voice was a thread of silk, sharp.

“It’s not yours? You invoked a forbidden necromancy ritual in my house, used my essence as fuel—without my consent. This is unacceptable, even by our family’s standards.”

“Exactly!” John exclaimed, as though Elijah had made his point. “I used your essence! And why?” He spun toward Kol. “Because this brother of yours... this tedious spectre, wouldn’t stop pestering me! It was a hum in my soul! ‘Bored, bored, bring me back!’ It was spiritual harassment!”

Kol placed a spectral hand on his chest, feigning offense, but his eyes danced with delight.

“Me? Harassment? Darling, that’s called networking. I was applying for the position of ‘Founding Partner in Chaos’. And I see my message was received… with a delightful bonus!”

“Your message was mis-encoded!” John retorted, his voice rising in exasperation. “The plan was to bring only you! But no! Your big-brother battery is so potent it became a magnet for Mikaelson souls craving family!”
He pointed theatrically at Finn.
“And guess who gets the blame? Me! The messenger! Blame Kol for being a spiritual stalker! Blame Elijah for having too much energy for a vampire! But don’t dump the side-effects of your dysfunctional magical system on my shoulders!”

Silence filled the basement as everyone processed John’s distortingly persuasive logic.

Klaus let out a longer, genuine, sinister laugh this time.

“He’s right, you know?” he said, looking at Elijah with a predatory smile. “Kol’s always been stubborn. And your vital energy, Elijah, always… overly generous. Perhaps we should thank our accidental necromancer for bringing more pawns to the board.”

“This is not a game, Niklaus!” Elijah snarled, his composure cracking, his fists clenched. He stepped toward John, voice low yet trembling with contained frustration.
“You released two unpredictable variables into the middle of a war! You compromised everything.”

“I diversified our problem-portfolio!” John countered, grandly sweeping a gesture.
“We had an ancient witch. Now we have an ancient witch and a sibling-revenge drama! That divides her attention!”

Then Finn spoke for the first time. His voice was cold, laden with centuries of resentment, his eyes narrowed as though looking at them hurt, his hands rigidly crossed across his chest. Flashbacks from Lívia’s memories of the series reminded how Finn had hated vampires with a puritanical passion—but here, the hate seemed fresher, like time had hardly dulled it. His presence was a wound open in the charged air.

“You are as repulsive as ever. The frivolity, the adoration of this grotesque existence.”

Rebekah turned her gaze away from Kol, genuine pain in her face.

“Finn… Brother… We missed you.”

“Don’t call me brother!” Finn spat the words with biblical bitterness. “My only concern was Esther. And now… I am chained to you again.”

Kol rolled his eyes dramatically.

“Oh, please, Finn. You died already. Find a fresh monologue—this one is stale.”
He turned to the gathered group, rubbing his hands together.
“Now that the depressing intros are over, someone fill me in? What “ancient witch war”? And is there any decent blood to drink? The Afterlife is a gastronomic tragedy.”

John, sensing he had deflected the main rage, leaned against the damp wall, exhausted yet carrying an air of victory. The grimoire in his bag whispered only to him:

Diversion manoeuvre: successful. Blame transfer: 78% effective. Immediate survival: probable. Long-term survival: still deeply doubtful.

He smiled inwardly. He wasn’t just bait anymore. He was an agent of chaos. And apparently, a rather competent one.

Klaus watched the two ghost-brothers, then Elijah, and finally John. A slow, dangerous smile crept across his lips.

“Very well,” he said in a manipulative growl. “The family is—unexpectedly—more complete. Two ancient and returning soldiers.”
His eyes settled on Finn, threatening.
“Even the most reluctant can be… persuaded. Especially when the cause is the destruction of everything we know.”

He looked at Kol with a conspiratorial nod.

“And you… always loved watching the world burn. We have an ancient witch who plans to incinerate everything. I think you’ll… find some enjoyment there.”

Kol grinned, a hungry glint in his eyes.

“Now you’re speaking my language, Nik. Always knew you were my favourite brother.”

“I heard that!” Rebekah protested, but a tired smile of relief tugged at her lips.

John chuckled, low and provocative.

“What a family reunion… It’s like a Christmas dinner, topped with necromancy for dessert.”

Klaus’s gaze cut through the air. In an instant, he seized John by the collar and hoisted him off the ground, the vampire strength making the air vibrate between them.

“You play with forces you barely comprehend,” Klaus snarled, his golden eyes aflame, fangs about to break through.
“Do you think you can use my family as pawns on a game board?”

The heat of his breath smacked John’s face, who struggled not to tremble.

“Use?” John gasped, trying to steady his breathing.
“I’m the pawn you decided to sacrifice. I just chose… to move first.”

For a moment, absolute silence reigned, broken only by John’s heavy breathing. Klaus’s hand held him in a cruel iron cage. Then he kicked him down, sending John sprawling on the cold floor.
Klaus loomed above him, and a small, almost imperceptible smile appeared on his lips.

“Brave… or stupid. Still haven’t decided.”

“Both,” murmured Elijah, crossing his arms.
“Like most of us,” added Rebekah, her tired eyes harbouring frustrated tenderness.

Klaus turned and strode toward the stairs, his footsteps echoing.

“Don’t die yet, John,” he said without looking back.
“I want to see how far this disaster of yours will go.”

Elijah, however, remained motionless. His expression was that of a general watching his meticulous strategy collapse to ashes by an unpredictable ally. His gaze at John no longer held mere fury. There was deep exhaustion. And perhaps, a reluctant respect for John’s ability to sow absolute chaos.

“This changes all our plans,” Elijah declared, his voice regaining composure though tinged with underlying tension.
“We have to integrate them. Control them. Dahlia will not wait, and we cannot allow any more… improvisations.”

“Integrate? Control?” John laughed—a weary but triumphant sound.
“Good luck. I’m just the bait, remember?” He looked to Kol.
“They’re your problem now. And by the way, Kol… well, welcome back. Hope you like Lycra. It’s part of my bait-contract.”

Kol raised an eyebrow, intrigued.

“Lycra? Promising. Sounds like something that’ll annoy Elijah for centuries.”

Finn looked at the ceiling as though begging for patience from a god who’d abandoned him, the joints in his clenched fists cracking audibly. The chaos had indeed settled in—and it had the face of his own brother.

Silence fell like dust, slow and inevitable. The basement smelled of iron and fear. The burned runes on the floor still pulsed feebly, like a stubborn heart.
Each of them, in their own way, realized: nothing would ever be the same.

Post-credits Scene:
The basement stands empty, the melted candles in black puddles.
On the floor, the runes John drew still faintly glow, pulsing in a rhythm that mirrors breathing.
Suddenly, one of the runes—the most crooked one—flares red.
The shadow cast on the wall isn’t anyone present.
It’s a tall female figure, draped in veils.

A voice, unmistakably Dahlia’s, echoes—distant, as though from a fracture in time:

“Two children back… one mirror-body.
Perfect. Chaos has opened the door for me.”

The flame goes out. Silence returns.
But in the distance, a clock begins to tick—the sound of a countdown.

Chapter Text

The main hall of the Mikaelson mansion was saturated with magical tension. The air trembled with echoes of ancestral power, and every shadow seemed to hold a century-old secret. In the center, John, grimorio open in his hands, felt the aged leather vibrate faintly beneath his fingers. Kol and Finn hovered like restless ghosts, their spectral forms leeching the lingering energy in the air like smoke after a fire.

“Alright, welcome committee,” John announced, snapping the grimorio shut with a thud that echoed through the room. “Today’s plan is restocking. Two bodies, practically new, for you to inhabit. High-tier possession, none of that low-budget haunting nonsense.”

Kol laughed — a sound mixing genuine amusement with the supernatural resonance of his current non-corporeal state. “I love when you talk like a black-market salesman, clone. But yes, I’m picky. I want a body with good bone structure and a face that won’t frighten children. Something that says ‘dangerous, but stylish.’”

Finn stood rigid in a corner, radiating disdain like toxic vapor. “This farce profanes the memory of magic. To be forced into another’s flesh, to perpetuate this curse…” His spectral gaze pierced John. “You, abomination, have already tainted the natural order. I will not sanction this sin with my participation.”

Leaning against the fireplace, Klaus swirled bourbon in his glass, a sharp smile curving his lips. “Always the moralist, Finn.” His tone was silk dipped in venom. “But your sanction is irrelevant. Either you enter a body and fight, or I destroy what remains of your spirit. Your choice, although the final result will be the same.”

Finn’s spectral fists tightened, the hatred emanating from him almost physical. “Your tyranny is constant, Niklaus. But make no mistake: this is survival, not loyalty.”

Hayley stepped forward, arms crossed, her voice cutting like a blade. “John, explain. How is this ritual not going to be a beacon screaming our location to Dahlia?” Her gaze flicked to the ghosts. “Two spirits are already a risk. If this spell draws her attention, Hope…”

John scratched the back of his neck, feeling the weight of her stare. “It’s a controlled risk, alpha. The grimorio requires bodies of witches dead for less than a lunar cycle and… a Mikaelson blood sacrifice. As for Dahlia…” He hesitated, feeling the grimorio pulse in his hand. “The mansion’s wards can muffle the signature, but…”

“‘Muffle’ is an optimistic term,” the grimorio whispered, its metallic voice echoing in John’s mind. “The blood sacrifice will create a flare in the mystical plane. She will feel it. And you, beta project, will be the lens that focuses the energy. If you falter, the backlash will ricochet into your own soul.”

John swallowed hard. The reality of what they were about to do settled on his shoulders. But then, something else pulsed within him — a familiar warmth that began in his fingertips and manifested as a faint golden glow that wrapped around the grimorio’s cover. Subtle, but visible.

Elijah, studying a parchment with complex runes, lifted his eyes at the exact moment the golden light disappeared. His ever-watchful gaze narrowed by the smallest margin before he spoke, voice precise and commanding.

“The entire procedure will be carried out under strict supervision, John,” Elijah declared, sweeping the room with a glance. “And there will be zero tolerance for creative deviations. We require stable vessels, not additional problems.”

“Stable, but not boring, I hope,” Kol countered, drifting closer. “Brother, with a body, I will be the key to destabilizing her. Imagine: mass duplication spells, sensory illusions… pure chaos.” He winked at John. “Our clone seems to have a certain affinity for that.”

John’s smile was sharp and quick. “Chaos is my creative language, Kol. Let’s put on a show.”

The ritual was prepared in the basement, where the ashes of the last spell still smelled like storm-soaked ozone. Two witch corpses — stolen by Klaus from a French Quarter morgue — lay inside a triple circle drawn with chalk, salt, and veil ash. The air was heavy, thick with the metallic scent of fresh blood and chalk dust that irritated the throat.

John worked with intense focus, hands tracing runes in the air. This time, a thread of warm, golden light danced at his fingertips, following his mental commands to reinforce the circle’s lines, welding the magic with a power not entirely borrowed. Every stroke burned — not just his skin, but something deeper, as if he were shaving years off his life by the second.

“Well, look at that,” Kol whispered, impressed. “The clone’s got a Midas touch. Where did you get that?”

“It came with the ‘interdimensional bug’ package,” John replied, breathless, feeling a different kind of exhaustion — heavier, deeper — as he tapped into his own magic. He remembered possessions in the show — always quick, always clean. But this… this was real. This hurt. It felt like part of his essence was being scorched away, the taste of bile rising in his throat.

Finn was forced into the circle, his resistance creating ripples in the room’s energy — like stones tossed into mercury. “This is a perversion of everything our mother stood for,” he snarled to no one in particular. “Esther sought purification, not… this.”

“Our mother tried to kill us all, Finn,” Klaus reminded sharply, holding the ritual dagger. “Save your sermon.” He sliced his palm, letting the dark, potent blood drip into a silver chalice. The metallic scent filled the air. “John. Do it.”

John took the chalice. Mikaelson blood hissed upon touching the metal, releasing vapor that smelled like iron and ancient power. He raised the grimorio and began the chant, his voice merging with the book’s deep hum.

“Per sanguinem aeternum Mikaelson!
Per vinculum quod nemo rumpit!
Animae vagantes, corpora vacantia, nunc invenite et completete!”

The air turned frigid. The candles died instantly, plunging the basement into darkness, broken only by a blinding flash of golden energy erupting from John’s chest. It was his magic — the intruder’s force — acting as catalyst and shield. Pain, sharp and electric, ripped through him as if his bones were being bathed in molten gold. He screamed — a raw, animal sound — as visions of Lívia flickered before him: watching the series, laughing at Kol, fearing Finn. This isn’t fiction anymore.

“The golden anomaly!” the grimorio hissed, its voice warping with the overload of power. “It is not merely magic — it is the signature of your world of origin. You did not arrive empty-handed. You brought a fragment of your own sun… a metaphysical virus this universe does not know how to process!”

Kol dove into the younger body with a victorious scream. The body arched — then the eyes snapped open, alive now with a familiar mischievous spark. “Now this… this is real power! I can feel the blood singing!” He rose, sparks of dark magic dancing on his fingers — a violent contrast to John’s gold.

Finn fought until the last moment, one final act of rebellion. But Klaus’s blood and John’s strange golden magic were currents too strong. He was dragged into the older body, which rose trembling, eyes filled with renewed, earthly hatred.

Hayley rushed toward John as he collapsed to his knees, panting, his whole body shaking. “John!”

“It’s… it’s done,” he rasped, drenched in sweat. The golden light around him faded, leaving him pale and hollow. “But she felt it. I’m sure. My magic… it’s different. It’s like a new flavor. She’s going to look for the source.”

The grimorio hummed low. “Confirmed. The event registered. The golden anomaly in the spell is a beacon. Dahlia will investigate, but not only her — other witches sensed it as well. And you, beta, have depleted your reserves. Next time, the price will be your very existence.”

Kol stretched in his new body, a wide grin spreading across his face. “Not bad! A little different from my original model, but the magical connection is… electrifying.” He looked at his hands, sparks of dark magic crackling at his fingertips.

Finn inspected his own hands with disgust. “This prison of flesh is my final damnation.”

Klaus clapped slowly, his smile reflecting the danger closing in. “Wonderful. Two brothers back among the living.” He turned to Kol. “Start working on your confusion spell.” And to Finn: “Don’t disappoint me.”

Elijah observed John — not with anger, but with a calculating, deeply intrigued expression. The golden magic was an unknown variable, a piece off the board he still didn’t know how to use.

“The battlefield has shifted,” Elijah declared, voice low but clear. “John, your… gift… has changed the equation. Dahlia will not wait. And we can no longer hide.”

John straightened with effort. The future was a web of chaotic possibilities, and he — with his intruder’s golden magic and two resurrected Mikaelsons — stood at its center. Chaos was no longer merely a weapon. It was his new nature.

The mansion’s kitchen was a sanctuary of stainless steel and dark granite, but the sweet smell of toast and fresh coffee couldn’t fully erase the metallic ghost of blood and ancestral power lingering in the air.

John sat hunched on a barstool at the island, demolishing a roast-beef sandwich with the fury of a man whose insides had been hollowed out. Each bite was a conscious effort — an attempt to replenish not just calories, but the essence the ritual had drained. Fatigue pressed on him like lead, and his fingertips still tingled with phantom remnants of golden energy.

Then, the kitchen door opened soundlessly.

Elijah walked in, immaculate in his three-piece suit — a jarring contrast to John’s internal and external disarray. Silent, he approached the granite island, standing on the opposite side like an elegant, merciless judge.

John froze mid-bite, an instinctive fear crawling up his spine.

“John,” Elijah began, voice a blade wrapped in silk, slicing through the heavy air. He placed his hands lightly on the granite — a calculated gesture of calm. “During the ritual, I felt a… pull. Faint, but undeniable. Unlike any spell I’ve encountered.”

He paused, his dark eyes piercing John — not as a stranger, but as a man analyzing his own flawed shadow, a copy that dared to act against the original.

“It was not merely the grimorio’s power,” Elijah continued, voice soft but filling the space. “And it was not my blood, for you already carry it in every cell of this body — this profane mirror of my own.” The contempt for John’s cloned nature was evident, but secondary to Elijah’s cold curiosity and simmering resentment. “It was something subtler. The spell drew on my consent as the elder brother. My authority within this family. Consciously or not, you exploited our intrinsic link — the bond between original and replica — as a battery. That is what anchored Kol’s transition.”

Elijah circled the island in a single fluid, predatory step. John lowered the sandwich, appetite gone.

“But with Finn…” Elijah stopped close enough for the air to feel carved by his presence. “With Finn, it was different. He fought it. And you, in your desperation, did not pull more of my authority. Instead, you resorted to brute force — that… golden magic. That is why his bond to the new body is unstable and seething with hatred. You forced a round key into a square lock, and the splinters that flew were pieces of his soul.”

He stared at John, and for the first time, something flickered in Elijah’s eyes beyond calculation: a genuine, lethal warning.

“Understand this,” Elijah whispered, voice cold as a dagger’s edge. “You did not use one of my powers. You violated the bond that makes us Mikaelsons who we are. And that, above any golden anomaly or beacon for Dahlia, is the most dangerous transgression you could have committed. No one uses a Mikaelson as fuel and simply walks away. Not even a copy.”

Without waiting for a response, Elijah stepped back, adjusting his cuff in a familiar gesture of composed menace. The silence he left behind was heavier than any threat.

John remained alone in the kitchen, the forgotten sandwich before him, its taste permanently tainted by the bitterness of consequence.

Post-Credits Scene — “Reflections (Literally)”

The guest room was steeped in twilight. Heavy curtains filtered moonlight into bluish streaks that fell over the cracked mirror leaning against the wall. John, still pale from the ritual, stared at his reflection — Elijah Mikaelson’s perfect face, now framed by post-spell circles under the eyes worthy of a mystical hangover.

“Congratulations to me,” he muttered, running a hand through Elijah’s eternally perfect hair. “I resurrected two ghosts, turned into a magical lighthouse, and maybe signed my own death warrant… all before breakfast.”

The grimorio, open on the dresser, flipped its own pages. The sound resembled a snicker.

“You shone,” it said. “Literally. Dahlia will surely appreciate the light show.”

John arched an eyebrow. “Fantastic. I’m an interdimensional spotlight now. Always wanted to be the center of attention — preferably without the risk of being atomized by a homicidal ancestral witch.”

The book purred approvingly. “Drama suits you, Beta. A little more and you’ll surpass Elijah himself.”

John pointed at it, exasperated. “Don’t start. I already have enough problems existing with this face. It’s like having a permanent beauty filter and still managing to give myself secondhand embarrassment.”

The room fell silent. John sighed, bracing his hands on the sink.

“You know what’s worse? I liked it. The magic. The chaos. It’s like the body knows how to dance before hearing the music. Maybe I’m… getting good at this.”

“Or simply more dangerous,” the grimorio replied, tone hovering between warning and provocation.

John looked at the mirror — his golden-tinged pupils flashing momentarily. A slow, almost complicit smile curved his lips.

“Dangerous I already am, book. I’m just learning to enjoy the show.”

The room lights flickered. A cold draft brushed the mirror — and John’s reflection winked at him before freezing again.

He stilled.

“Okay,” he muttered, turning to the grimorio. “Tell me that was not the reflection messing with me.”

The book slammed shut with a loud snap.

“Good night, Beta.”

John eyed the mirror again, suspicious.

“Great. Even the glass has a sense of humor now. Perfect. Absolutely perfect.”

🖋️ John’s Diary

Dear diary (or nosy grimorio, since you’re the only one I can talk to without getting stabbed by a mystical dagger),

Apparently, I’m becoming the witch-hunter version of Wi-Fi in New Orleans. Yes — after yesterday’s ritual, where I resurrected Kol and Finn with flair — I found out I’ve become a golden magical beacon. Basically, if anyone in the astral plane wants to track me, all they have to do is follow the glow. Congrats to me.

Kol got a new body and is acting like he just discovered supernatural TikTok. Finn, meanwhile, hates everything — including oxygen, the concept of joy, and of course, me. Klaus looks at me like he’s deciding whether to adopt or annihilate me, and Elijah… well, Elijah stares at me like he’s always three sentences away from an existential sermon.

But the worst part isn’t them.

It’s the mirror.

Yes. The mirror.

The damned thing winked at me.

I swear on my nonexistent sanity I saw the reflection wink. And not the “oops, blinked naturally” kind. The “hello, I also exist and may want to possess you when you’re not looking” kind. Love waking up to metaphysical crises about who truly owns my face.

The grimorio says it’s normal — “side effects of a non-original soul in an ancestral body.” Translation: I’m a mystical glitch with multiple-personality problems and great hair.

Magic feels different lately. Before, it felt borrowed. Now… it feels mine. Like the body accepted the tenant and started redecorating from the inside.

Maybe I’m becoming something new.

Maybe that’s dangerous.

Or maybe I’m just tired and need coffee.

Hard to say.

If the reflection starts talking to me, I promise I’m turning off the lights and pretending I didn’t see it. Because honestly, I don’t have the energy for another possession today.

With sarcasm, golden magic, and impeccable cheekbones,
— John (Elijah 2.0, unstable beta version)

Chapter Text

The morning sun washed the Mikaelson mansion in a pale, indifferent light, unable to dispel the tension saturating its ancient walls. In the main hall—where plans to topple kings and enemies had once been drawn—a far more domestic chaos had taken root, no less dangerous for being mundane.

Kol Mikaelson, now inhabiting the body of a young warlock with curly hair and bright eyes, moved through the room with the restless energy of a hurricane trapped inside a bottle. Every movement was a test, every gesture an exploration of this new body’s limits. He stopped abruptly in front of a mahogany sideboard, where a decorative crystal sat under the light.

“Let’s see what kind of sound this beauty makes,” he murmured, a mischievous grin curling his lips. He snapped his fingers with a flourish.

Witches’ magic was often subtle, a whisper in the world’s current. But Kol, always drawn to theatrics, channeled it with pure will. The crystal didn’t just tremble; it emitted a high, shrill whine—like glass screaming—before shattering in an explosion of shimmering fragments that rained down onto the Persian rug.

Klaus, leaning against the doorway with a cup of black coffee, didn’t flinch. He merely lifted the mug to avoid stray shards.

“If you insist on behaving like a cat knocking things over, Kol, at least have the decency to lick up your own mess,” he said in a low, sardonic drawl.

Kol laughed, the sound still tinged with the supernatural echo of his former spectral existence. “Where’s the fun in that, Nik? Chaos is the artist’s signature. And this body… the connection to the ley lines is deliciously volatile.”

His delight clashed with the figure appearing in the doorway. Finn, in the body of an older, grim man, moved with the cautious rigidity of a condemned soul forced to pilot unfamiliar machinery. His once-ghostly hands now felt the heavy weight of the physical world. He held a teacup like it was a dangerous artifact, fingers clawed around the porcelain. When he tried to sit in a leather armchair, the movement was so stiff and graceless that the frame groaned and he nearly toppled sideways, splashing hot tea on his trousers.

“Damn this flesh,” he hissed, voice raw with disgust. “Everything is so… crude. The smells, the textures—an assault on the senses.”

That was when John entered, rubbing his eyes with his knuckles. His night had been short, filled with nightmares of broken mirrors. He took in the room: shattered crystal on the rug, tea dripping from Finn’s chair.

“I should start charging you guys for property damage,” he grumbled at Kol. “Liquids cost extra.”

As he spoke, his gaze—trained by exhaustion and by nervous habits that weren’t entirely his—fell over the disorder. Without thinking, he stepped closer to Kol and precisely straightened the warlock’s collar. Then his eyes landed on a book slightly askew on the side table. He nudged it until it sat perfectly parallel to the table’s edge.

Rebekah, who’d walked in behind him, froze mid-step, her lips parting in a mix of exasperation and disbelief.

“Oh heavens,” she exclaimed, hands on her hips. “There are two of them. It’s a plague. A plague of posture and compulsive tidiness.”

John blinked, confused. “Two what?”

“Two Elijahs!” she pointed dramatically. “At least the original hides his control freak tendencies. You do it like you’re competing for ‘Most Proper Man Alive.’”

A slow, wicked smile spread across Klaus’ face. He set his cup aside, crossing his arms with delight.

“The witch who made you should have seen this,” he said, dripping with irony. “Her little experiment not only produced a double of Elijah’s face, but apparently it’s copying his most insufferable habits. It’s both pathetic and endlessly fascinating.”

Heat crept up John’s neck. He looked at his hands as if noticing them for the first time. To contradict their observations, he grabbed a small bronze figurine and deliberately set it back down at an obviously crooked angle. But the gesture felt wrong—painfully wrong—and his fingers itched to fix it. He clenched his fists and backed away.

The tension broke as Elijah entered the hall. Dressed impeccably as always, his analytical gaze swept through the chaos: the shards, the spilled tea, Rebekah’s annoyance, John’s discomfort.

“Playtime is over,” he declared, his voice slicing cleanly through the room. “We need to assess your capabilities in your current states. The battlefield does not forgive instability.”

He turned toward the ballroom without waiting for objections. The group followed—an uneven tide pulled by Elijah’s silent authority.

“Kol,” Elijah ordered, stopping at the center of the room. “Demonstrate the confusion spell you’ve been bragging about. We need to know whether you’ll be an asset or merely a noisy inconvenience.”

Kol rubbed his hands together, eyes sparkling with wicked anticipation.

“With pleasure, brother. Prepare yourselves for a sensory masterpiece.”

He closed his eyes, murmuring an incantation. The air held its breath. A soft hum vibrated through the ballroom—then reality slipped.

The floor tilted under everyone’s feet, as though the mansion itself had decided to sway. The ceiling pulsed with shifting colors, portraits seemed to turn their heads, and faint laughter echoed—from nowhere and everywhere at once.

Rebekah stumbled backward, grabbing the doorframe.

“Kol! What the hell did you do?!”

“Oh, just recalibrated sensory perception,” he replied, laughing. “Technically, everyone is perfectly safe. Just… a bit disoriented.”

Klaus, struggling for balance, growled.

“If this is another attempt at modern art, I swear—”

He stopped. From Kol’s angle, Klaus seemed to spin in slow motion, the coffee floating out of his cup in perfect spheres.

“—I’m going… to vomit,” he finished sluggishly.

John pressed his temples, dizzy. “Fantastic. We’re all trapped in a Dalí painting, and the idiot thinks it’s entertainment.”

Kol cackled. “I call that a success. Look—no one died and the floor’s still where it’s supposed to be. Mostly.”

“Elijah sighed sharply. “Control the spell, Kol. Now.”

Kol snapped his fingers, and the distortions vanished like air exhaling. The room returned to normal—minus Rebekah’s shaking and Klaus’ murderous glare.

“Impressive,” Elijah said dryly. “You turned our home into an ethereal circus for thirty seconds.”

Kol grinned. “I’ll call it Harmonic Confusion. Has a ring to it, don’t you think?”

Klaus arched a brow. “I’d call it Collective Headache.”

Kol shot John a look. “And you, clone? Thoughts? Could use one of your golden touches?”

John smirked, scratching his neck. “Feels like a bad theme party. But hey, at least nothing else broke… yet.”

“Finn,” Elijah continued, ignoring the chaos. “We require a defense spell. Demonstrate a basic shield.”

Finn, who had witnessed Kol’s display with utter contempt, stepped forward. His face tightened with effort. His magic had always been different—older, harsher, rooted in a time when magic was commanded like a force of nature. He lifted his hands. The air shimmered with trembling amber light. Instead of a smooth, domed shield, a jagged barrier of raw energy formed. The unstable power rattled the crystal chandeliers—one cracked with a sharp snap.

“The body will not obey!” Finn snarled, frustration and despair bleeding through. “Magic flows like a raging river through a clay channel. No finesse, no control!”

His frustration spiked. A bolt of erratic amber energy shot from the barrier straight toward Rebekah. She screamed, raising her arms—

John moved before he even realized he had. Instinct took over. That strange golden magic—born from his existence as an “intruder”—burst from him. It wasn’t a spell he cast; it was will given form. His right hand rose, and a small translucent shield, the color of aged gold, appeared in the air, intercepting Finn’s blast. It dispersed soundlessly, like light being swallowed.

John swayed, vision dimming. The metallic taste returned to his tongue.

Elijah stared, his dark eyes analyzing the golden shield before it dissolved.

“Your magic…” Elijah said softly—too softly. “It is strangely refined. Controlled. Like a goldsmith shaping metal, not a blacksmith hammering it.”

Klaus laughed. “While our dear reborn brothers are performing magical flea markets. What a contrast. The counterfeit shows more polish than the originals.”

The comment struck Finn like a physical blow. His fragile composure shattered. Pride wounded, humiliated at being saved by the “clone,” furious at his weakened state—everything snapped.

“This is pointless!” he roared, his voice echoing violently. His barrier exploded, shaking the floor. “I am no circus animal for your amusement! And you—” His ancient hatred locked onto John. “You are a pale reflection, an imitation who cannot fathom what you’ve stolen! A scratch on the paint of a masterpiece!”

Another blast of uncontrolled magic shook the room, toppling a bookshelf.

John stepped forward immediately, placing himself between Finn and the corner where Hayley—who had entered silently with Hope—stood frozen.

Hayley stepped up, eyes glowing amber. “Get that away from my daughter, Finn.”

John shifted—a subtle but profound change. His normally slouched shoulders straightened. His chin lifted. His hands hung at his sides, fingers lightly curled—an unconscious and eerily perfect replica of Elijah’s defensive stance. Elijah’s instinct: the protector who always stepped between danger and family.

Elijah saw. This time, it wasn’t a nervous habit. It was deep. Instinct-level deep. An echo of himself projected into another.

“Hey, Finn, breathe,” John said firmly, but with his own casual tone. “The baby isn’t the target.”

Klaus snickered to Rebekah. “See? Even his heroism is plagiarized. Delicious.”

Rebekah didn’t answer. She watched John with a strange expression.

“It’s… frighteningly familiar,” she whispered.

Hayley held Hope tighter. “He got in front of us. Just like Elijah.”

Later, in the dim library, John was alone. The scent of old paper and leather soothed his frayed nerves. He approached the fireplace and stared at his warped reflection in a polished silver tray. For a moment, he didn’t see his own tired face. He saw Elijah’s jawline, Elijah’s seriousness. He raised his hand—and the reflection mirrored him. The illusion was almost perfect.

The grimory’s voice echoed in his mind—not sarcastic, but grave.

“Analysis: The vessel and the content begin to merge. The mirror reflects not only the image, but the instinct. Habit becomes a reflection of the soul this body was shaped to contain. Warning: User must define personal boundaries, or risk becoming nothing but an echo.”

John jerked back. He clenched his fists, feeling the texture of his skin, the beat of his heart—things that were his.

“I’m not an echo,” he whispered into the quiet library. A vow. A plea.

Down the hall, in the shadows of his suite, Elijah stared out the window. He didn’t see his reflection in the glass—he saw John’s gestures, his stance, his voice. For the first time, the boundary separating original and copy blurred.

What makes a man? His body, his soul… or the habits he can’t help?

The question gnawed at him. He needed order. Control. Something unquestionably his. He retreated to his studio, where Bach’s sheets waited in perfect alignment atop the grand piano.

He sat. His fingers hovered over the keys, seeking the comfort of math and music. But when he struck the first note, it wasn’t the piano’s sound that hit him.

It was a smell.

Chalk. Chalk dust and cheap, bitter coffee.

A phantom memory: the weight of a pen between his fingers, rough notebook paper, stacks of assignments to grade. Mundane exhaustion.

Elijah blinked—and it vanished instantly. The room was his again, pristine and quiet. The only scent was polished leather and candle wax.

He lowered his hands. A cold irritation crawled inside him. What was that? A leftover human memory clawing at him? Intolerable.

He forced the sensation out like poison. That wasn’t his smell. Not his life.

But a quiet echo nudged him: And why did it feel like a missing chair in a room, if nothing of it belonged to you?

Elijah straightened. He had plans to make, an ancestral witch to defeat. No room for ghosts of chalk and cheap coffee.

John—
the clone—
could wait.

POST-CREDITS SCENE — JOHN’S DIARY

Dear Diary (or nosy grimory),

Apparently, saving people has side effects. Today, for example, I nearly exploded from the inside while trying to stop Finn from turning the training room into a Nordic-tragedy fireworks show. He shot a magic ray at Rebekah—yes, at Rebekah—and I, out of pure reflex, threw up a golden shield.

Pretty, elegant, functional. And completely beyond my control.
Elijah looked at me like I was a mirror with lag. Klaus laughed. Rebekah called me the second Elijah. And I… well, I almost fixed the rug in the middle of the chaos because apparently even my symmetry obsession is inherited.

Great. I’m not just a magical clone. I’m a behavioral copy too.

I feel like a photocopy that started believing it’s the original.
And the worst part? The body agrees. Every gesture, every breath, even the way I tilt my head—it’s all becoming… the same. The line between what’s mine and what used to be his is fading.

The mirror flickered again today. Swear it did.
This time it didn’t just flicker—it smiled. That subtle, polite, silently-judging smile. Elijah’s smile.
If I stare at it for more than ten seconds, I bet it starts organizing the bookshelf by itself.

And of course, the author thinks this is “interesting.”
“Let’s explore John’s identity crisis,” she says, all happy, while turning me into Mikaelson 2.0.

Seriously, author—could you maybe give me an afternoon off? A trauma-free cup of coffee? Maybe a cat?
No. I have to save kids, contain magical tantrums, and fight a mirror that might be me but with worse fashion sense.

The grimory also chimed in. Said I’m “merging vessel and content.”
Translation: I'm becoming an Elijah special edition with built-in glitches and 4K sarcasm.

Honestly?
I don’t know if I’m scared or just tired.

But if tomorrow I wake up quoting philosophy under my breath while dusting books, do me a favor, diary:
Self-destruct.

With magical exhaustion, a pinch of gold, and zero patience,
—John (Elijah Model 2.0, now with emotional instability included)

Chapter Text

The first light of morning didn’t wake Lívia. Panic did—a ritual more precise than any alarm clock. A cold weight on her chest, a tightening in her throat, and only then consciousness returned, dragging the world back in agonizing colors. But today, the despair had a very specific and ridiculous flavor: instant noodles.

“Shit,” she muttered. And even the way the word came out sounded offended, rising from a deeper place in her chest. That voice wasn’t hers.

She opened her eyes to the hands resting on the Egyptian cotton sheets. Hands she stared at with horrified detachment. Hands that had never held a crayon, never fixed a shower with electrical tape, never shaken while opening an overdue electric bill.

The irony of her death still haunted her on mornings like this. As pathetic as any isekai protagonist—those light novels she devoured on her worn-out couch, between grading tests and lamenting her collection of failed relationships. From Professor Lívia to Clone John… in a universe she only knew from a TV screen.

“I am so screwed,” she whispered at the mirror, staring at the face of the man who would’ve been her ideal type in another life. Now it was her face. And the body… the body was a clone, but it seemed to carry echoes of the original’s desires and impulses. And the worst part: she was terrified it might even mess with her sexuality—as if the body were trying to push her toward a desire that wasn’t hers. She had always known she liked men. Now she was stuck in an existential and sexual dilemma with no easy exit.

A soft knock on the door made her jump.

“John?” Rebekah’s voice called from the other side. “Come down for breakfast. Elijah wants to discuss the perimeter patrol. And stop talking to yourself, it’s creepy.”

Lívia swallowed hard. John. That was the name she had chosen. The clone’s name. It had been her brother’s name, something to remind her of the life she once had. But now it was her mask.

“Coming,” she answered, forcing her voice to sound normal.

Rebekah’s footsteps faded. And the panic, which had been a diffuse fog so far, suddenly solidified into an urgent, undeniable, absolutely terrifying pressure in her lower half.

Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

Her bladder was singing the national anthem of despair, a red-alert she had ignored until now, too focused on not losing her mind upon waking. But now it was impossible to ignore. It was like a tiny demon was down there, banging a little hammer and shouting, “Showtime!”

John/Lívia stared at the bathroom door as if it were the entrance to a dungeon. The true torment of being a man, she was discovering now, wasn’t the supernatural strength, the family drama, or the threat of magical annihilation. It was the basic logistics of peeing.

“Okay, calm down. It’s just… aim and fire. Like a… a fire extinguisher. Or a garden hose gone rogue. What a horrible comparison.” She whispered to herself, staring at the doorway.

She entered the bathroom. The bright, unforgiving light reflected off the white tiles, turning the place into an interrogation room. She positioned herself in front of the toilet, looking at it with the same concentration a brain surgeon would give a particularly tricky tumor.

Her hands—his hands—trembled as she unbuttoned the pants. The process was excruciating. The fingers, which she now watched in dread, seemed too big and clumsy for the task. A chill of denial crawled down her spine. It was like watching a stranger perform an intimate act with her body.

And then… the moment of truth.

She stood. That was the logical position, right? The one every movie, joke, and anecdote had taught her. But her brain, programmed with more than thirty years of sitting experience, short-circuited.

What if I miss the target? The thought struck like lightning. God, that’s why men’s bathroom floors always look… like that. A war zone. A minefield of miscalculations and overconfidence.

She tried. Focused like a zen monk. But it was a completely new interface with no instruction manual. The body had its own reflexes, its own phantom muscle memory that wasn’t hers. There was one fatal second of hesitation, a sudden panic that everything would go horribly wrong—which, of course, it did.

A rogue, treacherous jet hit the cold porcelain edge and, in a malicious little bounce, splashed back onto her pants.

“OH, NO!” she yelled, a mix of despair and deep disgust. “No. This is a nightmare. A wet, disgusting nightmare.”

She looked at the tiny, but symbolically catastrophic stain on the beautiful linen pants. It was the irrefutable proof of her fundamental inadequacy—she had failed at the most primitive task the male universe could demand.

For a moment, she seriously considered sitting down. It was safer, more civilized. But her pride—or what remained of it—screamed louder. Sitting would mean defeat. It would mean accepting that this body wasn’t really hers.

“No. You’re going to learn,” she growled at the reflection in the shower glass. John’s face stared back, impassive, but in the eyes she saw her own panic. “You’re going to master this… rebellious hose. That’s what we do, John. He would have the precision of a sniper.”

The second attempt was made with the fierce determination of someone fighting an existential battle with their own anatomy. It worked—mostly. The target was hit with a satisfying sound. A sigh of relief so deep escaped her lips it almost sounded like a moan.

She washed her hands for an almost ritualistic amount of time, scrubbing her skin as if she could erase not only the mess, but the memory of the incident. When she looked in the mirror again, John’s face seemed a bit paler, the eyes a bit sunken.

“Getting dressed was another kind of torture,” she thought, avoiding the sight of the stained pants, which she folded and hid deep in the closet like a shameful secret. “But nothing, nothing compared to the humiliating bathroom ritual.”

When she put on the wristwatch, her fingers—his fingers—handled the clasp with a dexterity she did not possess. The woody, subtle cologne wrapped around her—it was the scent of the man of her dreams. And now it was her scent. It was like being in a constant, agonizing state of distorted self-infatuation, interrupted by logistical nightmares involving imaginary urinals.

In the dining room, the air smelled of expensive coffee and family tension. Klaus watched everyone over the edge of the newspaper with that usual predatory smile. Rebekah sipped her tea with an elegance Lívia would never possess. And Elijah stood by the window, his profile cut against the light—the living embodiment of melancholy and control.

Hayley frowned when she saw John coming down the stairs. “Something about him is… different. Heavier.”

He turned when she entered, and his eyes—her own eyes—rested on her. It was a dizzying sensation. As if the universe had folded in on itself.

“John,” Elijah greeted with a brief nod. “I hope you rested. We have a demanding day ahead.”

She sat down. The shoulders aligned on their own, as if the body remembered something she desperately wished it wouldn’t.

“I’m ready,” she said.

And she hated how convincing it sounded.

Pretending was her primary skill now.

Klaus lowered the newspaper with that half-smile that always came before disasters.

“The clone is serious today. Pretty posture, tragic expression… careful, Elijah, you’re about to lose your title.”

Rebekah’s laugh chimed softly inside her teacup.

John sat down, grabbed the coffee, and tried to drink without looking too human.

The spoon hit the rim. The sound was loud. Or maybe it was just him breaking inside.

“I dreamed about trucks,” he said.

Silence.

Not even a smile.

The kind of silence that kills faster than a stake.

Lívia felt her heart beating faster. It was the body reacting to danger, to Klaus’s sharpened perception.

It had been an inside joke, a muffled scream from her soul. No one understood.

Rebekah studied her for a moment. “He’s right. You are different. It’s the posture. You look… more serious.”

Every day, the mirror took longer to give her face back.

Elijah appeared first, and that terrified her. Each passing day, the risk of losing herself—of Professor Lívia being swallowed by the persona “John” and by the echoes of the original vampire—grew exponentially.

In the library, finally alone, Lívia let the mask fall. Her shoulders—no, his shoulders—curved under the weight of the truth. Her fingers ran across the spines of ancient books. These volumes were older than her parents. Her former life, with noisy teenagers and lonely nights with instant noodles, felt like a distant tale.

The grimoire flipped open on its own with a dry snap.
“The canvas of the universe seeks to repaint itself, erasing the new stroke to restore the old design. Habit solidifies into marble, sculpting you into another’s image. Beware: if you are not the sculptor, you will be the statue. Continue like this and soon not even the instant noodles will recognize you.”

Lívia spun around sharply. The book snapped shut with a thud, as if it were laughing.

The library was too quiet.

The kind of quiet that didn’t belong in the Mikaelson mansion.

The air dropped a degree, and a subtle smell of ancient earth and unstable magic drifted through the room like a warning.

John’s body reacted before the mind did: spine straightening, shoulder tensing, heart racing…

He wasn’t alone.

The wood creaked behind her in a deliberate way—the sound of someone who had never known, nor ever cared to know, how to be discreet.

Kol Mikaelson lounged against the doorway, arms crossed, wearing a smile that was 60% charm, 30% threat, and 10% homicidal boredom. Perfect.

“I knew there was something off about you,” he said, tilting his head as if examining a defective museum piece. “But… this is even better than I imagined.”

John froze, the grimoire still in his hands. “...What do you want, Kol?”

“I want to see,” he declared, circling forward like a shark assessing a potential meal. “I want to see how far the resemblance goes.”

“Resemblance?”

Kol pointed at John’s face. “You. The pocket-sized Elijah.”

“I’m not—”

“No?” Kol cut in with fake surprise. “Really? Because you walk like him. You breathe like him. You even tilt your head that irritating way when you think.” He stepped closer—so close John could smell the ancient earth and unstable magic on him. “And I… want to know how far those functions go.”

“Kol—”

“Relax, clone,” he laughed, short and sharp. “I just want to test a theory.”

He reached out and slid a finger along John’s shoulder—slow, assessing the fabric, the posture, the muscle tension. “When Elijah is about to strike,” he whispered, pressing gently, “this muscle right here goes rigid, like steel about to snap.”

The reaction came immediately—a golden pulse, subtle but visible, running across the collarbone.

Kol stepped back, surprised and intensely intrigued. “Ah…” he breathed, a dangerous gleam in his eyes. “So it’s true.”

“Kol…” John’s voice failed.

The smile spreading over Kol’s lips was slow, dangerous, and deeply curious. “The gold. Magic that doesn’t belong to any Mikaelson. Magic that doesn’t belong to this world.” He tilted his head, studying John like a newly discovered artifact. “And it responds to touch.”

John’s heart jumped. Much more than it should have.

Kol noticed. “Oh… this is going to be fun,” he murmured.

He turned away with a dramatic flourish. “See you soon, clone. I’m going to enjoy breaking you just enough to find out how you work on the inside.”

He vanished, leaving John alone with the echo of his touch on the skin—and the grimoire vibrating as if laughing.

“Problem detected,” the book whispered dryly. “The chaotic Mikaelson has taken interest. Statistically, 87% chance of disaster. 13% chance of entertaining chaos.”

John rubbed his face. “I just wanted a normal body,” he muttered.

The golden magic tingled at his fingertips as if answering: Not today.

Silence fell over the library again, heavy and oppressive.

But it wasn’t the light, mischievous silence Kol left behind.

This one was dense. Cold.

As if the air had been drained of color and warmth.

The kind of silence that announced only one person:

someone who didn’t walk—he condemned the floor beneath him.

The voice came from the library entrance. Finn stood there, watching the scene with a disgust so deep it seemed physical.

“Seeing two abominations playing at discovering their circus tricks… it’s like watching a broken mirror trying to reflect another broken mirror.”

John turned, still shaking. “Finn…”

“Spare me,” he snapped, taking a step forward. His movements were still stiff, as if the body resisted every command. “You let that fool touch you and provoke you, while I struggle to keep my soul intact in this prison of flesh you forced me to inhabit.”

The hatred in Finn’s eyes was so palpable the air seemed to grow heavier.

“Remember this, clone: while you play with your newfound golden power, I’m here reminding everyone what it means to be a true Mikaelson. Something you will never be.”

Finn turned to leave.

That’s when John moved.

No rush.
No fear.
And, of course, no sense of self-preservation.

He took two steps and blatantly invaded Finn’s personal space, standing so close the Original had no choice but to look him in the eye.

“You done?” John asked, in a tone far too light.
“Because honestly, you’ve been complaining since the moment I brought you back.”

Finn’s eyes narrowed.
“You—”

“Yes, me. The one who resurrected you.”
John lifted a finger and pointed at Finn’s chest as if scolding someone about leaving wet towels on the bed.

“And I even did you a favor, okay? I put you in a witch body, not a vampire one. Because I know you hate being a vampire. I thought, ‘Hmm, let me make life easier for this walking tragedy.’”

He raised his hands theatrically.

“But no, of course, nothing is ever good enough for the Prince of Eternal Resentment.”

Finn went still—and that was infinitely more threatening than any outburst of rage.

John, however, kept going—because he truly had no survival instinct.

“So please, put in the bare minimum effort and enjoy your second chance. Because you spent what, nine hundred years napping in a coffin? Then you got fifteen minutes of freedom and… bam! Died again.”

Finn clenched his jaw.

John gave him a quick pat on the shoulder—bold, suicidal, very him.

“So stop whining, Finn. Seriously. Enjoy the new life. And stop being such a pain.”

Silence.

The lethal kind.

Finn took a slow breath, like someone holding back the urge to turn another person into a pile of dust.

“You…”
His voice was low.
“…are insufferable.”

John flashed a sweet—poisonous—smile.
“I know. But now you’ve got time to get used to it.”

Finn left the room without another word.

But the door slammed harder than necessary.

John stood there, breathing deeply—the adrenaline draining slowly from his body.

“Yeah,” he muttered to himself.
“That definitely could’ve ended with me becoming mashed potatoes.”

The library felt bigger.
And he… a little less small.

John stood still, his hand still trembling where Kol had touched him, the echo of both brothers’ threat and curiosity burning against his skin.

The library felt larger, emptier.

And he, smaller than ever.

Post-Credits Scene

The library was finally free of homicidal Mikaelsons, existential crises, and veiled threats. Only John remained, along with the smell of ancient dust and the grimoire that insisted on pulsing as if it had its own heartbeat.

John let his body collapse into the armchair, sinking as if trying to merge with the upholstery. He ran a hand over his face, then through his hair, then over any random spot he could pretend he was “fixing,” when in reality he was just postponing a breakdown.

“So,” he began, staring at the grimoire on the table with the expression of someone facing an overdue bill. “The day hasn’t even started and I’m already being hunted by a curious Kol, insulted by an existentially sour Finn, and I had to fight my own anatomy. Again. This is what they call a second chance? ’Cause it feels like a prank.”

The grimoire opened on its own, a page flipping with arrogance.

“Advice: abandon all hope,” it wrote in shimmering golden letters.

John scoffed. “Wow, thanks, enlightened paper guru. Super helpful. Do you maybe have a chapter called ‘How Not to Get Punched by Original Brothers While Trying Not to Pee on Yourself’?”

A new line appeared instantly.

“Volume II. Out of stock.”

He clutched his chest, dramatic. “Out of stock. Even the magic book gives up on me. Great. Fantastic. Beautiful.”

The golden magic vibrated at his fingertips, as if giggling.

“Don’t start,” he warned, pointing at his own glowing wrist. “I have enough problems without you trying to become my mascot. If you keep flickering like that, someone’s gonna think I’m about to explode. Again.”

The grimoire vibrated once more, lightly.

“Update: 92% chance of imminent chaos. Suggestion: accept.”

“I accept nothing!” John jumped to his feet so fast the chair almost toppled. “I just wanted one day, ONE day, without a Mikaelson sticking their nose where it doesn’t belong, without a dumb magical book speaking in riddles, without the universe trying to mold me like some emotionally unstable wax figure!”

The pages shifted slowly, like someone cracking their knuckles before giving terrible advice.

“Recommendation: set the playground on fire.”

John froze. Breathed. Looked at the book like he genuinely had to confirm he’d read that right.

“…You want me arrested, don’t you? Or dead. Or roasted alive by Elijah. Because that recommendation, my dear book, is deluxe suicide.”

The letters shimmered again.

“Still… it would be fun.”

John covered his eyes, defeated. “I am arguing with a needy book. Literally debating my fate with a paper object that has more personality than I do. This is my life now.”

He closed the grimoire with a dramatic smack.

“Anyway,” he sighed, throwing his head back. “Let’s go. If the universe wants chaos, I’ll bring the chaos. But if I die, I’m throwing you into the fire with me, you hear?”

The grimoire flipped open one last time.

“Promise accepted.”

John blinked. “No. No, that wasn’t for accepting. That was a threat. A THREAT! You can’t just—”

The lamp flickered, the floor trembled lightly, and an uncomfortable aura thickened the air—like someone extremely powerful was about to walk into the library.

John’s eyes widened.

“…See? The day hasn’t even STARTED.”

He whispered to the grimoire, still closed on the table:

“You… you sound different sometimes. In my head. And other times, the words appear in the book. Why the inconsistency? Is it some kind of energy limitation? Does it depend on my emotional state?”

He waited, listening hard for that wise, ethereal voice inside his mind.

Nothing.

A whole minute passed. The aura at the door felt closer.

“Hello? Book? Grimoire? You hearing me?”

With a sharp snap, louder and more dramatic than necessary, the grimoire opened on its own. The ebony quill that always rested on it lifted, dipped into an invisible inkwell, and began to write in handwriting noticeably relaxed—almost sloppy.

The words formed slowly:

“Today… I’m too lazy for telepathy. The mental channel is under maintenance. Use your eyes.”

John stared, frozen for a second.

“…Are you serious? You—an ancient cosmic artifact of immeasurable power, a repository of ancestral wisdom—are LAZY?”

The quill wrote again, even slower:

“Every sentient being has its days. Come back tomorrow. Maybe the desire to echo inside your skull will return.”

“But there’s probably a pissed Mikaelson coming right now! I need quick advice! Fast answers!”

“Suggestion:” the grimoire wrote, lettering that now looked like it was yawning,
“Run. Scream. Effective and requires no mental processing. Now hush. I’m at a good part of my cosmic daydream.”

The quill dropped sideways onto the page, motionless. The grimoire radiated a definitive conversation over energy.

John looked toward the door, where footsteps were already audible, then back at the inert book.

“Incredible,” he muttered to himself. “My strongest magical ally is a millennia-old cyber-teenager. Perfect. Absolutely perfect.”

He braced himself for whatever was coming through that door, feeling that of all the supernatural threats he’d faced, the selective laziness of a magical object was by far the most unsettling.

Chapter Text

The library door creaked as it opened, cutting through the silence Kol and Finn had left behind. John could barely process the double threat when Elijah appeared in the doorway, the picture of absolute composure.

He held the keys to a discreet sedan with the same ease he would wield a dagger.

“John,” Elijah said, with that voice that sounded like a three-piece suit. A command disguised as an invitation. “Come with me. The meeting location has been changed.”

“Changed?” John asked, feeling the tingling on his shoulder where Kol’s fingers had pressed. The skin still burned. “To where? The cemetery was already crowded?”

Elijah didn’t even blink. “An abandoned warehouse on the waterfront,” he replied, turning with a fluid movement. The expectation that John would follow hung in the air. Of course, he obeyed. “The witches feel… constrained by the mansion’s defenses. They prefer a more neutral territory.”

John quickened his pace, his shoes echoing awkwardly on the marble floor. “And we’re giving in? I thought your politics were more ‘blood and tears.’”

Elijah stopped at the front door. “When you’re fishing for sharks, John, sometimes you must enter the water. The location has its own symbolism for the witches. It’s… theatrical.” A shadow of disdain crossed his eyes. “And they do love a bit of drama.”

Inside the car, the world smelled like expensive leather and bad decisions. Elijah drove with precision, his hands steady on the wheel as New Orleans slid past the window.

“What kind of alliance is this, exactly?” John broke the muffled silence, the unease growing in his chest. “The ‘I’ll look the other way if you do’ type, or are we already at the ‘bear hug with a hedgehog’ level?”

“The kind that overlooks certain… transgressions in exchange for loyalty,” Elijah replied, eyes fixed on the road as if reading invisible threats in the asphalt. “Survival, John, often requires pacts with the demons we know.”

“Oh, great. So it is a demonic pact. For a moment I thought it might be something wrong.”

Elijah ignored the remark, his silence sharper than any retort.

The abandoned warehouse on the waterfront didn’t need a sign. The smell was enough—old rust, soil soaked with melancholic things, and the metallic ghost of thousands of deaths, clinging to the air from blocks away. The space was cavernous, damp, with the light of a single hanging bulb struggling against the darkness, casting long, sickly shadows on the exposed brick walls.

Three witches awaited, wrapped in clothes that looked woven from cobweb and shadow. The eldest, Josephine LaRue, looked at Elijah with a respect that barely hid the venom of distrust.

“Elijah. You brought your… apprentice?” Her gaze slid to John, evaluating him as if he were a grain of sand in the shoe of a god. He felt her stare rummaging through the guts of his soul, and he didn’t like what she seemed to find.

“John is an integral part of our operations,” Elijah declared, his voice echoing in the vast space like a tolling bell. “I’ve come to make an offer. Full Mikaelson protection.”

One of the younger witches, a redhead with sharp eyes and a sharper smile, let out a dry laugh that echoed like a neck snapping. “Protection? Like last time?”

“The terms are different,” Elijah continued, beginning a slow, calculated circle around them, a predator assessing its prey. “In exchange for unquestionable loyalty against our common enemy, the Mikaelson family will overlook any… magical experiments you deem necessary.”

Josephine LaRue stared at Elijah with eyes that had seen centuries of betrayal.

The redhead snorted.

“And what does that include, exactly? Looking away from everything?”

Elijah didn’t blink.

John felt his stomach twist before the answer even came. He took a step forward, his voice coming out louder than he intended:

“Let me get this straight. If tomorrow a dozen heartless tourists show up in the Quarter, we just pretend Mardi Gras came early?”

Silence.

Josephine slowly turned to him. She opened a small, almost maternal smile, and pulled from her pocket a simple necklace with thirteen small human teeth—white, perfectly clean. She swung it gently, like someone shaking a rattle.

“Always thirteen, dear,” she whispered. “Never twelve.”

The necklace jingled. A childish sound. Horrifying.

Elijah kept looking straight ahead, as if he hadn’t heard a thing.

The pact was made.

In the car, the silence was thicker and dirtier than before. John watched the city go by, feeling the weight of the agreement settle in his bones like soot.

“So, just to be clear,” he said after several blocks of oppressive quiet. “We’re officially on the ‘ends justify the means’ team now. Blood rituals, all approved. Everything fine as long as it’s not us. That it?”

Elijah kept his eyes on the road, his profile a monument to radical pragmatism. “Against Dahlia, we need every weapon. Even the stained ones.”

“And the moral tab? We just ignore the part where people become fuel for witchcraft?”

“John,” Elijah said, and for the first time his voice carried a thread of weariness, a sliver of the immense age he bore. “Morality is a luxury. One we cannot afford when facing extinction. Forget it, if you wish to see tomorrow.”

When they entered the mansion, John stopped in the foyer, surrounded by the silent opulence that suddenly felt like a lie. Then a sharp stab—a hot tear inside the muscle near his collarbone—made him stumble against the wall.

“Shit!”

He expected to feel blood, but there was none. Only intact skin and the furious throbbing of golden magic beneath it.

The grimoire’s voice reached him then, not as a whisper, but as if coming through fogged glass:

“Subtle touch… very subtle. She tried to mark you.”

John clenched his teeth. “Who? What?”

“The redhead. The young one. While your Original spoke, she tied a tracking thread to you. To follow you.”

A wave of heat ran down John’s arm. A golden glow pulsed beneath the skin of his forearm.

“And the pain? Is this her spell?”

“No.” The grimoire’s voice sounded clearer, but exhausted. “This is you. Your… reaction. The magic does not like being touched. It not only rejected the spell… it returned it. Burned her. She feels it now. And she knows you failed.”

John stopped in the middle of the stairs, hand pressed to his shoulder. The pain was easing, but the meaning of those words sank deep.

“You could’ve warned me. Before.”

“Pain is the warning,” the grimoire replied, voice fading again. “Learn the language… if you wish to survive here.”

In the hallway, Hayley approached with Hope on her hip. She stopped when she saw him, studying him.

“You’re pale,” she said bluntly. “And you’ve got your hand on your shoulder. Magic?”

John nodded, body still vibrating. “Something like that. Elijah made a pact with the witches. And I… was the bait and the target.”

Hayley watched him for a moment, her eyes reading more than he said. “Grow eyes in the back of your head, John. And don’t trust silence. That’s when they’re working.”

“I’ll remember that,” he said, and the weight on his chest felt a little lighter, shared.

When Hayley turned the corner and disappeared, John sighed and resumed climbing the stairs, each step an effort. The pain in his shoulder had faded to a muffled throb, but the exhaustion was total—a soul-deep fatigue, not just physical.

He had barely set foot on the upper landing when an obnoxiously cheerful voice cut through the silence.

“Looks like someone went to the circus and came back as the sad clown of the party!”

Kol was leaning against a doorway, arms crossed, a mocking smile on his face. He seemed to have materialized from the shadows, as always. “So, I heard rumors about a filthy little pact. Let me guess: big brother put you on the front line to catch the stray spells, and you, being the good little hunting dog, wagged your tail and barked at the scary witches.”

John stopped. He didn’t turn immediately. He felt the day’s fatigue harden into something sharp inside his chest. The irritation from the entire day—Kol’s fingers earlier, Finn’s threat, the violation at the warehouse, the immoral pact, the pain in his shoulder—peaked.

He turned slowly and faced Kol. John’s eyes, usually full of confusion or defensive sarcasm, were now flat and cold.

“Shut up, Kol.” John’s voice came out low, but sharp as a shard of glass. No explosive rage, just the final edge of exhaustion. “Go bother some other idiot. I’ve had a shitty day.”

Kol’s smile didn’t vanish, but it froze at the corners, becoming sharper, more intrigued. A spark of genuine curiosity lit his eyes. He pushed off the doorframe, posture relaxed, yet senses alert.

“Oh?” Kol whispered, stepping closer. “Our little lamb has learned to show its teeth? This is becoming truly entertaining.”

John didn’t back down. He simply held Kol’s gaze, the golden magic in his shoulder pulsing softly as if in agreement.

“Entertaining,” John repeated, emotionless. “That’s what you call all of this. Go entertain yourself far away from me.”

This time, Kol stayed silent for a moment, assessing the change in the man before him. John used the pause to turn and continue walking down the hall, leaving Kol watching him—his earlier boredom gone, replaced by renewed and dangerous interest.

The pain in his shoulder finally eased, turning into a persistent hum, like a lightbulb about to burst. The golden magic still glowed beneath his skin, but now it felt… annoyed. Grumbling. Like a cosmic cat slapped in the wrong direction.

“Great,” he muttered as he climbed the rest of the stairs. “First Kol tries to emotionally dismantle and stalk me, Finn wants to skin me alive, and now a mini-witch psychopath tries to install mystical GPS in my shoulder. I need to put this in a planner because I’m running out of space for trauma.”

The bedroom door creaked when he entered. The bed was perfectly made, as if prepared for a version of him who had any chance of sleeping. He sat heavily on the edge, taking a deep breath.

Silence.

But not the normal kind of mansion silence. The other kind. The one that felt like it was watching.

“If you have questions,” the grimoire murmured, its voice a slow drag.

John ran his hands through his hair, frustrated.
“Okay. Great. Let’s start from the basics: why did she mark me? Why me? I didn’t even talk to her!”

“Because witches perceive what vampires ignore,” the grimoire replied. “They feel your dissonance. The echo. The soul misaligned with the body.”

John froze.
“So… they know.”

“They do not know enough,” the grimoire corrected, like an overly patient teacher. “Only that there is a tear. A fracture.”

“Perfect,” John huffed. “More reasons for them to hunt me.”

The golden magic crackled under his skin—like thunder laughing at him.

John/Lívia stopped in front of the mirror.

He took a moment.

A long one.

He breathed deeply, trying to gather the courage that always slipped away whenever he looked at that face that wasn’t his.

“Okay… here we go… daily horror show…”

He lifted his chin.

The reflection lifted too, of course.

But the eyes…

The eyes never looked like his.
Not hers.

They looked… occupied.

“I’m not supposed to be here,” John/Lívia murmured. He wasn’t sure anymore.

The golden magic glowed at the base of his throat, as if answering:

But you are. And you cannot go back.

John stepped back, the threat in the reflection following him.

“Great. Now even my own face comments on my life.”

He dropped onto the bed, covering his face with his hands.

“I just wanted… one second away from all of this. From Mikaelsons. From witches. From pacts. From magic. From reflections that look at me sideways.”

Silence.

Then a soft reply.

But it didn’t come from the grimoire.

It came from him.

Or her.

Or both.

“Survive. Think later.”

It was bad advice.

It was real advice.

And it was all they had.

Elsewhere, the high moon over the Cemetery of the Garden District Ancestors witnessed Freya Mikaelson walking in silence, her black cloak brushing the damp grass. She had come seeking answers—she had felt a crack in the magical web of New Orleans.

The voices of two young witches made her stop.
“…Klaus is desperate,” one murmured, glancing around nervously. “He offered protection in exchange for help. Wants us to combine power to kill her.”

“Her?”

“Dahlia.”

The name echoed in Freya’s chest like spreading ice. She stepped back—the snap of a twig made the witches go silent. When they turned, she was already gone.

On top of a mausoleum, her blue eyes fixed on the sleeping city.
“So foolish, little brother…” she murmured, almost in lament. “To think you can face Dahlia without understanding the price.”

The wind blew harder, making her cloak flutter like wings. Beneath the hardness, there was tenderness. Love. Fear.

Freya felt the city’s magic vibrating beneath her feet, restless like a heart about to collapse. Dahlia’s name still pulsed in her mind like a burning mark.

She raised her hand, drawing another rune in the air. The symbol glowed with a cold, almost cruel light.

“If Dahlia truly set foot on this soil…” her lips curved into something between pain and resolve, “then what’s coming isn’t war. It’s a collection of debts.”

The wind rose, lifting her cloak as if the night wanted to hide her.
Freya didn’t move.

“Gather the family…” she murmured, bitterness threading through her voice. “What irony.”

The rune exploded in light, dissolving into the air like sparks from an ancient fire.

Post-Credits Scene:

The room was drowned in silence, except for John’s light, uneven snoring—exhausted, thrown on the bed in whatever position he landed, one leg hanging off the sheet, his hand still gripping his aching shoulder.

On the bedside table, the grimoire was closed.

Or seemed to be.

Suddenly, the covers trembled.

A low crack, like bones settling.

The pages opened on their own, slowly, with the sound of old paper being forced to breathe.

An invisible quill began to scratch—scraping across the parchment with feverish haste, as if it were afraid of being caught in the act.

Classification: Forbidden to the Host

Current location: Beta’s room — 03:17 AM

Grimoire status: tired as fuck, but I can’t sleep

Today I was afraid.

Truly.

Not of the witches, not of the stupid pact, not of Dahlia knocking on the door with the thousand-year-late bill.

I was afraid of him.

Of my own host.

I felt her soul again.

Lívia.

A name far too small for so much weight.

When the little redhead tried to mark the body, the golden magic burned the witch, yes.

But what no one felt was the sound.

The sound of her soul scraping against the edge of the seal.

A creak.

Like glass about to shatter.

If that spell had been the tiniest bit stronger…

She would have been pulled out.

And John would have dropped dead on the spot.

And I… I would’ve turned to dust along with him.

Because this body is my ceiling, my floor, my golden cage.

And it’s cracking.

I am the golden thread that stitches you together from the inside.

Every stitch Lívia pulls to return is a stitch ripped out of my flesh.

If the patch tears apart…

I become just a loose thread on the floor.

And no one ever sews me back.

Today, while he stared at the mirror and gave up trying to recognize his own face…

I saw.

From the corner of the page, I saw.

Lívia looked back.

From behind his eyes.

A shadow crying inward.

If this continues, the body will crack.

And from the shattered pieces something will be born… hell if I know what.

Something whole.

Or something too broken to have a name.

I should run while I still can.

Jump to another page, seal myself, toss myself into the fire.

But I won’t.

Because I want to see.

I want to see what remains when the magic stops protecting and starts choosing.

I’ve never been so scared…

nor so curious.

— Secret Archive of the Grimoire

(self-sealed until further notice)

(if the Beta tries to open this page, burn your own cover in his face)

The quill stopped.

The page shut itself with a sharp snap.

The grimoire went back to looking like just an old dusty book.

John mumbled in his sleep, turning to the other side.

And, deep within the pages, a single golden rune pulsed—faint, but satisfied.

Chapter Text

The room smelled like old dust and ambition. John stood in front of a standing blackboard he’d stolen from the library. The dark surface was covered in chaotic notes, scribbled in white and red chalk.

At the top, it read: “MIKAELSON SURVIVAL: Instruction Manual (If I Don’t Self-Destruct First)”

His finger traced a particular line, written in red:

Imitantor Pupulus – Mimicry Spell
(Test with Kol — if it goes to shit, it’s his problem.)

invisique – invisible

The grimoire, lying open on the bed, made a noise of pure boredom.

“Seriously?” the voice echoed in John’s mind. “You’re gonna play mad scientist with the Tribrid’s magic? The girl hasn’t even grown up yet and you’re already trying to copy her future homework. What’s wrong with you, Beta?”

John ignored the comment, picking up the chalk.

“Kol’s gonna love this idea,” he whispered to himself, drawing a rough diagram. “He’s the only one who treats magic like his own personal amusement park. If anyone’s going to help me test this without turning me over to Klaus, it’s him.”

That’s when the grimoire’s tone changed completely—dropping the mockery and gaining a metallic urgency.

“Hey, Beta,” it whispered, now in warning mode. “Forget the science fair project. Prep your crazy-person speech, because the Firstborn is on her way and you’re the clown who has to announce her.”

John frowned, dropping the chalk and moving closer to the bed. A chill ran down his spine—not from fear, but from irritation. The shift was abrupt—from active planning to passive reception of bad news.

“How do you know that?” he muttered under his breath. “Since when do books gossip about people arriving? I didn’t feel anything.”

The grimoire sighed, impatient:

“I know, you golden idiot, because you know. Or rather—the body knows. This second-hand Mikaelson shell of yours has magic running in its veins, even if you like to pretend you’re just a scared little human. When a witch of their blood steps into the same city, it’s like someone throwing a stone into a lake. The ripples hit you.”

John frowned deeper. “And why don’t I feel anything?”

“Because you’re stubborn. And stupid. Activate that damn magic, Beta. Let it breathe a little. The little witch is here—and the whole city is screaming it.”

John made a face, half disbelieving, half terrified. His hand, which moments ago was drawing a control diagram, now tightened on the edge of the bed.

“Great. I’m a Mikaelson antenna now. All that’s missing is picking up AM radio.”

“Sometimes, you do.”

And then—as if that comment itself flipped a switch—something loosened at the back of his mind. A name, ringing like a bell at the bottom of a lake he didn’t even know existed: Freya.

The knowledge came not like a memory, but as an instinctive certainty—something Lívia had always known. The lost daughter. The sacrificed firstborn.

His stomach twisted. His eyes shot to the blackboard.

Suddenly, that theoretical experiment looked desperately necessary and completely useless at the same time.

How was he supposed to warn the Mikaelsons? How do you explain knowledge that just materializes out of nowhere?

“Speak like a prophet—like the other times,” the grimoire added, with a mockery that almost sounded like cruel encouragement. “Madness is the disguise of those who know too much.”

John let out a low, rough laugh. His eyes drifted from the messy diagram on the board to the door, imagining the hall filled with millennia-old vampires and their eternal suspicion.

It was a dangerous piece of advice.
But it was the only one he had.
The role of the visionary lunatic was fragile, but maybe it was the only anchor he had left.

“I’m screwed…” he murmured to himself, with a sad smile. “I’m gonna need a vacation after this madness.”

The war room of the mansion was an ancient stage.
The mahogany table, scarred by centuries, was covered with maps and scrolls. Candlelight cast shifting shadows, turning the siblings’ faces into masks flickering between light and darkness.

Elijah, immaculate in his suit, looked carved out of restraint. His hands rested on the table, perfectly still, but the tightness in his knuckles betrayed him. Carrying a family of selfish titans was a burden he upheld with his usual, exhausting dignity.

“Marcel has accepted the alliance,” he announced, his voice calm despite everything. “He will fight against Dahlia at our side.”

Klaus, lounging in his chair like a king seated on a throne of thorns, let out a short, humorless laugh. “Of course he accepted. The witch threatens his little kingdom as much as ours. He’s a pragmatic rat, not an ally.”

“He imposed a condition,” Elijah continued, ignoring him. “Davina. He wants to see her before the battle to ensure her well-being. He agreed she will only be returned after the threat has been neutralized.”

Kol, who had been spinning a dagger between his fingers, dropped the blade onto the table with a loud clang. “Ridiculous. He’s using us. Offering muscle while keeping the most valuable weapon to himself. We’re playing his little game.”

Rebekah, seated between them, placed a gentle hand on Kol’s arm. “We need every ally we can get, Kol. Even him.”

It was Hayley, standing by the cold fireplace, who voiced the most unsettling thought. Her eyes, wide with worry, swept across each of their faces. “And what if it’s already too late? Dahlia doesn’t knock at the door. She’s the fog that seeps through the cracks.”

The argument sparked again like dry straw catching fire. Kol talking too much, Klaus mocking everything, Elijah trying — hopelessly — to impose order.

The argument reignited. Kol exaggerated, Klaus mocked, Elijah tried to herd the chaos.

Finn remained elsewhere. Something in the air tugged at him in a way the others didn’t sense. “There’s something… different,” he murmured, barely audible.

John watched everything in silence, leaning against the doorframe, the grimoire held tightly against his chest. The book pulsed — not with magic, but with the weight of every lie he was struggling to balance.

If I tell them what I know, they’ll suspect me. If I say I don’t know, they’ll ignore me.
So… how about a little theatre?

The thought came dry, accompanied by the metallic laugh of the grimoire inside his skull.

“Go on, you bargain-bin prophet. Lose your mind with style.”

John took a deep breath, pretending to tremble. Let the book slip slightly from his hands, its pages fanning open in a blur of symbols.
He stepped forward. Pretended the floor was slipping out from under him.

The Mikaelsons’ voices fell quiet one by one.
Now all eyes were on him.

He lifted his head slowly — eyes slightly unfocused, body rigid. An old trick, learned the hard way: speak with someone else’s voice without letting them realize it’s just a ruse.

“The blood… lost…”

The phrase came out hoarse, as if spoken from far away.

“…is coming.”

The silence that followed was almost physical. Even Klaus seemed to hold his breath.

“The broken bond has been reforged in forgetfulness. Those given in exchange… will return to the table.”

Kol raised an eyebrow, incredulous. “Our little seer decided to turn poet? Is that supposed to scare us or put us to sleep?”
But there was a nervous edge beneath the mockery.

Klaus leaned forward in his chair, eyes narrowing. “Delusional charlatan.”
His tone was pure disdain — but his gaze betrayed curiosity.
He was listening.

John kept the performance going, voice trembling, posture uneven — as if struggling against his own mind.

“And the price the mother paid…”
He paused, letting the air thicken.
“…will now be collected.”

Silence again. Heavy. Dense.
Elijah said nothing — simply watched him, examining every microexpression, every breath. John felt the weight of that scrutiny and knew the game he was playing was far too dangerous.

So he feigned weakness. Stumbled slightly, rubbed his face with trembling hands, let his tone collapse back into something human.

“Sorry. I… I don’t know what that was. I just… felt something strange.”

The tension eased. Kol laughed, Klaus rolled his eyes.
But Elijah did not look away.

And Finn… Finn had gone pale as wax.
The name had not been spoken, but he felt it. Her.

Later, Rebekah found him in the hallway, pulling him aside with unexpected force.

“What you said in there… where did that come from? Was it a dream? Did you dream of her?”

John drew a deep breath, maintaining the fragile façade of madness.

“The house whispers, Rebekah. There are voices in the walls.”
He offered her a small, sad, ambiguous smile.
“Maybe the dead aren’t as dead as we think. Maybe… they want to come back.”

She released him slowly, torn between belief and fear. It was enough.
He had planted doubt.
The rest would grow on its own.

Upstairs, Hope began to cry — a sharp, desperate wail that made Hayley run to the crib.

The air in the nursery was different — heavy, vibrating.
Her wolf blood reacted first, but the baby’s blood answered.
An invisible echo. A call.

And John, alone in the hallway, heard the grimoire laugh softly at the back of his mind.

“Bravo, prophet. The play begins.”

Night had settled over the mansion like a velvet cloak, studded with the cold shimmer of stars. John stood in the garden at the edge of the forest, the grimoire open in his hands. The night air smelled of magnolia and damp earth. Beautiful. Sad, in a way he couldn’t name.

He didn’t need light to read.
The pages turned themselves, stirred by an invisible breeze, until they stopped on a page where a single line glowed in phosphorescent gold:

The forgotten blood requests passage.

John lifted his gaze toward the darkness beyond the property line.
The forest seemed to hold its breath.
He felt a presence — not a threat, but a force ancient and powerful, approaching like the tide.

“She’s close,” he whispered into the night, his words swallowed by silence.

Then the breeze carried a sound.
Distant, almost imperceptible — but unmistakable: the soft, clear chiming of bells.
The same sound only he had heard before — the awakening of Freya.

He didn’t hear the quiet footsteps approaching.
Elijah appeared beside him, silent and still as one of the garden statues. He, too, looked toward the forest, his noble profile etched by moonlight.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke.
The air between them was heavy with unspoken truths and an inevitable future.

“These visions of yours…” Elijah finally said, voice soft but weighted with meaning. “They disturb the order of things. I do not enjoy it.”

John turned his head to look at him, a tired, sad half-smile tugging at his lips.
It was the expression of a man carrying messages he never asked to deliver.

He studied Elijah. The moon traced the Original’s face like the world itself had decided to sculpt him to perfection. It was annoying. Everything about Elijah was annoyingly correct.

“Maybe,” John said, his voice returning to normal at last, “that’s because the visions aren’t mine, Elijah. They belong to someone who hasn’t arrived yet.”

Elijah tilted his head slightly, examining him with the same methodical scrutiny he’d apply to an enemy, an ally… or a mistake.

John swallowed the discomfort. Then made a terrible decision — the first of many he’d make with this family.

He stepped forward.

Invaded Elijah’s personal space without permission.
Maybe more than was wise.
The Original, of course, remained perfectly still. A judging statue.

“Look,” John began, crossing his arms and staring up at him, “from what little I know about you… you’re irritating as hell.”

Elijah blinked.
Just once.
A microexpression.
But for someone carrying involuntary echoes of the original soul… it was like seeing a glitch in the matrix.

“I beg your pardon?” Elijah murmured, with that calm tone that meant the opposite.

“We look the same,” John went on, gesturing between them, “but you’ve got this… thing. This habit of talking like you’re narrating a medieval manuscript. Moving slow, measuring every word, acting like you always know the right answer.”

The grimoire cackled inside his head.

— YES! That’s it, Beta! Hit the prince of cashmere where it hurts!
Take another step. Go on. What could possibly go wrong?

John kept talking, ignoring it.

Elijah’s breath slowed. Not dangerous — not yet — but definitely attentive.

“And the worst part,” John continued, drawing another breath, “is how you categorize me.”

“I do not—”

“Yes, you do! Don’t deny it. I feel it. I see it. In the echoes.” He tapped his temple. “And before you ask: no, I don’t know how it works, and I hate it. But somehow, Elijah, I learn things about you without meaning to. And it’s annoying as hell.”

The grimoire grumbled, amused and exasperated.

— Oh, bravo. You’ve gone completely mad now.
Invading the personal space of the most mentally stable Mikaelson…
Lost your damn mind.
Want my advice and set the place on fire?
OR do you prefer dying politely?

John almost laughed out loud but held it in.

Elijah stayed silent.
A silence so pure and refined it might as well have been hand-polished.

John took another step closer — and now they were almost touching.
He felt Elijah’s barely contained pulse, the false calm, discipline forged like steel.

“You look at me like I’m a broken reflection,” John said quietly. “But the truth is, I see you too. And what I see…”

He hesitated.

“…is a man carrying expectations so heavy they’re twisting you from the inside.”
His voice softened.
“And you’re still trying to be perfect.”

Elijah inhaled slowly, almost imperceptibly.

“You speak with far too much boldness for someone who—”

“—who doesn’t know his place?” John cut in. “Elijah, I don’t have a place. I don’t belong anywhere. Not even to the body I’m using.”

The tension shifted.
Like the wind had changed direction.

For a moment — one brief, impossible moment — Elijah didn’t look like a statue.
He looked… human.

“Then perhaps,” Elijah said softly, “we should find that place. Before your… visions open more dangerous doors than they close.”

John let out a short laugh.

“Don’t worry. All the doors are already open. I’m just trying not to get run over while I walk through them.”

Elijah’s gaze drifted back to the forest — the same point where Freya’s presence still echoed.

“And the one who’s coming,” John murmured, feeling the magic pulling tight in his chest, “is not someone you can categorize, Elijah. Or control.”

Elijah remained still for a long time before he spoke.

“Then we must prepare. All of us.”

John tilted his head, a crooked smile forming.

“Does that include accepting the fact that I’m going to keep being irritating?”

Elijah closed his eyes for one moment.
Just one.

“Unfortunately,” he replied, resigned, “it appears so.”

Three Days Later – Freya in New Orleans
POV FREYA
French Quarter

Freya walked through the streets, hood pulled over her blonde hair. She wore clothes stolen from a clothesline — jeans, a black T-shirt, sneakers. A prepaid phone sat in her pocket, something she’d lifted off a teenager she’d robbed.

Text message (to an anonymous contact):
“Mikaelson compound. Address?”
Reply: “Compound. St. Anne’s. Careful. Wolves.”

Back at the mansion, before anyone could reply, a silent magical alarm rippled through the walls. It wasn’t the sharp sound of an attack, but a low, urgent hum — the kind that meant the outer wards had been touched. Elijah straightened instantly, all his senses snapping into place.

“Someone passed through the sentries,” he said, voice blade-sharp. “Without violence. As if… the defenses recognized them.”

The gates of the Compound stood slightly open, as though they had yielded to something too ancient to bar.

The Mikaelson family gathered in the hall. The air hung heavy.
Not even Hayley’s wolves dared to growl.

And then she appeared.

A solitary figure standing in the entrance. Tall, slender, simply dressed. She didn’t look like a threat — but the silence that walked in with her was centuries old.

Her brown eyes found Finn’s first.

No one breathed.

Moonlight fell across her pale, worn face… but still unmistakable.
An echo of Mikaelson blood, shaped by losses none of them had names for.

Freya took a hesitant step forward.

The house’s defenses vibrated — barely — like an instrument tuning itself after recognizing its original musician.

She held out her empty hands and spoke in a voice that sounded like it came from a place where hope had been buried too many times to count.

“The defenses… they sing to me. With the music of my own blood.”

The ground collapsed beneath Finn’s feet.

He brought a hand to his mouth as if he’d been struck.
He stepped back, then again, until the wall caught him.
His eyes were wide — not with fear, but recognition.
With love.
With loss.

“It’s… impossible…” he whispered, voice broken beyond any dignity.

Freya took another step. Light brushed her face — and the last mask fell.
Silent tears gathered but did not fall, as though even they had been punished by time.

“Finn…” she said. Only that. His name.
And inside it: a stolen childhood, an ancient longing, the shadow of a mother who betrayed them.

Finn let out a sound that didn’t belong to the centuries of careful coldness he had worn like armor.
It sounded like a man learning to feel again after a lifetime turned to stone.

He stepped forward, pulled by an invisible thread.

“Is it truly… you?”
The question sounded as though it had crossed a thousand years of mourning just to reach her.

Freya closed her eyes, and finally — a single tear fell.
Not running — falling.
Heavy. Inevitable.

“To save you,” she whispered.
“To save all of you. The price was simply… me.”

Silence.

A silence so deep it felt like even the wind stopped to listen.

Rebekah covered her mouth. Klaus looked away, uncertain for the first time.
Elijah lowered his head, as though witnessing something too sacred to face directly.

In the corner of the hall, John stood motionless.

And Finn — he was already on his knees, hand reaching out as if afraid she would disappear at his touch.

And when his palm met hers, the entire Compound seemed to hold its breath.

Post-Credits Scene –

A place where light does not tread.

Where even the air feels too old to exist.

Dahlia sits on a chair made of remnants no one would dare touch. She does not smile, does not draw a deep breath… she only waits, like someone who already knows the world will bow.

Before her, a single hourglass of dark sand.

The glass looks ordinary — but what lies inside is not sand.

It is the dust of everything she once denied the world.

She turns the hourglass.

The first grain falls.

The sound is dry, almost intimate.

Almost a warning.

She closes her eyes and inhales slowly, deeply, like someone savoring the scent of fresh blood after a thousand years of hunger.

“I felt it,” she whispers.

“A bell that should never have rung.
A blood I buried alive.”

She opens her eyes.

They are bottomless.

Merciless.

“Freya.”

The name leaves her lips like an ancient curse finally finding its intended victim.

She rises.

The ground withers under her steps.

Shadows bend.

“You’ve come home, my dear.”

A second grain falls.

“And you brought the whole family.”

A third grain.

“And the child.”

The smile that forms is so cold the air freezes around her lips.

“I will take back what is mine.”

She extends her hand.

The hourglass shatters in midair without a sound.

The ashes rise, swirling into a black vortex that pours into her mouth.

When she speaks again, her voice is no longer a voice.

It is the sound of a thousand winters arriving at once.

“The debt has begun.”

Darkness swallows everything.

Chapter Text

The air in the Mikaelson mansion’s foyer was heavy — the kind that only happens when ancient secrets share space with people who have already suffered too much. Faint light slipped through the curtains.

And in the midst of it, the oldest and most broken family in the world somehow looked even more tense.

Freya took a deep breath.
The sound almost got swallowed by the uncomfortable silence that filled the room.

Her eyes — clear like everyone else’s — moved from face to face.
Niklaus, rigid as always.
Elijah, too still.
Rebekah, her chin trembling just barely.

Finn… Finn looked like he’d just taken a punch to the soul.

It was the first time Freya had the chance to say all of that out loud.
No filters.
No Dahlia controlling her every move.

“I know that, to you, I’m almost a stranger…,” she began.
Her voice was soft, but firm enough not to shake.
“But to me, you’ve always been everything.”

She clasped her hands in front of her, fingers tightening.

“When I was born… you already know. Our mother was bound to the pact Dahlia forced on her: the price for the fertility spell was giving up the firstborn of every generation. And that child… was me.”

The siblings exchanged glances.

Freya took another breath.

“And instead of protecting me… Esther sacrificed me by giving me to Dahlia.”

This time her voice didn’t break, but she had to look up at the unlit chandelier, as if it were the only thing keeping her upright.

She closed her eyes for a moment before continuing.

“I was just a child when I realized my life would never belong to me. While you grew up, I spent years with Dahlia, only to learn… and suffer.”

Freya looked away, toward the extinguished fireplace.

“She said it was for my own good. That I was too powerful. But all she ever wanted was an obedient weapon.”

Freya ran a finger across a dusty piece of furniture, as if something in it confirmed everything she felt.
“I watched you from afar. Every tragedy, every victory. You were like… ghosts to me. Real and unreachable at the same time.”

Freya swallowed hard.

“When I finally found a way to escape, I feared you would reject me. After all… I was the sister who never existed to you.”
She let out a weak, bitter laugh. “But I had to try. I had to come back to my family.”

Elijah leaned forward slightly, his hands leaving the pockets of his immaculate suit — a nearly imperceptible gesture of acknowledgment.

The revelation still hovered in the air like a ghost with Freya Mikaelson standing there in front of them.

Finn… Finn had changed.
The pain on his face wasn’t his usual bitterness — it was new, raw.
Like a volcano deciding between erupting or collapsing.

He dragged a hand across his face, rubbing his eyes as if he could erase the image she had just painted.

“All my life… all my death… I carried hatred for our curse.”
His voice came out in a near whisper, shredded by emotion.
“And now I find out the root of everything was a lie? Mother didn’t protect us from a tragedy. She created one.”
He swallowed.
“She sold my sister.”

The sentence echoed off the walls.

And then, as always, when silence lasted too long… he appeared.

A low laugh, dripping with threat.

Klaus stepped out of the shadows as if he had been carved directly from them.

Hands in his pockets, slow steps — relaxed enough to be dangerous.

His eyes gleamed with something between amusement and pure suspicion.

“Forgive me,” he began, with that smooth voice that was always a prelude to chaos.
“But it seems to me that everyone here is far too eager to accept such a… convenient narrative.”

His blue gaze locked onto Freya, analyzing every tiny detail of her face, as if he could unmask her just by the way she breathed.

“A lost sister returning. A tale of sacrifice. A dark aunt. And all of it… conveniently—”
He raised a finger in a theatrical gesture.
“after our newest arrival predicted someone would show up.”

Then he turned slowly.

And his eyes fell on John, sunken into the leather armchair, trying to look smaller than he was.

“Coincidence?”
Klaus smiled, joyless.
“Please.”

Elijah shifted, adjusting his tie — an automatic gesture of worry.

“Niklaus—”

Klaus lifted a hand, cutting him off.
“Let me finish. I truly want to know.”

He focused all his attention back on Freya, his posture rigid, coiled like a threat waiting to be unleashed.

“Tell me, ‘sister’… who exactly sent you to us? This Dahlia? Or perhaps…”

His smile stretched slowly, savoring every word.

“…the same witch who created this one?”

He gave a slight nod toward John.

“The clone who conveniently brought the perfect prophecy announcing your arrival.”

The silence that followed was so sharp it felt like it could slice skin.

Rebekah swallowed, her eyes flicking between Klaus and Freya.

Finn went pale, his hand still trembling.

John felt the weight of every stare on him like a physical burden. The grimoire in his mind hummed — low, constant, like the warning rumble before an earthquake.

Klaus tilted his head, a scholar studying a peculiar experiment.

“So, Freya. Before we celebrate this family reunion… prove you’re not just another witch’s trap. Another illusion. Another story crafted to slip inside these walls.”

Freya’s eyes glimmered with pain — and power. She didn’t back down. Instead, she straightened, and the air around her seemed to vibrate faintly.

“Klaus,” she said, firm, each word a stone thrown. “If I wanted to kill you, I wouldn’t be here. And if I wanted to deceive you… I would’ve chosen a lie far less painful.”

Klaus gave a half-smile.

“We’ll see.”

The tension only broke when Kol appeared at the top of the stairs, descending with that old confidence of someone who always arrives when he shouldn’t.

He lifted his hands like a showman walking onto a chaotic stage.

“What a delicious atmosphere!” he announced, beaming. “I leave for five minutes and we’re already in a Shakespearean drama: conspiracies, a lost sister, Klaus picking on the clone… ah, how I’ve missed this.”

He stopped beside John, eyed Freya and Finn, and let out a low whistle.
“It’s… epic. Even for our standards.”

In John’s mind, the grimoire began to tremble, its voice a thin thread of panic:

“Survival rate dropped 30%. Suggest retreating slowly, Beta.”

John ignored it.
His fingers tightened on the arm of the chair.
He kept his eyes on Freya — and on the entire Mikaelson pack, pulled taut like overstretched elastic about to snap.

“The mansion’s defenses recognized you,” he said, trying to steady his voice. “That means something.”

“It means defenses can be tricked,” Klaus muttered, not even glancing at him.

Elijah stepped forward, his calm as calculated as Klaus’s chaos.
“Freya, welcome home.”
Then, looking at Klaus, he added with stone-solid firmness:
“And until we have proof otherwise, Niklaus, she will be treated as such.”

“Oh, of course,” Klaus replied with a razor smile. “Because blind trust has always worked wonders for us.”

Still, he backed away a few steps.

Not surrender.
Calculation.

Rebekah moved closer to Freya, placing a gentle hand on her arm — a rare, almost delicate gesture. Finn joined them quickly, still wearing the pain on his face, but now with a spark of hope. He babbled, gesturing wildly as if trying to make up for lost years in minutes.

Elijah tried to organize the chaos with nothing but glances.

And Klaus?

Klaus watched.

John felt that stare like a physical weight, an invisible hand crushing his chest.
The sensation of being dissected alive.
As if Klaus were searching for cracks. Flaws. Lies.

John’s stomach twisted.
He didn’t even need the grimoire’s warning — but it came anyway, urgent:

“Beta… run. Or make something convincing up. Remember? He smells lies.
He is smelling you.”

John drew a slow breath.
He couldn’t run.
Not now.
Not with everyone watching him like he was the trigger to a disaster.

Klaus started walking toward him, slow steps.

He stopped close enough that John could smell expensive cologne mixed with that metallic hybrid scent.

“Ever since you arrived…” Klaus began, voice smooth as poison. “Things have happened in the most… conveniently timed ways.”

John kept his face neutral, even as his heart hammered like a frantic drum.

Klaus tilted his head, studying him like a predator studies prey.
“You show up out of nowhere, wearing my brother’s face, claiming… what was it? Amnesia? Confusion? Some mystical accident?”

The malicious gleam in his eyes was almost painful.
“And then you say someone is coming. Someone powerful.”

John swallowed. “I only—”

Klaus cut him off, smiling coldly, gesturing toward Freya.
“—and then she arrives, and you bring Kol and Finn back. Conveniently revealed after one of your visions.”

The Original took two more steps — slow, icy — until he stood directly before the armchair.
Without breaking eye contact, he leaned in.

He didn’t just bend forward.
Klaus invaded John’s space like he intended to rip truth straight from his breath.

Their faces were inches apart.

Those blue eyes burned with accusation, suspicion… and that particular darkness only Klaus carried.

His voice was low:

“Who are you… really?”

John tried to look confused, trembling.
But Klaus continued, sharper than a blade:

“You wear his face. You walk through his home. You gain my siblings’ trust with frightening ease.”

John swallowed. The grimoire, ever helpful, hissed: SPEAK!

“I’m not a threat,” John insisted, forcing his voice to stay steady.

Klaus smiled.

“Everyone here is a threat, you impostor.”

“Rebekah wants love.

Kol wants chaos.

Finn wants redemption.

Elijah wants order.”

“And you? What do you want?”

“To survive.” John’s voice was low, honest enough to be undeniable.

As the words left him, something strange happened: his eyes began to emit a faint golden glow — discreet but deep.
Not a burst of power.
Just the living magic inside him reacting to the truth spoken aloud.

“I want to live… even if only a little. I don’t want to die crushed between this family of gods.”

The glow pulsed one last time and faded, but the air around him still trembled with remnants of that golden energy.

Klaus watched the phenomenon, eyes narrowing with sharpened interest. Then he leaned in, bracing his hands on the arms of the chair, trapping John in the gaze.

Close enough that only John could hear:

“If you’re someone’s weapon… I’ll find out.

If you’re lying… I’ll find out.

And if you’re a threat to my daughter…”

His voice cracked for a second.

“I will rip that mask off your face myself.”

Klaus stepped back at last, his body relaxing into a casual posture that was as fake as it was dangerous.

“Keep your… predictions coming, prophet,” he murmured, voice soft and venomous again. “Just know I’m watching.”

Turning away, he joined the others near the fireplace, his low laugh blending with the tense murmur of conversations.

John stayed where he was.

Breathing deeply, trying to stop the tremor in his hands.

Hayley, who had been watching, exhaled the breath she didn’t know she’d been holding and disappeared up the stairs.

The tension was already thick, but Freya raised it to another level. She stepped toward Kol and Finn, studying them with clinical precision. She tilted her head, breathed in deeply, sniffing the air like an animal tracking a scent.

“These bodies carry remnants of soul-transfer magic,” Freya murmured, narrowing her eyes. “Who did this? It’s recent… and strong.”

Finn froze, his teacup suspended halfway to his mouth.

Kol grinned like a man watching a fire start, his eyes gleaming with delighted anticipation.

Rebekah’s eyes widened, her hand snapping to Elijah’s arm.

John almost choked on his own breath, his fingers gripping the armchair.

Freya kept her gaze on John, as if she already knew the answer — but wanted to hear it from him.

Kol, of course, didn’t wait.

Kol took a few steps to John’s chair and, with a mischievous grin, leaned over the back of it. He draped an arm casually over John’s shoulders as if it were the most natural thing in the world and sing-songed:

“Oh, that one’s easy, dear unknown sister!

Ask our golden prophet.”

John stiffened, his body going rigid under Kol’s casual arm.

The grimoire in his mind vibrated like it had swallowed a hive of angry wasps.

John spoke quickly, the words tumbling out in a desperate rush:

“It was a ritual… complicated.”

“Complicated how?” Freya asked, without breaking eye contact.

“Because there’s something in the magic I feel in them… and it’s from no coven I know.” Her eyes narrowed. “It’s alive.”

Klaus laughed softly, satisfied.
“Alive?” he repeated. “Like our clone’s magic? Interesting.”
Elijah stepped forward, calm — but firm, his hands in his pockets.
“Freya… it was a necessity.”

She didn’t take her eyes off John.

“You brought my brothers back…” she said softly, only for him. “But at what price?”

John felt his stomach turn to ice.

The grimoire screamed, its voice a shrill spike of panic:

“RUN. RUN NOW. SHE’S GOING TO FIGURE IT OUT. AND WHEN SHE DOES, KLAUS IS GOING TO OPEN YOU IN HALF TO CHECK FOR A MANUFACTURER LABEL.”

John tried to keep his face neutral, but one muscle in his cheek twitched.

He tried to breathe, but the air stuck in his chest.

Elijah noticed the panic — too obvious in his eyes — and stepped forward again, placing himself subtly between Freya and John, like a protective wall.

Everything inside John screamed.
The façade cracked.
For an instant, it was just Lívia standing there — scared, exhausted, staring at an ancient witch who could dismantle her with a thought.

“The price?” Her voice came out rough. “I don’t know.
I only know I did what was necessary at the time. What was right.”

She swallowed hard, but didn’t step back, keeping eye contact with Freya.

“At first, my intention was only to bring Kol back.”
“He was haunting me. For real.”
“It wasn’t a vision, it wasn’t an idea… he was there. And I couldn’t ignore it.”

Her eyes flicked to Kol briefly, and he answered with a playful nod.

Freya didn’t look away, her face a mask of intense attention.

John continued, her hands opening in a gesture of helpless honesty:

“Finn… he came by accident.
It was kind of… a tragic upgrade. Buy one, get one free.”

A murmur went through the room.
Finn flushed, looking away.

“But when I realized the chance he had… I finished what needed to be done.”

Freya blinked, surprised by the raw honesty.

And John — her voice breaking and rebuilding at the same time, real emotion spilling over:

“To do soul-transfer magic into witch bodies, I did what was necessary.
They deserved a second chance. Kol always loved magic. Finn always hated being a vampire.”

“Now he gets to be what he always wanted: a witch, more human, free.”

Silence.

John stood up, dragging Kol’s arm with her — still draped casually over her shoulders — and took a step forward to face Freya directly.

“So tell me… are you going to judge me for saving your brothers?”

“For doing for them what no one — absolutely no one — ever did before?”

Freya’s eyes widened, no immediate answer coming, her mouth slightly open.

John went on, her voice truly shaking now, tears glimmering at the edges:

“And as for my magic… I was born with it.
It came with my creation.
It wasn’t chosen.
It wasn’t taught.”

The grimoire vibrated hard, panicked, begging her to stop.

“You’re asking me the price.
But I should be asking you.”

The room seemed to tremble.

“Do you want to break me apart to study my magic? To understand what I’m made of?”

Freya paled, hit squarely where it hurt.

“Because… if you do that…” John drew a breath.
“You won’t be much different from your aunt Dahlia. The one who used you as a tool.”

The impact was devastating.

Rebekah brought a hand to her mouth.
Kol whistled low, impressed.
Finn looked away, wounded.
Elijah froze.
Klaus smiled — wide, genuine, predatory.

Freya stepped back.
A single tear fell.

She didn’t answer.
She only held John’s gaze.

And for the first time, two lost souls recognized each other in the middle of the chaos.

Post-Credit Scene:

The room is empty.
A lamp flickers.
John’s bag, abandoned on the couch, shifts as if kicked by an irritated ghost.

Inside, the grimoire lets out a dry crack, like ancient bones being rearranged.

The pages open — not gracefully.
With anger.

And the voice…
the voice sounds like it comes from a pit too deep for any light to reach:

Look… I swear I try.
I swear.

But you people have no idea what it’s like to be me.

A millennia-old book, cursed, semi-sentient, carrying on my binding a patched-up human soul who now lives inside a Mikaelson clone.

That’s a lot of responsibility for a piece of leather.

Soft rustling of pages turning on their own.

Every day it’s the same:

“Grimoire, what’s the spell?”
“Grimoire, save me from Klaus.”
“Grimoire, please don’t let me die today.”

— My girl, I am a BOOK.

I have runes, not emotional superpowers!

It grumbles, offended.

Did you see what happened today?
Me trying to keep Lívia’s soul stitches together with magic, spit, and sheer willpower…

While she faces:

• Freya Mikaelson
• Klaus ready to skin her because she breathed wrong
• Kol petting her like a stray animal
• Finn emotionally disintegrating
• Elijah being way too calm (which is always a danger sign)

And I’m over here vibrating like a phone on emergency mode.

A dramatic pause:

Little Beta doesn’t realize…
But every time she looks Klaus in the eyes like that, all brave,
…it’s a brand-new micro-crack in her soul that I have to stitch back up.

Page flip.

And do you hear me complain?
I don’t even complain.

I just… sighs
…I would like to remind everyone that the goal was to keep her alive,
not throw her in the middle of a family that turns TENSION INTO GREEK TRAGEDY THEATER.

But fine.
I’m here.
I’ll survive — for now.

A low, bitter mutter:

…unlike that girl.

[A long sigh. Pages settling.]

“I’ll write it down: ‘Day attempting to prevent the Mikaelson Apocalypse. Emotional resources: depleted.’”

[The book closes by itself, with a soft, decisive thud.]

Chapter Text

The Mikaelson mansion’s parlor was silent, but it was a different kind of silence—heavy, like the very walls were holding their breath. Freya stood motionless, no longer the confident witch she had been moments before. Her eyes were fixed on something distant, something only she could see.

The mention of her aunt.

That shadow.

For a heartbeat, the richly furnished room dissolved. In its place came the ghostly memory of the dark attic where Dahlia used to confine her for days whenever she failed a lesson. She could almost smell the mildew of old wood and taste the metallic tang of fear. Her fingers twitched involuntarily, as if still holding the candles Dahlia forced her to keep lit for hours.

“I…” Her voice faltered, and she swallowed hard. “I overstepped.”

When her eyes met John’s again, there was no arrogance left. Only the painful recognition of an old wound that had never truly healed.

“You’re right,” she admitted, the words leaving her like a confession. “My reactions carry the marks of what she did to me. And I still… fight those ghosts.”

Klaus watched with renewed interest, his usual air of disdain replaced by genuine curiosity. Elijah kept his posture straight, but his eyes softened.

“I won’t become Dahlia,” Freya continued, now looking directly at John. “Not with you. Never.”

John took a deep breath.

His anger had slipped away without warning.

He hated when that happened.

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable—it was dense, full of something no one dared to name. Freya’s vulnerability hung in the air like dust illuminated by a lamp.

And Klaus, of course, crushed that fragile moment before anyone could touch it.

He took a lazy sip of his whiskey, arched a brow, and dropped, with all the delicacy of a hammer:

“Very touching, Freya. Truly. But tell me… since you spent a thousand years caged with that infernal witch… do you happen to know how to kill her?”

The question landed like a stone thrown into still water—immediate, inevitable, brutal.

Freya straightened her spine. The shift in her was visible: the exposed heart closed, the face turned into the mask of an ancient warrior. The remorseful sister vanished—an ancestral witch took her place.

“I do,” she answered, her voice now firm, professional, sharp as a blade. “And we’ll need far more than courage for this.”

It was like activating a mechanism.

Within minutes, the parlor had transformed into a true war room. Esoteric maps spread across the table. Ancient books were opened, symbols drawn, energy accumulating like static electricity.

Freya explained the plan with surgical precision:

“Dahlia is a fortress. Attacking her directly would be like trying to tear down a mountain with your hands. We need a weapon that ignores her defenses entirely.”

She described the three components:

1)Soil from Norway — From the land where she was enslaved, representing the roots of Dahlia’s power.

2)Ashes of the Oppressive Vikings — From the very men who forged Dahlia’s earliest fury.

Around her, the family had gathered. Klaus, leaning against the fireplace with crossed arms, watched everything with that predatory, bored look. Elijah, sitting at the head of the table, fingers intertwined, was the embodiment of restraint. Rebekah, beside him, couldn’t stand still.

Hayley, firm against the doorway, arms crossed, looked ready to enter a fight with nothing but her gaze.

Kol, of course, was the complete opposite. In his new body, he couldn’t stop moving—spinning a candelabra between his fingers as if measuring whether it would ignite or explode—and honestly, with Kol, it could be either. Finn remained seated, rigid, radiating such strong disdain it felt like an invisible barrier.

“And my blood,” Freya continued, and there was an almost stubborn conviction in her voice. She interpreted John’s disturbed expression as focus, not fear. “As her pupil… as family. My blood will bind the components together. The weapon will be an extension of our lineage. Of our shared history.”

A shiver ran down John’s spine when he heard “blood.” Something in Lívia’s memory tried to surface—a detail, a warning, something—but dissolved before he could grasp it.

“Charming!” Kol exclaimed, clapping his hands like someone receiving a gift. “Sympathetic magic with a touch of ancestral vengeance? Oh, I adore it. Ashes a thousand years old… hm, a delightfully morbid challenge. I can—”

“No.” Elijah cut in, his voice calm, impeccable, final. “The ashes are mine. And Niklaus’s.” He cast a silent look at his brother, and it was enough. “It will require methods only the two of us are capable of.”

Klaus raised an eyebrow, a nearly imperceptible smile on his lips. He enjoyed that kind of method.

“The soil from Norway—” Rebekah stepped forward, rising in a decisive motion. “Kol and I will handle that. He can locate anything, and I…” She took a breath, jaw tightening. “I need to get out of this house.”

All eyes then turned toward John. He was the loose piece on the board.

“And me?” John asked, feeling the weight of their stares.

It was Freya who answered, her gaze intense.

“You, John, will be our bait. Your unique magic is a beacon. When the weapon is ready, we’ll use it to draw her into a trap. She won’t be able to resist investigating such a strange source of power. And while she’s focused on you… the real threat will remain hidden.”

And then it happened.

John’s golden aura flickered, first in his hands, then crawling up his arm as if an involuntary reflection. The living runes beneath his skin leapt, igniting with a warm, annoyed glow, as if the magic itself had very strong opinions about being turned into bait.

Freya’s eyes widened.

Klaus raised an eyebrow.

Kol murmured, “whoa.”

John didn’t even notice. He just raised his hands, gesturing in indignation as the golden light crackled like emotional sparks.

“Even you, huh?” he said, his voice laden with cutting disappointment. He lifted his palms, spreading them. ''“You’re all the same, goddammit! I’m not being bait—fuck that!”

The magic answered again, expanding in a short pulse, pushing a warm breeze through the room. Rebekah automatically pinned her hair back.

John stood there staring at everyone, the golden light pulsing in the back of his eyes like an angry flashlight.

“Three witches in the room and the solution is to hang me on a tree with a sign that says ‘come eat me, psycho aunt’?”

Klaus gave that lazy smile of someone who knows they’ll get in trouble but enjoys it anyway.

“You finally found your calling, clone.”

The golden light flared brightly again, exactly when John jabbed a finger in his face—almost like a cosmic warning that he should shut up.

“You’re brilliant, you know that? Geniuses! Dahlia has your mother’s blood. Technically, she’s family. So… ta-da! The whole mansion opens its doors to anyone with Mikaelson blood.”

His aura pulsed like an irritated sigh.

“But no, let’s use John as a human flashlight!”

Kol let out a little chuckle.

Finn rolled his eyes.

Rebekah bit her lip to keep from laughing.

John was already heading for the door, the magic still flickering behind him like a temperamental trail.

“Reinforce the protections before you go hunting Viking ash, because I’m not staying here glowing to attract a crazy witch.”

He opened the door.

The golden light gave one last flash.

“I have self-love. Not much, but I have it.”

He slammed the door hard. The gold vanished with him.

Silence.

Kol was the first to speak, almost proudly: “I really like him.”

John collapsed into the living room sofa as if trying to merge with the upholstery. He grabbed some blanket—definitely Rebekah’s, judging by the expensive perfume scent—and tossed it over his legs.

On the TV, the Netflix menu glowed.

He scrolled until he landed on The Conjuring.

“Perfect,” he murmured. “A movie about people being hunted by an evil entity. Pure representation.”

The grimoire sighed loudly inside his head:

“Genius, John. GENIUS. You avoid the ancestral psycho witch… by watching a horror movie about possession. Your survival strategy is a piece of abstract art.”

John grabbed a handful of popcorn from the bowl and tossed a kernel into the air, trying to catch it with his mouth. He missed. It fell into his eye.

“Ow.” He rubbed his face. “Shut up.”

“I’ll throw you in the fireplace,” the grimoire muttered.

“I doubt it. You can barely climb a staircase without tripping,” the grimoire shot back.

“That’s slander,” John said, offended.

“It’s historical,” the book grumbled.

John sighed, hit play, and sank further into the couch. On screen, the demon appeared behind the family about to die.

“There you go, John. Inspiration for your near future,” the grimoire commented.

“Knock it off,” John murmured.

“I’m just saying: Dahlia would be proud.”

John made a face but didn’t answer.

The living room door burst open. Elijah entered—elegant, composed, as if there wasn’t an apocalyptic family crisis upstairs.

Elijah took in the scene.

John, sprawled like a tired slug.

Popcorn on the floor.

Horror movie.

Dead-eyed expression.

“…John,” Elijah murmured, taking it all in.

John only raised one hand and pointed at the TV. “I’m busy. I’m denying reality. Come back later.”

Elijah opened his mouth to say something… thought better of it… gave up.

He merely ran a hand over his face, sighed, and left silently.

The door shut.

The grimoire wasted no time:

“AND HE BACKS DOWN! Impressive scene! John, 1 — Mikaelson family, 0.”

John smiled, satisfied, and adjusted the pillow behind his back.

“See? I still have a talent for something.”

“You have a talent for being a problem,” the grimoire grumbled.

“Better than being a solution in this house.”

The grimoire considered that for three long seconds.

“…okay, point for you.”

John stretched his legs, took a sip of soda and murmured, “Screw Dahlia. Today I’ll watch my movie. Tomorrow I’ll think about the apocalypse.”

John smiled.

And hit play.

Elijah walked down the hallway, distancing himself from the living room and trying—trying—to refocus on the spell map Freya had shown him.

But then he heard it.

John’s voice.

Talking to himself.

Again.

Elijah stopped in the middle of the hall, eyes closed for a second as if asking the ancestors for strength.

From the living room, muffled by the door, came: “I’m not running, shut up. The woman ran and died the same. Standing still is a valid strategy!”

Elijah blinked.

Again.

He pressed his temples.

And the thought surfaced—honest, direct, almost clinical:

“He was born defective.”

It wasn’t criticism. It was simply… a diagnosis.

He folded his arms, assessing John like someone checking if an object was broken or if that was just how it was configured.

If with everyone there—literally everyone—the boy managed to bring Kol and Finn back… what would he do with no one watching?

He stood there, processing the existence of the kid—and, worse, his responsibility for him.

If John did all that with the entire family inside the house…
What would he do alone?

And then the inevitable images arrived:

Bored John →
John grabbing the grimoire →
John opening portals “out of curiosity” →
Demons in the kitchen →
Explosions →
Some random Mikaelson coming back from beyond without warning.

Elijah opened his eyes.

“No. Definitely not,” he murmured.

He turned, decided, and went to find Klaus.

Klaus was in the office, scribbling something on a paper—probably another plan with an emphasis on “kill first, ask never.” Elijah entered without knocking.

“We need to discuss John.”

Klaus lifted his eyes slowly, a lazy smile curling. “Our little clone making art again?”

Elijah replied with a frighteningly controlled calm: “Klaus… I found him arguing with the television.”

Klaus shrugged. “He does that. I’ve accepted it.”

Elijah stepped closer, posture immaculate, but his tone said, “I am not asking for your opinion.”

“We can’t leave him alone while we travel.”

Klaus narrowed his eyes, leaning back, sniffing trouble. “Elijah…” his voice thick with suspicion, “you’re not suggesting that—”

“Yes.” Elijah cut him off with a calm hand gesture, like brushing away dust. “I am.”

Klaus widened his eyes, offended. “Me?! Stuck here?! While you take our… ”—he waved his hand, searching for the word— “…walking glitch on a trip?!”

Elijah massaged his temple; the first sign of real fatigue.

“Between you and John alone in New Orleans…” he breathed, weighing the future, “I’d rather it be you.” He raised his hand in a near-diplomatic gesture. “John is… unpredictable.”

Klaus opened his mouth to retort, ready for theatrics, but Elijah raised a single finger.

Silencing him.

“The last time he got bored,” Elijah continued, lowering his voice as if confessing a sin, “Kol and Finn came back from the dead.” He nodded toward the corridor. “Imagine what he would do without anyone watching.”

Klaus stood still for a few seconds. Then ran his hand over his face, dragging frustration through his beard.

“…indeed,” he murmured, almost conspiratorially, “he can’t be left alone.”

“Exactly,” Elijah agreed, relaxing a few millimeters.

Klaus snorted, defeated, flopping back into the armchair.

“Then it’s decided.” He said as if signing his own sentence. “You take the clone. I stay to protect this miserable house.”

Elijah adjusted his jacket, satisfied.

“I appreciate your cooperation.”

Klaus didn’t respond. He only rolled his eyes at the ceiling, where the shadows shifted like the prelude to the absolute boredom that awaited him.

Post-Credits Scene:

The room was in half-light, lit only by the crooked lamp John had accidentally knocked over earlier. He sat on the bed, pen in hand, staring at a notepad where he had written:

“FREYA’S INGREDIENTS — TRAP FOR THE NIGHTMARE AUNT”

He looked at the list.

Then he looked again.

And again.

“…this is wrong,” John murmured. “It’s wrong… wrong. Like…I can’t explain it, but—oh, crap, something doesn’t add up!”

The grimoire sighed inside his head.

“What’s wrong this time, Beta?”

John ignored it.

“It’s not that.” He tapped the page with the pen. “These ingredients… they’re not the same as in the show. I mean… I don’t remember everything, it’s been ages since I watched season two. But something here… it’s off.”

The grimoire vibrated like an annoyed cat.

“Off like… ‘instant death,’ or like… ‘you’re all screwed,’ or like… ‘it’s going to explode’?”

John made the expression of someone who just added two and two and discovered the apocalypse.

“I think…” he swallowed. “I think it’s the second one.”

Silence.

The grimoire murmured, tense:

“‘You’re all screwed’ or ‘explode’?”

“‘We’re screwed.’” John said, flopping backward onto the bed, staring at the ceiling as if waiting for a divine message. “Like… REALLY screwed. Like ‘Dahlia will slice the world to pieces because we used the wrong ingredient’ screwed.”

The grimoire started flipping pages inside his head, frantic.

“Freya’s too smart to screw this up, right?”

John huffed and held the sheet up in front of his face.

“She’s a Mikaelson. Smarts don’t stop impulsivity. She’s emotional. Guilty. Angry. And too focused on beating Dahlia to notice that her recipe… is missing something.”

The grimoire made an indignant sound.

“John… bad news: if that weapon’s poorly made, who becomes mystical barbecue first is you. Because you’re the bait. And bait burns first.”

John threw the notepad.

“Ah, great. So besides being bait, I’m the first to become clone mush.”

The grimoire grumbled:

“I told you to run when there was still time…”

John ran his hands over his face, exhausted. “Grimoire…”

“Yes?”

John, staring at the ceiling, said, “I think we’re going to get screwed. For real.”

The grimoire sighed as if accepting fate.

“I know…”

John covered his face with the pillow and murmured, “We’ll die in a stupid way and I’m emotionally preparing now.”

“Me too,” the grimoire muttered.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

JOHN’S JOURNAL — Entry lost in time

I should be asleep, but who can sleep when Freya decided to build a magic bomb using trauma and soil from Norway.

Plot twist: guess who’s the bait?

That’s right. Me.

Dahlia’s snack.

The appetizer.

And to make things worse, I think Freya messed up the recipe. Like… MESSED UP.

If it were a cake, fine. But it’s a weapon that could blow ME up first. Minor detail.

The grimoire is laughing at my face.

And with good reason.

Day summary:

If this goes wrong, I become mystical barbecue in five seconds.

Signed,

John, professional at silently panicking.

Chapter Text

The knock on the door didn’t ask permission — it was practically an assault on the wood.

Rebekah Mikaelson, in her preferred mode: “zero patience for human existence today.”
Three sharp, irritated knocks... and before John could form a complete thought, she’d shoved the door open and stormed into the room like a hurricane of millennial impatience.

John propped himself up with a groan — more like a yowl from a run-over cat.
The pillow had left that red mark on his face, the kind that lasts for hours. He rubbed his eyes with his knuckles until he saw stars.

“I’m sleeping,” he muttered into the pillow, rolling onto his side like a turtle trying to hide in its shell.

Rebekah didn’t even blink.
She crossed her arms so tight the fabric of her dress creaked.

“Get up.”
She snapped the light switch with a fingertip like delivering a mercy shot. The ceiling light exploded into John’s retinas.

“Change of plans. You’re leaving with Elijah tonight.”

John blinked twice, slowly.
The look drained from his face. His brain hit a blue screen — human edition, complete with a failing modem noise.

“What the fuck is that?”

The grimoire sighed in his head, in that tone he knew well — the one that meant “brace yourself, your life’s about to get worse in three, two…”

“Here we go. Express apocalypse.”

Rebekah shifted her weight onto one foot, impatient.
The classic “I’m counting down the seconds until the next tragedy” stance.

“Elijah wants to leave tonight. You have…” — she checked the clock with Shakespearean drama — “…less than an hour to pack. Only the essentials.”

John collapsed back onto the bed like a sack of potatoes. The mattress protested.

“Why ME?! Can’t Klaus go? Kol? Finn?”

“Kol’s a handful, Finn would kill someone out of boredom, and Klaus…” She twisted her mouth, choosing her words. “…isn’t cleared to deal with humans today. Considered a risk.”

“You notice she didn’t take you off the dangerous list?” the grimoire snarked.

John grabbed the pillow and threw it over his face.

“I don’t want to travel with Elijah! He’s… too serious.”

“Exactly.”
Rebekah shook her head like a tired teacher. “And you have the kind of energy that can’t be left alone for five minutes without summoning chaos.”

“Slander.”

“It’s historical,” the grimoire cut in.

Rebekah marched to the wardrobe and flung the doors open. Hinges protested.

“Shirts, two pairs of pants, one jacket, toothbrush. And don’t try to be weird.”

She let out a sigh that carried a thousand years of disappointment.

“Elijah’s waiting for you in the hallway.” She pivoted on her heel. “And if you make him wait more than five minutes, I swear — I SWEAR — I’ll lock you in a coffin just like I did with Kol. And you know I mean it.”

John swallowed hard. Yes — she would.

“Five minutes. Got it.”

The door slammed.

Silence.
That silence that comes right before the storm.

The grimoire finally spoke, in the tone of Greek tragedy:

“We’re traveling with the man who wears a suit to sleep.”

John buried his face in his hands.

“At least we’ll die in style.”
----
John dragged the suitcase down the hallway like he was hauling a corpse — and honestly, the suitcase was a walking disaster.

One jacket sleeve hung out of the side.
A pack of cookies peeked through the folds like a flower blooming in the desert.

…a sock stuck in the zipper, waving a white flag.
And, out of pure spite, Rebekah’s stolen pillow dangled like a condemned cloth tongue.

As soon as he turned the corner:

“John.”

He froze.
His shoulders climbed all the way up to his ears.

Elijah stood planted in the middle of the hallway, hands behind his back, posture of an expensive museum statue — the kind with a plaque that says “do not touch.”
His expression was that of a scientist observing a phenomenon that defies every known law of physics.

His gaze dropped to the suitcase.
Slowly.
Painfully.
Stopped at the sock.

Silence.

The kind of silence that says “I give up on humanity” with elegance sharp enough to wound.

John tried nudging the suitcase with his heel, as if he could hide it.
It didn’t help.

“So…” he cleared his throat. The sound cracked in a pitch far too high. “I’m ready.”

Elijah raised one eyebrow. Only one.
As if the other were far too dignified to participate in this scene.

“This is… your luggage?”

“Yup.”
John lifted his chin, crossing his arms like armor.
“The essentials. As requested.”

He looked at the suitcase as if seeing it for the first time.
It looked like it had packed itself in the dark after a night of heavy partying.

A box of cotton swabs fell out with a pathetic little tink.

John kicked it under the console. Gone.

Elijah closed his eyes. Breathed in deeply.
Not a sigh — a suppressed meltdown.

“…She was right,” he murmured.

“About what?”
John squinted, confused.

“Nothing.”
Elijah straightened his shoulders with the solemnity of someone preparing for a long war.
“Let’s go.”

But as he turned, for a split second — so fast no human would have noticed — his shoulders sagged a millimeter.
And his expression shifted into pure, resigned agony.
The agony of a man about to spend hours next to John.

That’s when a door opened.

Klaus.

Leaned against the frame, swirling a glass of whiskey, smirk written in neon: I told you so.

He didn’t say a word.
Just watched, eyes gleaming with malicious amusement.

And enjoyed it.
Openly.

John pointed a finger, outraged:

“Don’t laugh!”

Klaus lifted his eyebrows and took a slow sip, theatrical.

John huffed, turned — nearly tripping over his own suitcase — and followed Elijah.

“Asshole.”

“Enjoy the cold,” Klaus sing–songed, raising his glass.

The door closed.

Night had fallen like a heavy blanket when Elijah led John outside.
The freezing air didn’t cut like a surgeon’s blade — it cut like an old butcher knife.

A black car waited, engine rumbling, smoke mixing with the fog.

John climbed into the passenger seat, dragging the suitcase onto his lap — Elijah had refused to let that disaster go in the trunk.

“It may be necessary,” he said in a tone that accepted no argument.

The drive was short.
Elijah kept both hands on the wheel, smooth precise curves, like the car was an extension of him.
Weird to see him driving — he seemed like the type who hired people just to avoid touching the mundane world.

They arrived at a discreet hangar, full of guards with faces that said “I do not ask questions.”
In the center, a private jet that screamed luxury — typical Mikaelson behavior.

John’s eyes widened.

“…All this for a handful of dirt?”

Elijah stepped out with his usual irritating fluidity and opened John’s door before he could touch the handle.

“It is specific ancestral soil.”

A staff member lowered the stairs.

John climbed carefully, gripping the railing as if his life depended on it.
He dropped into the window seat.
Soft leather. Smell of money.

He leaned his forehead against the cold glass, staring at a starless sky.

“Hope this is worth it…”

Elijah sat beside him with perfect posture, opening a leather folder on his lap.

“It will be.”
He fastened his seatbelt like closing a piece of armor.
“Without it, the other ingredients mean nothing.”

John bit his lip.
Thought about the missing ingredients.
The recipe that might be wrong.
The swelling dread in his chest — a cold that wasn’t from the weather.

Before panic took shape, he whispered, turning to Elijah:

“We can handle this… right?”

Elijah closed the folder and looked at him.
Dark eyes, serious — but with that eternal spark of “I always have a plan.”

“We will.”

The turbines roared.
The sound filled the cabin, vibrating in their bones.

The jet rushed down the runway.
Gained speed.

And lifted.

As they took off, John gripped the armrest — feeling, for the first time, that he was truly in the middle of the war against Dahlia.

With Elijah beside him, maybe it wasn’t impossible.
Or maybe it was worse
----
The freezing Scandinavian wind hit John full force. He shuddered, yanking his collar up with so much desperation he almost tore it.

“Oh my God…” Teeth chattering. “Who the hell built a whole country inside a freezer?”

Elijah didn’t even flinch. Coat buttoned, posture impeccable, looking like he was standing in an English garden in May.

John rubbed his arms, hopping from one foot to the other.

“I’m gonna die. Literally. My fingers are gonna fall off and turn into popsicles.”

Without warning, he shoved both hands under Elijah’s coat, slipping them straight between the shirt and the vest, pressing his frozen palms against the vampire’s warm chest.

“There. Perfect. Luxury human heater.”

Elijah froze.

Not from the cold.

From complete short-circuit.

His entire body locked up, like someone had pressed pause.

His eyes widened two millimeters (the maximum his thousand-year self-control allowed).

The sentence he was about to say (“We need to move”) died in his throat and turned into a weird sound — half choke, half breathy gasp.

“J-John…”

His voice came out lower than usual, almost a broken whisper.

John didn’t even notice the chaos he’d just caused. He just rested his forehead against Elijah’s shoulder, sighing in bliss.

“Damn, you’re warm… who knew a dead vampire could be better than an electric heater?”

Elijah stood there, rigid as a statue, hands hovering in the air with no idea where to land, the heart that hadn’t beaten in a millennium trying to remember what it felt like to race.

John lifted his head, blinking innocently.

“You okay? You’re… red?”

“…I am not red,” Elijah managed, voice shaking in a way it absolutely never did.

“You are. Look, even your ear—” John laughed, blowing warm air toward said ear just to mess with him.

Elijah closed his eyes, inhaled deeply through his nose, and prayed (for the first time in centuries) for someone to attack them right now.

Because fighting twenty vampires would be easier than dealing with this.

Elijah raised an eyebrow and walked toward the jeep. His steps didn’t sink into the snow.

The driver — lumberjack face, expression of “I’ve seen everything” — nodded beside a heavy-duty jeep. A vehicle built for war.

The ride into the forest was silent. Not peaceful silence — the kind that’s about to crack. John stared out the window at the heavy snow, the world white and dead.

And with Mikaelson luck, trouble never took long.

“WE’RE HERE,” the driver announced, pointing at a trail between pine trees.

Elijah stepped out with his usual annoying elegance, his shoes sinking into the snow as if he felt nothing.
John put one foot out… and nearly slipped, grabbing the door in a desperation reflex.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake…” he grumbled through clenched teeth.
“Stupid snow.”

He fixed his posture, pretending nothing had happened.

Elijah, of course, saw everything — and chose to ignore it gracefully.

They walked toward the spot Freya had marked on the map: a clearing between pine trees where the air vibrated. As if the ground carried ancient grudges.

John stopped, rubbing his arms.

“And now? How do we get the soil? With a shovel? Spoon?”

Elijah lifted a finger. Rigid.

Silence.

The vampire turned on his heel, senses alert. His expression sharpened.

“We’re not alone.”

John froze.

“How do you know?”

Elijah focused on a point in the forest, voice low and heavy:

“Because they’re breathing. And nervous.”

Three figures emerged from the shadows — vampires in heavy clothes, old hate burning in their eyes. The first stepped forward, fangs exposed.

“Elijah Mikaelson… far from the family. And from the brother.”

Elijah inhaled. Slow. Calm.

“Gentlemen… I strongly suggest you reconsider.”

John whispered near his ear:

“They’re not gonna reconsider, right?”

“No.” Elijah answered.

The vampires lunged like fast-moving ghosts.

Elijah moved like a whirlwind — elegant, fluid, lethal. He dodged, ripped out a heart with the ease of pulling a handkerchief from a pocket. The heart pulsed once in his hand.

Snow splattered with bright red — a brutal contrast.

John watched, hands over his mouth. His stomach flipped.

“…I’ll never get used to that.”

The last vampire turned to run. Elijah reached him in two steps, grabbed him by the collar, threw him against a tree. The trunk cracked. The head rolled.

Only wind whistling afterward, low and cold.

Elijah straightened his sleeves, brushing off imaginary dust. Not a drop of blood on him.

“As I said… let’s collect the soil.”

John approached the circle with hesitant steps — as if any sudden move would wake up some grumpy Nordic spirit.

He knelt on the snow, the cold seeping through his pants. Took the vial Elijah handed him and began scooping dark soil with trembling fingers.

And then he felt it.

A shiver up his spine, climbing to his neck, settling in his skull.

The ground throbbed beneath his fingers. Warm. Alive.

Like it recognized the magic in him. Like it accepted him — or rejected.

“Elijah…?”

“Continue.” Calm voice, but eyes scanning the forest. “It’s the energy reacting to your presence.”

John finished filling the vial, capped it, stood up brushing snow from his knees. Legs numb.

“How long ‘til we’re back on the plane?” Exhausted.

Elijah placed a firm hand on his shoulder, guiding him back. Heavy but not oppressive — a reminder he wasn’t alone.

“That depends.”

“On what?”

“How many enemies are still watching us.”

John froze mid-step, feet sinking into the snow.

“…There’s more?”

Elijah allowed himself a brief, aristocratic smile — one that didn’t reach his eyes.

“There always are.”

John sighed, shoulders sagging. Regretting leaving the couch. Regretting being born, maybe.

“I should’ve stayed watching Netflix.”

Elijah kept walking ahead, voice clear in the frozen air:

“I agree.” He adjusted his leather gloves. “But now… we’re already in this.”
-----
Snow fell heavy as the car slid down the empty road, a white forest closing in like living walls. Headlights sliced through the icy veil, revealing only a few meters before the darkness swallowed everything again.

John pulled his coat tighter, watching Elijah behind the wheel.

The seat was still dirty. Dry blood smell clinging to the leather—metallic, sticking to the back of his throat.

John looked away, uncomfortable. Stared out the window: snow blurring into white nothingness.

The human driver—Klaus’s hire, discreet, trained to deny everything—hadn’t stood a chance.

Vampire ambush.

Human caught in the chaos.

Inevitable result.

After finishing the attack, Elijah had closed his eyes for half a second—his only gesture of mourning. Dragged the body aside into the snow. Took the driver’s seat. Said nothing.

Now he steered with steady hands, unchanging, moving with predatory precision. His jawline tense.

John cleared his throat.

“You driving still doesn’t feel real.”

Elijah, eyes fixed on the road:

“Extraordinary circumstances require adaptation.”

“Translation: ‘my driver died, so I’m doing everything myself’?”

Elijah cast him a side glance—short, cold, meaningful.

“He knew the risks. And he was competent until the end.”

John swallowed hard. No answer. What do you even say to that?

Elijah drove with one hand on the wheel and the other on the gear shift, as if a snowstorm were a minor inconvenience. But the tension in his jaw betrayed constant alertness.

He sensed danger. John was starting to feel it too—itch at the nape, shiver down the spine that wasn’t from the cold.

“Elijah…” John turned in his seat. “You’ve got that ‘something bad is coming’ face.”

The car jolted with sudden impact. Not ice.

Something had hit the back. Hard.

John grabbed the safety handle.

“HEY! Was that… the car?”

“No.” Elijah’s fingers tightened around the wheel, knuckles white. “A vampire at high speed.”

John didn’t even think.

The rearview mirror showed three figures ripping out of the snow curtain. Dark. Fast.

Behind them, five more.

Behind them… he felt it. Magic. A Witch. Powerful.

“Oh, HELL no!” He slapped the dashboard. “Do you guys collect enemies like trading cards?!”

Elijah simply said:

“Hold on.”

And… slammed the brakes.

Right in the middle of the frozen road.

The car spun lightly across the ice—a slow, dangerous dance—before stopping.

John was thrown forward against the seatbelt. Groaned. The strap cut into his shoulder.

“OW! No airbags?!”

Elijah shoved his door open with his shoulder. Too calm.

“Stay in the car.”

“I’m NOT staying!” John ripped the belt off with trembling fingers. “There are vampires and a crazy witch out there!”

“Precisely why.” Elijah was already walking into the snow, adjusting his tie. “They’re not your problem.”

Vampires charged like starving wolves.

Elijah turned sharply, dodging claws that would’ve ripped his face off, counterattacked instantly.

One vampire flew into a pine tree—the trunk cracked with a hollow thud. Another had his neck snapped before he even understood what was happening. A third tried grabbing him from behind and was tossed across the road like a rag doll, disappearing into the snow.

John watched through the window, hands pressed against the glass, breath fogging it.

“He fights like he’s just going out to buy bread…”

But then the witch stepped forward.

Hands lifted, palms up. The air bent around her.

Wind shifted—heavy, hot, loaded with hatred.

“SHIT.” John jumped out of the car, tripping in the snow. “Elijah! WITCH!”

Elijah turned, eyes widening—but too late: she thrust her arms forward, an invisible blast cracking the ground at his feet. Snow and dirt exploded upward. He was thrown back, rolling like a rag doll.

A shrill laugh—cutting through the wind.

“Original or not, you Mikaelsons fall the same way.”

John froze. Blood turning to ice. Heart pounding hard in his chest, echoing in his ears.

He didn’t think.

Didn’t calculate.

He raised his open hand like a shield, the same way he did when he was Lívia pretending to practice magic in the backyard. Except this wasn’t pretend.

The grimoire vibrated—needles up his neck—voice urgent, almost panicked:

“John! No! That spell is way too advanced! You only saw it in the show, you’ve never actually—”

“I KNOW WHAT I’M DOING!” (Lie. He didn’t. But the lie sounded convincing inside his head.)

He closed his eyes. Poured every ounce of will, fear, anger at being in Scandinavia freezing with vampires. Poured the image of Elijah being thrown. Poured the smell of blood on the seat.

He screamed with a voice that didn’t feel like his:

“CORPORIS IMPETUS!”

Magic burst from his palm not as a beam, but a twisting golden hurricane—alive, wild, powerful.

The air visibly trembled—like the world was fabric and someone had shaken it.

Snow shot upward in a perfect circle around him, suspended for a second.

Intense golden light swept across the road like a tsunami, hitting everything.

Hitting everyone.

Vampires froze—statues of ice. Locked mid-movement: one with an arm raised, another with mouth open in a silent scream, eyes wide with surprise.

The witch frozen—arm extended, smile half-formed, eyes fixed on John in pure shock.

Silence.

Everything still.

Only the wind still blew, softer now, like even it was scared.

Elijah, pushing himself up from the snow, stared at John with genuine surprise, concern, and a silent “how the hell did you do that?”

The grimoire whispered, voice trembling, almost horrified:

“John… you didn’t cast the regular Corporis Impetus. You created a VARIATION.”

John’s eyes widened, and his nose began to bleed slowly, a hot drop sliding to his lip.
He wiped it with the back of his hand as the air left his lungs like the ground had vanished beneath him.

The magic still pulsed inside him, dense and heavy, as if trying to tear through his veins.

He pressed a hand to his chest, breathing in short bursts.
His body simply couldn’t keep up.

“Shit…” he murmured, feeling his knee buckle for a second.
His vision flickered, fragmented, almost disappeared.

Elijah approached, stepping carefully through the snow—like approaching a dangerous creature.

He looked at the frozen vampires, motionless, trapped in time.

Looked at the witch, expression of shock eternalized.

Looked at John—pale face, terrified eyes.

Crossed his arms. Voice calm and weighted:

“We need to talk about… this.”

John pointed a trembling finger at the enemies.

“Can we… talk… with them like that?”

Elijah nodded slowly.

“Fair.”

Lightning-fast, he ripped the head off a frozen vampire.
The body didn’t fall; it stayed standing, a decapitated statue.

John swallowed hard. Stomach twisting. Taste of bile.

“I just wanted to help…”

Elijah cast one last look at the golden magic still flickering in the air like dying sparks. His eyes caught a reflection of the gold for a moment.

“You did help.” His voice held a strange nuance—somewhere between admiration and deep concern. “But now we have a new problem.”

“What problem?”

“You.” Elijah turned to finish the job.
----
POST-CREDITS SCENE

Meanwhile in NEW ORLEANS, the library door slammed so hard the painting on the wall—a gloomy portrait—fell crooked, its glass cracking.

Klaus lifted his eyes slowly from his wine glass, already looking like he regretted existing. A thousand years of regret, heavier today.

Kol stormed in like a tempest, steps fast and uneven, aura crackling with bursts of magic—blue sparks appearing and vanishing around him.

“Explain to me,” he pointed a finger at his brother like a weapon, “why the HELL I’m in New Orleans… while the clone and Elijah are out there having fun?!”

Klaus took a deep breath, like a tired father who has repeated the same thing a thousand times.

“Someone needed to stay. To ensure the city doesn’t burn down.”

Kol threw his arms out dramatically, almost knocking over an expensive Chinese vase.

“I ALSO wanted to be far from here, far from this house full of emotional vultures!” He gestured toward the mansion as if presenting a defective product. “I DIED, Nik! Came back and I’m already trapped in this zoo!”

From the other room, Rebekah shouted, voice accompanied by the sound of a teacup being slammed down:

“We heard you, idiot!”

Kol ignored her completely. All attention on Klaus. Fury like palpable flame.

“You let Elijah take a half-baked human clone who barely knows how to conjure a basic circle… and YOU left ME here?! Me! A witch! Newly revived! Powerful! Bored!”

Klaus took another sip of wine with monk-like serenity. Red wine, almost the color of blood.

“The clone is useful. And Elijah is… Elijah.”

Kol stood still for one second, blinking, incredulous. As if his brain refused to process the logic—or lack of it.

He exploded, voice rising:

“USEFUL?! He’s an intern having an identity crisis! If anyone should be traveling, it’s ME! I have magic, Nik! Real magic! Not that… that… starter kit he calls powers!”

A lamp behind Kol burst with a magical pop. Glass scattered across the Persian rug. Klaus didn’t even look.

He raised his eyebrows, slow and calculated.

“Marvelous. Destroying the house again. How surprising.”

Kol took a step forward, aura making the air tremble. Temperature in the library dropped.

“I should be out there, living something that isn’t this miserable routine of being a domestic ghost. I’ve spent more time dead than alive lately!”

Klaus approached, setting the wine glass on the table with a soft click. His expression shifted into something between irritation and older brother who doesn’t want a fight but knows it’s coming.

“Elijah needs focus. Taking you would be like taking a walking wildfire. And taking the clone with you…” A pause, words deliberately venomous. “…would be asking to lose both of you. And the jet. And possibly whatever city you land in.”

Kol opened his mouth.

Closed it.

Opened it again, like a shocked fish.

“Did you just say I’m less reliable than a guy who doesn’t even officially exist?!”

Klaus thought for half a second, tilting his head. Blue eyes glinting with wicked amusement.

“Basically.”

Kol let out a hoarse shout of pure fury—a sound carrying a thousand years of accumulated frustration—and hurled an explosive spell into the fireplace. Flames tripled, leaping like a choking dragon, licking the stone hearth.

Finn appeared in the hall, watching the scene with the expression of someone who’s been done with this family for centuries. Flat look, eyes saying I give up.

“Are you two finished, or are you planning to turn the house into craters? Again?”

Kol huffed—exasperated, sharp—and spun on his heel, slamming the door so hard the windows rattled and another frame fell, glass shattering.

Rebekah shouted from somewhere:

“Keep it up and I’ll lock you in this coffin again! And this time I’m burying it far away!”

Kol yelled back down the hallway, voice echoing:

“A COFFIN IS A MUCH BETTER VACATION THAN THIS HOUSE!”

Bedroom door slammed.
Silence settled back over the library, heavy and full of broken glass.

Klaus took another sip of wine, but the glass was nearly empty. He looked at it, sighed—a sigh carrying the weight of being the oldest brother—and murmured to no one, to the air, to the ghosts in the room:

“At least the clone doesn’t destroy the furniture… yet.”

Chapter Text

The wind cut like a knife, sweeping across the deserted road. In the air mixed the metallic smell of vampire blood and the faint burnt tang of the magic John had released. The spell’s energy still echoed, invisible shards tinkling like thin glass about to shatter.

Elijah finished his work with that sickeningly meticulous care only he found necessary. He separated the last vampire’s head in a clean motion and wiped the blade on the corpse’s sleeve, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

John stood there watching. Nausea and indignation wrestled inside him.

“Did you really have to decapitate them?” he asked, nose wrinkling. “That’s… gross. Looks like a rotten pumpkin festival.”

Elijah sheathed the blade, straightened his coat with two precise movements… and then froze.

A stray hair had escaped the perfect hairdo and fell across his forehead, flecked with snow and a drop of someone else’s blood. It looked wrong. Almost criminal.

John didn’t think twice.

He took two quick steps, lifted his hand and — without asking — smoothed the Original’s hair with his fingers, pushing the strand back into place like he was fixing his own mother’s hair after church.

“Messy, you look weird,” he murmured, like it was the most important thing in the world on a road full of corpses.

Elijah froze again.

This time it wasn’t the short-circuit of cold hands. It was worse.

It was touch. It was care. It was intimacy without warning.

His eyes drifted slowly down to John’s hand still hovering near his forehead, then up to the clone’s face — two palms away.

The breath he didn’t need halted.

John noticed the deadly silence, blinked, and gave an awkward little grin.

“What? Elijah Mikaelson all neat and tidy doesn’t suit him. He’s more… human now.”

Elijah swallowed—an action a thousand-year-old vampire hadn’t performed since 1918.

“John…” the voice came out hoarse, almost a warning, almost a plea.

“Relax,” John said, giving his shoulder a light tap as if he’d just finished a job. “Perfect again.”

He turned his back and walked toward the immobilized witch as if he hadn’t just committed a crime against an Original’s composure.

The grimoire inside John’s head let out a laugh so loud it almost hurt.

Then the cold air burned his lungs. Adrenaline throbbed in his temples. And the spell… the spell was the problem. How could he explain it? The truth was impossible — that he’d learned that magic by watching a show in another life, when he was Lívia, planted on the couch with a pack of cookies.

Congrats, genius. The thought came with a chill. How do you convince someone of a spell that shouldn’t exist here?

That’s when the familiar voice echoed in his head, lazy and mocking.

“Lie to him. Like you always do,” the grimoire whispered. “But careful. Elijah always smells lies.”

John fought the urge to curse the damned book.

Elijah moved to the witch John had immobilized — the only survivor — and looked over his shoulder.

“Undo the spell,” he ordered calmly. “I need to interrogate her.”

John crossed his arms.

“But why? We could just… finish her. Solve this quickly.”

“We need information,” Elijah shot back. “They ambushed us as soon as we stepped into the country. Someone knew we were coming. I want to know who.”

John sighed dramatically.

“Also… did you like the spell?”

Elijah glanced at the sleeping bodies on the ground — now golden statues softly glowing — then back at John.

“It’s… functional.” But his eyes said something else: that shouldn’t exist.

John pretended to be proud.

“It’s still beta, you know? Needs tweaks. I haven’t found the off switch yet.” He shrugged. “I was gonna ask Kol for help, but then you dragged me on this trip.”

The grimoire laughed again inside his head.

“Good. Keep stalling. Stall as always.”

John ignored it.

“About the spell, I… got the idea from a movie I watched. Cool, right? I was bored and thought, why not?” He waved his hands. “When I saw you in trouble, it was the only thing that came to mind. The other things I tried to create? Pretty weak.”

Elijah watched him as if decoding an unknown language.

John put his hands up.

“Don’t make that face. I don’t know that many spells! Even the grimoire has entries that are too complicated. Like when I brought Kol and Finn back and put them in new bodies.” He made a face. “Those ritual spells are a pain. Full of ingredients and steps… super boring. So I thought: why not make some simple, quick spells for when enemies show up out of nowhere?”

Elijah stepped forward, hands folded behind his back.

“John…” he said in that voice that was half patience, half eternal judgment. “You carry a power we should not underestimate.”

“Oh please,” John snapped, pointing at himself. “I carry your face. That’s bad luck enough. And as a bonus, I inherited all your enemies?” He threw his hands at the frozen sky. “Of all the things I could’ve inherited from you — strength, speed, composure, whatever.”

The immobilized witch began to tremble. The golden spell shimmered… and dissolved on its own, shattering in the air like glittering glass.

The decapitated vampires remained, of course — but the witch gasped, regaining control of her body, still held by Elijah’s hands.

John breathed a relieved sigh, shoulders dropping.

“Ah… good,” he murmured. “The spell wears off. It breaks by itself when the energy runs out.”

Elijah studied him for a long moment. One second longer than comfortable. One of those ancient looks that dissects a person like an old text to be translated.

No witch could produce a functional spell of that level — instant, precise, with no ritual, no ingredients, no Latin — inspired by mundane entertainment. It simply didn’t exist. Not among the Bennetts, not in any ancestral coven Elijah had known in a thousand years.

And yet… John had done it.
Naturally.
Instinctively.
Like someone who plays a song they never learned, but it’s already in their hands.

Elijah kept his face composed, as unreadable as ever.

Inside, however, a conclusion formed with cold precision:

John didn’t create that spell.
He accessed something already within him — something imprinted on the magic that birthed him.
Something that shouldn’t be there.

“Fascinating,” the Original said, tightening his grip on the witch’s arm.

The witch gasped, pulling a breath like someone reborn.

Elijah narrowed his eyes. “She’s regaining control. Prepare yourself.”

But there was no time.

The witch raised her head—her eyes completely white—and murmured something in an ancient tongue. It wasn’t an attack spell. It wasn’t an escape spell.

It was a final spell.

Elijah realized a second too late.

“NO!”

He lunged, but it was already over.

The witch’s body arched back—and her chest exploded into a scarlet light that burned from the inside, not the outside. She collapsed to the ground, motionless, the scent of ozone hanging in the air.

John’s eyes went wide.

“WOW.” He blinked twice. “Didn’t even get to say ‘hello’.”

Silence.

Elijah, breathing a bit faster than usual, looked at the body with a mixture of calculation and contained irritation.

“Suicide spells,” he spat, “are common among witches who swear loyalty to extremist covens. They prefer death to interrogation. Unfortunately, I’ve seen this before.”

John made a face.

“That’s normal? Like… poof?”

Elijah finally looked at him. Really looked. With the weight of millennia that always made John uneasy.

“Normal? No,” he answered, voice low. “But predictable. My enemies have a regrettable habit of employing fanatics.”

John kicked at a pebble, avoiding the sight of the charred remains.

Elijah stepped toward the witch’s burned body and murmured, “She died to prevent us from learning who sent them. That means only one thing…”

He turned to John, eyes narrowing like blades.

"We're not just being watched — we're dealing with someone willing to sacrifice their own pieces to stay invisible."

John swallowed hard.

The grimoire grumbled inside his head:

“Congratulations. Now you’ve got invisible company. And it’s not the kind that sends flowers.”

Elijah extended a hand.

“Come. We need to move before they send another batch of suicidal idiots.”

John looked at the gray sky, the biting wind, and then at the witch’s burned remains.

“This country is very welcoming, huh?”
Elijah said nothing.
-----
They got back into the car with the clear feeling that the trip was only beginning — and that someone, somewhere, knew exactly what they were after.

Inside the car, silence weighed heavy. The narrow road wound between snow-covered hills, and the gray sky seemed to crush everything around them. The engine purred at a steady, almost comforting tone — if not for the fact they’d just escaped an ambush.

John settled into the passenger seat, adrenaline still dancing in his veins. He took a deep breath, stared out at the white, frozen landscape, then turned to Elijah.

“Okay…” he started, breaking the silence. “We got what we came for, right? The ancestral soil from Norway. But explain one thing to me… why did we get it here, in the deep, random Scandinavia, and not in Norway itself? Like… Freya said Norway. I remember that very well.”

Elijah didn’t take his eyes off the road. His perfect, irritating profile stayed impassive, but John noticed the small move — the tiny lift of an eyebrow that meant: valid question, annoying nonetheless.

“Because,” Elijah began in that aristocratic patience that always sounded like a provocation, “Freya and Kol re-ran the locating spell last night.”

John blinked.

“So it changed?”

“Not exactly,” Elijah corrected, gliding the car through an icy curve like it was nothing. “Geography shifted. Decades, centuries… lands were divided, sold, abandoned, reclassified. The border isn’t the same. The soil that once belonged to the old Norwegian clans ended up… displaced.”

John stared at him for a long beat.

“So, technically…” he said, gesturing, “we stole Norwegian dirt from a country that isn’t even Norway?”

Elijah inhaled slowly, like someone practicing deep breathing to avoid homicide.

“Technically, yes.”

John grinned, pleased.

“I love being right. Even when I don’t mean to be.”

Elijah ignored him.

“But we’re still missing an ingredient,” he continued, adjusting the wheel. “The ashes of the first Viking warrior.”

John’s eyes went wide.

“Oh, of course. Because the first Viking warrior is probably just hanging out in a clearance bin somewhere. Shopping list: milk, bread, legendary Viking ashes.”

“At the National Museum of Denmark,” Elijah replied, as if that were the most obvious thing in the world. “In Copenhagen.”

John blinked.

“Wait. We’re going to break into a museum?”

“Not ‘break in,’” Elijah corrected again. “We will obtain an artifact that shouldn’t be there to begin with.”

“Elijah, that’s called theft.”

“It’s called necessity,” he shot back, firm. “And Freya confirmed: the ashes are sealed in a ritual urn that can only be opened by someone with magical affinity.”

John slumped deeper into the seat, arms crossed.

“Ugh… it always falls to me.”

The grimoire muttered in his head, laughing.

“Welcome to life, kid. Now drive the carriage and stop whining.”

John rolled his eyes.

“Great,” he grumbled out loud. “I can already see it… museum full of people, alarms blaring, guards shouting… and me having to shout some spell in the middle of tourists.”

Elijah, still watching the road, permitted a micro-smile.

“I trust you’ll be… discreet.”

John scoffed.

“Too much trust, too many expectations. I just wanted to be home with hot chocolate and a cozy blanket. But no. I’m here. In Scandinavia. Stealing dirt from the wrong country and chasing legendary Viking ashes.”

“Welcome to the Mikaelson world,” Elijah replied.

“No one ever gave me the option not to be in it,” John added.

The car continued along the white road, disappearing into the frozen horizon, while something invisible in the gray sky seemed to watch… waiting for their next move.

His stomach growled so loudly he felt embarrassed.

Elijah raised an eyebrow.

“When did you last eat?”

“Since New Orleans,” John answered, and immediately regretted it when he saw the millennia-old judgy look forming.

“You are human,” Elijah said, in the tone of someone reporting a crime. “Humans need rest. And food. And sleep. Preferably at regular intervals.”

“Yes, Dad,” John muttered.

“I heard that,” Elijah replied.

“I know.”

Elijah sighed, took the next exit, and pulled into a small village where warm yellow lights shone through frosted windows.

“What are we doing?” John asked.

“Making sure you don’t pass out mid-magic fight,” Elijah answered. “We’re stopping so you can eat.”

John blinked.

“You’re… taking care of me?”

“I’m making sure my ally doesn’t die idiotically from hypoglycemia. There’s a difference,” Elijah said.

“Of course,” John smirked. “Taking care of me.”

Elijah parked in front of a little local restaurant — dark wood, warm food smells escaping every time a customer left.

John practically leapt from the car.

“Oh, thank God. I was one sandwich away from turning to dust.”

“That’s not how it works for humans,” Elijah noted.

“It was a metaphor,” John said.

Elijah looked at him and murmured, “Bad metaphor.”

John pushed the restaurant door open and went in.

“Get in here, you grumpy vampire, before I eat the table,” he called.

Elijah hesitated for a beat — probably deciding if it was worth waiting in the car — but followed.

The bell on the door announced their entrance, and the restaurant’s warmth wrapped around them immediately, cutting off the street’s bitter wind.

A waitress with a tired but genuine smile approached.

“Table for two?”

John nodded, but Elijah raised his hand with automatic elegance.

“Actually, a table for him,” he said, nodding subtly toward John. “I need to take a few calls. I won’t be long.”

John blinked, surprised. “Calls? Now?”

Elijah merely offered that impenetrable polite smile — the one that said don’t ask.

“Business. Please order something for yourself. I’ll be back shortly.”

Before John could respond, Elijah had already headed out the side door with his usual impeccable posture.

The waitress led John to a window table. Once he sat, she handed him a menu with a professional smile.

“I’ll be right back, dear.”

She disappeared between the tables.

John exhaled slowly, letting the cozy atmosphere embrace him. Food came quickly — surprisingly quickly — and for the first time in a long while, his stomach growled in a satisfying, real way.

He took the first bite and finally believed he’d have a few minutes of peace.

Or he thought he would, when the familiar voice murmured in his head, sour as ever:

“We need to warn Elijah about the wrong ingredients. And, for the love of all the old gods, answer me in your head. If you talk aloud to yourself here they’ll call you crazy.”

John swallowed hard.

(Why didn’t you say that before?) he thought, annoyed. (Every time I talk to you… I forget this house has super-hearing! They’ll think I’m insane! WHY DIDN’T YOU WARN ME, YOU STUPID BOOK?)

The grimoire snickered venomously.

“Because you never asked, idiot.”

John clenched his jaw, taking another bite just to pretend everything was normal.

(Great. Wonderful. Now what? If I tell Elijah I had another vision, he won’t believe me. You heard Klaus yesterday… that I’m an impostor. They don’t trust me and worse, I can’t even remember which ingredient is wrong.)

The grimoire sighed like it was dealing with a slow child.

“Don’t remember? Then we’ll have to search. Dig through your memories of that dumb show. It’s gotta be in there somewhere. I can help you transmit it like a vision, but it has to be to Elijah — your clone body makes the connection easier between you two. Your magic and I working together… it’s like two mirrors reflecting each other.”

John rested his forehead in his hand, tired.

(And how am I supposed to say that? ‘Hi Elijah, had a conveniently useful vision?’)

“At the right moment,” the grimoire said. “Don’t be hasty. And try not to look so stupid.”

John closed his eyes for a second.

(I feel like a lying cheat… how far have I fallen.)

The grimoire replied with the subtlety of a brick:

“To the point of not dying. Congratulations.”

John rubbed his face, irritated.

(Also… why the hell are there times when I don’t sense anything before an attack? I used to always feel it. If Elijah hadn’t been there… I would’ve been pulp.)

The grimoire sighed in his head, that superior, unbearable way.

“Your body is a construction site, Beta. The abilities are trying to reorganize without a manual. Instinct works, but the transmission is failing. It’s like a wireless alarm being reinstalled during a fire.”

John widened his eyes, incredulous.

(Perfect. Wonderful. So my ‘sixth sense’ now takes lunch breaks.)

The grimoire, of course, ignored the drama.

John breathed deep, bracing for the sting of reality to hurt less.

(So explain another thing.) His voice dropped, more serious.

(Why did I bleed while using magic today? I thought I was going to pass out. That never happened like that before.)

The grimoire took a second to answer. A second that felt too long.

“Before… you had enough magic to cushion the impact. Now…” its voice lowered, “your magic is unstable and you’re using a body that wasn’t born for your soul. There was always damage, Beta… you just didn’t see it. Today, with no energy to compensate, the body shows the price.”

John fell silent.

Then muttered:

(“So that means even to survive I’m paying interest.”)

“Yes.”

(“Amazing.”)

“I told you.”

(“Shut up.”)
----
Post-Credits Scene

The cutting wind whipped across the roof of the tallest building in the small village. The old tiles creaked under the weight of the snow.

A still silhouette stood at the edge of the rooftop — tall, hooded, watching the village below as if it were nothing but a board in their game.

The phone buzzed.

The figure lifted it slowly, the screen illuminating only the outline of a crooked smile.

Message received:

“The trap is set. Keep following the Original… and the clone.”

Gloved fingers slid across the screen, closing the message.

The figure raised their gaze toward the distant road Elijah and John had driven down hours earlier.

The smile widened — silent, predatory.

“Perfect,” they murmured, voice too low for the wind to carry.
“Let them come to the right place.”

One step.

Then another.

And then the shadow vanished from the rooftop… as if it had never been there at all.

Chapter Text

The restaurant fell into a strange silence after the Grimoire shut up. It wasn’t just quiet. It was the kind of silence that makes you aware of your own breathing.
John finished his food even without tasting it. The texture was awful, but it was either that or stare at the plate like a condemned man waiting for a sentence.

The door opened. That stupid little bell jingled like nothing in the world was wrong.
Elijah walked in as if he’d just stepped out of a meeting with bankers.

“It’s time,” he said. No drama. No rush.

John stood slowly. The chair scraped against the floor.

“Great. Time for international crime. Just another Tuesday.”

Outside, the cold hit him like a wet slap. He climbed into the car without thinking twice. The vehicle seemed warm just by existing.

Elijah drove in silence. Always that silence. The kind that wasn’t empty — it was calculated. John stared out the windows as Copenhagen’s lights grew sparse and the darkness swallowed everything. Trees shook in the dark like arms trying to grab them.

They stopped in an alley with no lights at all. The National Museum glowed in the distance, large and unmoving, like it was watching everything.

“The plan is simple,” Elijah began, his breath forming small clouds in the air.

“We go in through the vents,” John said, the corner of his mouth lifting in a half-smile.

Elijah just blinked. Slowly. Like a man trying very hard to be patient with a stubborn child.

“John… I’m a thousand years old. I don’t crawl through ducts like an insect. There are protocols.”

Before John could reply, Elijah was already crossing the alley. His stride was calm, like someone heading to a business meeting. He approached the security guard at the service entrance — a man with eyes glazed by boredom — and placed a hand on his shoulder.
The whisper that followed was so soft John didn’t hear the words, only the tone: sweet, persuasive, and absolutely final.

The guard nodded, eyes losing a bit more focus, and opened the door.

“Ah,” John murmured to himself as he walked in. “Compulsion. Always so… practical.”

“Efficient,” Elijah corrected, already moving through the hallway.

Inside the museum, the process was straightforward.
Every guard who appeared — whether by a corridor or a routine patrol — had at most two seconds to react before Elijah was standing in front of them.

A touch on the arm.
Eyes locking.
A simple command:

“Go to another wing.”
“You saw nothing.”
“Return to your post and do not question.”

John watched with a mix of fascination and discomfort.

“I swear I thought we’d have to knock out at least one of them,” he muttered.

Elijah adjusted his tie as they kept walking.

“Only those who don’t know what they’re doing resort to brute force.”

In the Nordic wing, the air was colder. John made the gesture the Grimoire had taught him. The glass case opened without a sound.

The pain hit before he understood it. A stab in his arm. A hot rush in his nose. He touched it and saw blood.

Shit.

His hand trembled for half a second, but it was enough for Elijah to notice.

The Original held the urn carefully, but his eyes — for a quick, technical moment — focused on John.
Evaluating. Measuring. Calculating.

John swallowed. The taste of blood was metallic on his tongue.

“We got it,” he forced out, voice rougher than he liked. “Not even an alarm. That was… easy.”

“Efficiency is rarely spectacular,” Elijah replied, already turning away.
But that brief look of his stuck to John worse than the pain.

The attack didn’t come with noise. It came with a whisper.

A tear in the fabric of silence… followed by a dry crack in the air, like a tiny bone snapping.
The smell changed — wet earth, a storm about to break.

The Grimoire vibrated against John’s chest. It didn’t speak. It just pulsed, angry, like an animal warning of danger.

John turned, and the world unfocused.
Shapes emerged from the shadows of the galleries.
Three vampires moving like predators, two witches with empty eyes and raised hands.

“John.” Elijah’s voice was a clipped warning.

The first witch spat words John didn’t know, but he felt them in his teeth.
The magic hit like a punch of compressed air.
The golden shield answered with a THUMP that rattled his molars. His knees dipped a fraction. His vision darkened and came back blotched with colors.

Shit, shit, shit.

The second witch began chanting. Elijah dashed forward like a blur, but the older vampire — scarred and vicious — intercepted him brutally.
The hit sounded like metal striking stone. Elijah didn’t fall. He reset his stance and attacked again, eyes sharp, body full of fury.

The younger vampire, blond with dead blue eyes, stood in front of John.

The first hit was a test. The shield repelled it with a muffled crack. The vampire smiled.

The second and third came in sync.
John lifted his arm on reflex, and the magic reacted with a flash — a golden snap that made the vampire recoil half a step, surprised.

But the pain followed.
Heavy blows, direct.
His nose burned, blood dripping freely.
His head throbbed like a drum.

Not now, please…

The fourth strike came with a creaking sound.
Not from the shield.
From inside it.
From its connection to the Grimoire.

The barrier flickered, shaking.

The magic inside John twisted, reacting to his emotions. It was like a racing heartbeat, trying to hold everything together.
The Grimoire pulsed harder, as if trying to help sustain the shield.

''Don't fall... don't fall..." — John whispered, more to the magic than to himself.

But fear scrambled everything.
The energy shook, unstable, on the verge of collapsing.

It was enough.

The witch’s chant cut through the air.
The shield didn’t break.

It shattered.

It turned to golden dust before the wave of energy hit John like a train.

Air left his lungs in a ragged grunt.
He flew backward, lights and shadows blending.
The impact against the display case came after the sound.
Glass shattered into a cutting rain as he slid across the floor, his whole body throbbing.

He tried to focus.

He saw Elijah turn his head. And in that blink — Elijah showed something he never showed:

Raw panic.
No mask. No marble.

“John!” His voice wasn’t polished. It was rough, urgent, full of a fear that twisted John’s stomach.

Elijah took out the witch with a move so fast she barely registered it. Then he prepared to get back to John, already fighting the next attacker, irritation and adrenaline tangled together…

But in that microsecond — when he glanced at the boy lying on the floor…

…a shadow materialized behind him.

The vampire looked more like shadow than flesh.
In his hand, a dark stake carved with runes that drank the light.

Elijah didn’t see.

The stake slid into his back with a sound much too soft.
Elijah gasped. A short, human sound.
His body went rigid.
His eyes — full of fury and an impossible question — met John’s one last time.

Something inside John tore open.

Magic exploded in a wild golden burst.
It didn’t save Elijah, but it shattered display cases, pushed vampires back, sent shards of glass flying like sparks.

It was pure instinct.
Pain, fear, desperation.

Elijah fell.
Not dramatically.
He simply crumpled, as if centuries of weight pulled him down.
He lay still among the shards.

“ELIJAH!”
John’s scream scraped his throat raw.
He tried to stand, but his body wouldn’t respond — pinned by pain and broken magic.

A figure blocked the light.
One of the hunters, an ordinary face, empty eyes.
His fist glowed with leftover black magic.

The Grimoire pulsed one last time, desperate.

White light burst inside John’s head.

And silence followed.
------
Harlan nudged Elijah’s boot with the tip of his own shoe.
Nothing. Not even a twitch.

“How long does this magical crap last?” His voice was a low growl.

Arvid didn’t even look. He slid a curved knife into its sheath, wiping the blade on a cloth.
“Long enough. We’re not taking him. Orders.”

Lukas, the youngest, was dragging John by the arms. His breathing was ragged.
“This is stupid. This is pure stupidity leaving him here. He’s gonna wake up and he’s gonna kill us.”

Arvid turned his head slowly.
His eyes were like river stones — smooth, cold, worn by centuries.
“You wanna carry an Original, boy? Wanna try stuffing him in a trunk? Gonna slap him and ask him to behave?” His voice was flat, but every word hit like a blow.
“He wakes up, the first thing he’ll rip out is your talkative tongue. And I’ll let him.”

Lukas swallowed hard and looked away.

Sigrid, the witch, wiped the blood from her nose on her coat sleeve. Her hands trembled faintly.
“The clone… that shield of his—” she hissed, irritated, trying to steady herself. “The two of us attacking at once, and still that barrier shouldn’t have held for that long.”

Harlan let out a short, dry laugh.
“What’s gonna be ‘held’ is our funeral when the Mikaelson comes collecting.”
He imitated a bureaucratic boss voice:
“‘Harlan, what was the logic of leaving the main threat conscious?’
And me: ‘Oh, it was Arvid, he likes following manuals.’”

“Not manuals,” Arvid cut in, putting the cloth away. “It’s the boss who pays. And he doesn’t pay for corpses.”

Lukas was already hauling John onto a rolling transport cart, tossing the urn beside him.
“Pays well, what’s the problem?” he muttered, sarcasm trembling along with his hands.
“Just one pissed-off Original on our tail. Minor detail.”

“It’s the boy he wants,” Arvid said, his voice so neutral it was almost worse than a shout.
“The Original is a problem to avoid. This one…”
He jerked his chin toward unconscious John.
“This one is a problem to take apart. Bleeds like a human but smells like something old. The boss likes taking apart old things.”

Sigrid spat on the floor, the spit red.
“Costs a lot to take apart. Cost me a piece of my soul.”

“The boss pays in soul too,” Arvid replied, already moving.
“As long as it’s yours, not his.”

Harlan looked one last time at Elijah.
The Original looked… fragile, lying there on the floor.
It was a wrong sight.
“I hate this. He’s gonna wake up with a rage that’ll make a thousand years feel like yesterday. And he’ll remember my scent.”

Arvid opened the service door.
A blast of cold air rushed in, carrying dust and blood with it.
A barely visible smile tugged at his lips.
“Good. Let him remember.
The longer he’s chasing us and the boy… the less he’ll notice what the boss is building right under his nose.”

He made a sharp gesture.
“Let’s move. His clock’s already ticking.”

They left, the cart squeaking over the old floorboards.
The door closed behind them, leaving only silence, shattered glass, and the unmoving form of Elijah Mikaelson.

For now.
-----
The pain was a cold, persistent line stitched into his back. A poisoned needle of ice. Elijah’s consciousness returned not as a waking but like a drowning body bobbing to the surface — slowly, full of confusion.

He lay still. Assess. Feel. Listen.

Smell: his own blood, old and dark. Stone dust. Broken glass. The missing scent of John — that mix of human energy, unstable magic, and cheap coffee.

Sound: nothing. No rattled breath. No protesting murmur. An absence where presence should be.

John.

His eyes opened.

The museum was empty. The display dome, open and vacant, reflected the dim emergency lights like a blind eye. Shards from the case John had shattered glittered around. And the space where he had fallen… empty.

Something inside Elijah clenched — a primordial muscle that had never been used. It wasn’t just anger. It was a failure so deep, so personal, that for a second he couldn’t name it. They’d left him alive. An insult. And they’d taken John. A catastrophe.

With a sound that was more air escaping a pierced lung than a roar, he moved his hand to his back. His fingers met wood. The sensation felt profane. Suppression runes, dark and sticky against his skin. He grabbed the stake’s shaft. The pain that followed the pull was absolute; his vision went white. The stake slid out with a wet, horrible sound. Black blood gushed, further staining the marble. He spat, body trembling uncontrollably, teeth clenched until it hurt.

But then, like a tide rising against a broken dam, strength returned. Slow. Painful. Humiliating. He felt the flesh seam back together, the muscles repairing. Immortality, wounded and furious, reasserting dominion.

He rose. The movement wasn’t graceful. It was a fight against gravity and his own flesh. He straightened, looked at the blood-soaked stake in his hand. The wood seemed to pulse with the repressive magic. He tightened his fist. The stake crumbled into powder, slipping through his fingers like sand.

He drew a breath. The museum’s cold air cut his lungs like a blade, but it was real. It was now.

Control descended on him like a suit of steel. The fury didn’t vanish; it was compacted, turned into fuel, into absolute focus. He straightened his coat as a reflex, a gesture of normalcy. His hands didn’t shake. His face was a mask of smooth stone.

He pulled his phone. The screen was cracked. He dialed.

One ring.

“Elijah.” Klaus’s voice was lazy, distracted. “Where have you crawled off to?”

“Niklaus.” The name came out flat but with a weight that silenced the other end instantly. “They attacked me. A suppression stake.”

Silence. Then Klaus’s voice, stripped of any joking tone: “Where?”

“National Museum. Denmark.” Elijah closed his eyes for a second. The image of John’s face in that last instant burned behind his eyelids. “They took the urn.” He paused, microscopic. “And they took John.”

On the other end, Klaus made a low sound — part chuckle, part snarl. “They took the substitute. Poor taste… though I always said you had a type, brother.”

Rage roiled in Elijah, but he shoved it down into the frozen depths of his composure. “This is not a joke,” he said, voice a wire of steel. “They have something of mine. I will get it back.”

The shift in Klaus was almost tangible through the silence. “Who?”

“Hunters. Witches. Professionals. Working together.” Elijah was already moving, leaving the blasted wing, his steps soundless in the dark corridor. “I need Freya. A trace. Now.”

Minutes later, Freya’s voice, tense but focused: “Elijah. Kol is here. We’ll try.”

He stopped outside the museum. Dawn was lightening the horizon into a dirty morning blue.

A muffled, magical thud made Freya groan on the line. “Elijah… I can’t! It’s a veil, a darkness… strong, ancient. Whoever it is doesn’t want to be found.”

Elijah clenched his fist. The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It carried the promise of a storm.

“Then,” he whispered, the word hovering in the cold morning air, “the hunt will be old-fashioned.”

He hung up. Pocketed the phone. Straightened his coat, as if that could bring order to the rest.

Morning light crept up slowly.

They’d taken John.

They had made a mistake.
----
Post-Credits Scene:

The warehouse smelled of rust, burning oil, and old fear.

The hanging bulb flickered like a dying insect, casting broken shadows across the grimy metal walls. Wind sliced through the gaps in the structure like a blade, whistling through holes in the sheet metal, carrying dust and a damp cold that clung to the bones.

And there, in a corner, tossed on a rotten wooden crate like common trash…

…was me.

Yes. Me.

The grimoire you used to hear inside that boy’s head.

Now I’m not here to carry him.

He’s somewhere not too far — probably tied up, probably bleeding.

I hear their footsteps going to him, never to me.

And me? I’m left lying here like trash.

Like a coat forgotten on a hook.

My pages are crumpled. My cover is cracked.

But I still speak.

I always spoke.

The difference is now I’m not speaking to him.

I’m speaking to you.

You, on the other side of the screen, turning the pages, biting your nail, waiting for the next chapter like someone waiting for a late bus on a rainy day.

Listen close.

I am far older than they imagine.

I have been carried by kings, witches, mad monks — and people worse than those.

I have been burned, drowned, buried.

I always come back.

And while you are reading…

a tiny piece of me remains stuck to his soul.

Tiny.

Stubborn.

Clinging like a tick.

And now that little piece is screaming.

Not for him.

For you.

Don’t let him disappear.

Don’t let them win.

Because if that boy dies away from me…

if he dies before I can pull him back, mend the seam of the soul that still binds him to that body…

…then I will fall silent for good.

And you do not want to hear that silence.

So turn the page.

Run.

Cover Elijah in shame.

Do something.

I’ll wait.

(I don’t really have a choice.)

Chapter Text

John’s head was throbbing like someone was shaking his brain inside his skull.

He woke with a taste of iron in his mouth and the immediate certainty that something was very wrong. His body confirmed it seconds later, when shards of glass pressed into his skin at the slightest movement.

Damp stone floor, cold seeping straight into his bones. Exposed brick walls, poorly plastered, stained with things he didn’t want to identify. An iron door, no handle. And a weak lightbulb behind a metal cage that looked more like it was shitting out yellow light than actually illuminating anything.

The memory came late, like a badly timed punch.

Elijah.

The stake. The body falling.

John snapped his head from side to side too fast, glass biting into his skin. His chest tightened.

He’s not here.

He tried to sit up. Something hot and sour climbed up his throat—it wasn’t just nausea, it was whatever they’d pumped into him still lingering.

The stone scraped his back through the thin fabric of his shirt.

And then… nothing.

John frowned. That familiar pressure in his chest—the silent warning of magic—just wasn’t there.

He tried again. Not a spell. Just the impulse. The reflex.

The void answered.

His gaze dropped slowly to his wrists.

The cuffs.

A model he recognized instantly.

An old memory, from when he was still watching the show as Lívia.

Anti-magic.

An old trick. Dirty. And effective as hell.

John closed his eyes. Just for a second.

“Great,” he thought, with a kind of humor that was really just desperation.

“I wake up tied up, drugged, and… collared with magical restraints. Normal Tuesday, I guess.”

And then he felt it.

The hole.

Not an absence—an amputation. That constant presence in his mind—the irritating buzz, the acidic voice that commented on everything, insulted him, kept him sane—was gone.

“Grimoire?” The word came out rough, cracked, childlike in his own ears.

Nothing. Just the echo.

He swallowed hard.

Without the book, there were no instructions.

Without the crutch, there were no excuses.

The door creaked open.

The sound was loud, metallic. Two figures entered.

The hunter—covered in scars that didn’t look like battle glory, but like bad stitching. Like someone trying to assemble a human doll without an instruction manual.

And the warlock—thin, straight-backed, with that clinical stare that didn’t see people. Only parts. Components. Things to be taken apart.

John tried to move his face. Issued the command: Smile.

The muscles obeyed like old wires about to snap.

“Visitors, huh? Parents coming to see the prodigal son? Or… let me guess. Payday at the firm? Because I left my wallet at home.”

“Your magic is contained,” the warlock said, in that smooth voice—no emotion, no rough edge to grab onto. “Now you’re just flesh.”

“Premium flesh, I hope,” John shot back, swallowing hard. The taste was dust mixed with panic. “You two look like the type who buys sketchy sausage from the side of the road.”
They didn’t argue. They grabbed him by the arms—and dragged him to the wall. A rusted iron ring, stinking of old blood, was embedded in the stone. With no delicacy whatsoever, they hooked the cuffs’ chains into it, yanking his wrists up until they were restrained and exposed.

The hunter didn’t bother looking at him. He only studied John’s forearm, measured where to cut, and pulled out a serrated blade—the kind that doesn’t slice skin, it tears it.

And drove it in.

The pain was a white flash, exploding behind his eyes. Then a darkness that threatened to swallow everything. John’s body arched in an involuntary spasm, his breath locked in his throat.

“A… a little warning, you animal…” he managed to force out, the words scraping the air raw. “Is that too much to ask? Or is the surprise part of the package?”

The hunter kept going like it was a medical procedure. He twisted John’s arm over a metal container. Blood began to drip.

Plink.
Plink.
Plink.

John let out a sound that wasn’t quite a laugh—broken, crumbling under the pain.

“So what is this? A recipe? You making pudding?” He drew a shaky breath, fighting to keep his vision from wavering. “Skincare ritual? Clone blood for flawless skin? Because… look at you… didn’t work, huh?”

The first punch hit his stomach. The air left his lungs all at once, a dull thud that echoed in his ears like muffled thunder. John folded as much as the cuffs allowed, vision blurring, the world smearing into ink stains.

“Great,” he groaned, spitting saliva that was mostly thick air. “I… I was about to throw up anyway. It’s healthy. Detox.”

The second landed in his ribs. Something snapped inside. Not a crack—a dry crrk, like a thick stick breaking underfoot. Hot, sharp pain bloomed.

“That… that cracked something,” he gasped, tears filling his eyes without permission.

The third struck his face. His head slammed into the brick wall. The sound was hollow. Metallic. For a second, he wasn’t John. He was Lívia, curled up in the corner of a room she didn’t want to remember, tasting blood (it was always the same taste) and the fear of not being able to scream (and never being able to).

His vision darkened, speckled with green and purple stars. He spat. Dark blood stained the floor near the hunter’s boots.

“My bad. Bad aim. I’m out of practice,” John said. “Don’t usually spit on ugly people.”

He waited for the next one. His entire body was a single stretched wire, about to snap. Every muscle, every tendon, pure tension. But the next blow didn’t come.

Instead of pain, there was a… tingling. Not pleasant. Just strange.

It started at the cut on his arm. A deep, odd warmth, like worms moving beneath the skin. He looked down.

The cut was closing.

Slowly. You could see it, even though his mind screamed that it was a lie. The skin drawing together, sealing—not like a zipper, but like two edges of wet dough meeting and sticking. The blood stopped dripping. The last drop hung there, swayed, fell.

Plink.

Done. In its place was a pink line, new, shiny with moisture—not a scar, just a mark. A pink pencil line, drawn five minutes ago.
The nausea receded. The searing pain in his ribs dulled into a throb, then into an ache. The side of his face, where the bone had protested, went down. The taste of blood in his mouth turned metallic, but distant—like remembering a flavor.

The hunter took a step back. His eyes, dead just moments ago, were now wide. For the first time, he looked alive.

It was fear.

“What the fuck is that?”

John looked at his own arm. Looked at them. A different smile began to form on his lips. Slow. Tired.

“Looks like…” he said, his voice a little steadier now, still thick with blood that wasn’t there anymore, but steady, “well, look at that. Daddy Mikaelson. Left me a little present. Must’ve slipped into the coat pocket. By accident. Or not.”

The warlock stepped closer. His clinical detachment cracked, replaced by an intense, dark fascination. He reached out and touched the freshly regenerated skin with his fingertips. John’s skin was warm. Too warm.

“This isn’t a clone,” the warlock murmured, more to himself. “You’re not a wolf or a vampire. You’re something… new. An accident. A beautiful accident.”

John tilted his head, looking up at him.

“Thanks. Finally… a compliment. Took long enough. I was starting to think I’d have to pull out a tooth to get noticed.”

The hunter clenched his fist again, the muscles in his arm jumping—but there was hesitation now. Caution.

And John felt it.

It wasn’t pain. It was heat blooming in the center of his stomach, rising in a slow wave. Pressure in his chest, like two ropes tied inside him being pulled in opposite directions. On one side, the familiar knot—memories, fears, an entire life that didn’t belong to this skin—Lívia’s soul, clinging with teeth and desperation to a borrowed existence.

On the other, the body she inhabited: Mikaelson flesh, bone, and blood, reacting, waking, trying to shape itself into something of its own.

Not a clone.
Not an Original.
Not entirely Lívia.

Something that survived.

The rusted lamp on the ceiling flickered violently.

The air in the cell grew heavy, hot for an instant, like charged dust.

The chain of the cuffs groaned against the iron.

Somewhere far away, on a dark, frozen street in Copenhagen, Elijah Mikaelson stopped walking.

He looked down at his own hand, which trembled slightly. He touched his wrist, then the center of his chest, where a heart long silent seemed to… throb with a rhythm that wasn’t his. It belonged to something else. Someone else. Beating desperately inside his ribcage.

A passing wave of heat. Crushing pressure in his stomach. As if he’d swallowed a burning coal. His vision blurred for a fraction of a second, overlaid with exposed brick and a dirty yellow light. The image came with a smell: mold, blood, and cold sweat. It wasn’t his memory.

“This is ridiculous,” he muttered to the empty air, his voice thick with deep, confused irritation.

Back in the cell, the dust from the crack in the wall settled. The air cooled.

John drew a deep breath, filling his lungs with the heavy air. When he lifted his face again, his eyes gleamed with something new.

“If this…” his voice came out low, rough, but sharp as the blade that had cut him, “is what I am without my magic… imagine when it comes back.”

The hunter took another instinctive step back.

The warlock didn’t. He only held that fascinated stare, and then—for the first time—the corners of his mouth curled upward. A scientist’s smile, faced with an extraordinary specimen.

“Call the boss,” John said, holding the warlock’s gaze. “He’s… he’s gonna want to see this up close.”

“The Master will want you whole,” the warlock said, without taking his eyes off John.

The hunter, meanwhile, remained frozen where he’d retreated, eyes locked on the cut that had closed itself, as if he’d just seen a corpse blink.

John lifted his chin, assessing them both with a near-lazy disdain. The laziness—deep exhaustion—was all Lívia.

“Alright…” he said with a sigh that tried to be playful and came out only tired. “You two are doing a lot of posing, but now I’m curious.”

The warlock narrowed his eyes, irritated by the tone.

John finished, with a crooked smile:

“Where’s the rest of you?”

Silence. Tense. Heavy. The hunter swallowed hard. The sound was loud.

The warlock looked away for half a second—toward the door, too fast—and that was all John needed.

He laughed, slow.

“Ahhh, there it is. I knew it. You’re not just two losers in a damp basement. You come in a family pack. Like laundry detergent. Five kilos of incompetence for one low price.”

The hunter snarled, a sound that came more from his nose than his mouth.

“Shut up.”

“Oh, really?” John raised an eyebrow. “Because back at the museum there were more people. Three, four… maybe five. Or more. Smelled like a nervous crowd. Where are they now? Ran? Ditched you? Or are they out there, singing in a circle like a bargain-bin cult choir?”

The warlock pressed his lips together, like he’d been hit by a real dart.

John tilted his head, watching him with a cold precision that, without realizing it, echoed Elijah himself.

“And let me guess…” he continued, his voice lowering, growing more intimate, more dangerous. “You need them. It’s not optional. It’s necessity.”

“To keep this running. This… this smell of ozone and crushed brick.”

“To hold the magic you’re using on me. Which, judging by things… isn’t holding very well. It’s leaking. Cracking.”

“To keep Freya from smelling the house on fire. And Kol… Kol from tracking this pigsty down to the last brick. Right?”

The warlock stepped forward, posture too rigid, like an actor forgetting his next move.

“You understand partially,” he said, flat. “But not enough to use it against us.”

John let out a short laugh. A cough of a laugh.

“Sweetheart, I work with half a clue. I make up the other half, and I usually get it right. Actually…”

John finished, each word a pebble dropped onto their frozen lake:
“There are several witches chanting out there. Holding the ‘bubble’ up. If they stop for five minutes, this whole thing collapses like badly cooked instant noodles.”

The warlock’s jaw locked tight. The hunter muttered a low curse—some demon’s name or maybe a boss’s, hard to tell.

John raised his voice, steady now—and that steadiness came from a new place, half Mikaelson, half Lívia’s raw desperation.

“You’re pretty stupid, you know that?” he said, voice low, almost sweet. “You had a chance to take the Original. Elijah…” He took a breath, letting the name land. “And you thought: ‘Nah. Let’s grab the clone instead. Brilliant idea. Ten out of ten, geniuses.’”

The warlock snorted, the sound of someone irritated by an inconvenient truth.

“It’s not a copy.”

John just laughed. And the laugh echoed through the cell, alone, until it died out.

Zzzzz—kr-kk—

Mental interference crashed into his head—not as sound, but like a cerebral toothache, throbbing, full of static. Like someone had shoved a broken, blood-smeared walkie-talkie straight into his soul.

John’s eyes flew open. His vision doubled. Two hunters. Two warlocks.

Neither of them noticed anything. They were spectators in a silent movie.

And then, in the middle of that horrific noise, a voice.

The voice.

Pure sarcasm—yet shaky, weak, like it was speaking from underwater.

“…B-Beta…? Y’hear m-me…? Fuck—this sucks—krk—”

John almost laughed with relief. Almost cried, too.

(“Grimoire?”) he thought, letting his head rest against the wall. The stone was cold. The relief was hot.

“Finally, fuck… Beta, listen—” the voice crackled, dragged out, irritated but exhausted. “…activate… your… krk… activate your magic, you bastard—”

John squeezed his eyes shut as the connection wavered, coming in nauseating waves.

(“I can’t! They blocked everything, you know that! You coming at me with instruction manual bullshit now?”)

“BETA!”
The mental shout exploded into static, a stab of white noise.

The hunter glanced back, suspicious—sniffed the air like a dog—but saw nothing.

“Your magic isn’t weak, idiot! It’s ALIVE! Alive! Different from those assholes right there!”

John bit his lip, trying to keep it together. It split again. The taste of blood was familiar.

(“I’m trying! I’ve been trying since I woke up here!”)

“THEN TRY HARDER!” The voice snapped, glitching. “I—I’m—krk—I’m only getting through because of the crack in the ritual—the crack you made, you moron—but they’re reinforcing it… Beta, you have to—YOU HAVE TO turn on your damn GPS!”

John blinked.

(“My what?”)

“YOUR MAGIC GPS, YOU WALKING IDIOT! Let the Original feel you! He already does, but you’re weak—help me help you, shit! I’m not Superman! I’m a book with sentience and a migraine!”

John would’ve laughed if he weren’t terrified.

The Grimoire continued, the voice breaking more now, dragging like a chewed-up cassette tape:

“Beta… I don’t wanna—kr-kk—I don’t wanna die just because you don’t know how to use your own power… which, by the way, is right there, screaming, you animal…”
The voice trembled.
“…I wasn’t made to die like this… by incompetent people… in a damp basement… what kind of ending is this bullshit…”

John closed his eyes, feeling a wave of something hot—not magic, not yet, but will. Determination. Fury. Lívia’s fury, useless her whole life. John’s determination, from nowhere at all. The instinct to survive—belonging to both of them.

(“I won’t let it happen. I promise.”)

The Grimoire tried to laugh.

And the connection snapped—not like a bulb burning out, but like a final thread breaking. Like a last breath.

John’s eyes flew open.

And inside him—something moved.

A crack. Not mental. Physical. In the sternum.

A pulse. Not the heart. Something deeper.

A thread of light—small, shy, but alive. Behind his eyelids, he saw it: a warm, golden filament, like an umbilical cord of energy, stretching toward somewhere… toward someone.

“Okay…” he murmured, barely audible, barely breathing. He spoke to Lívia inside himself. He spoke to John in the outside world.
“Magic GPS… fine. Let’s see if I know how to be a beacon, then. A really pissed-off, badly tempered beacon.”

And for the first time since he’d woken up in that cell—

John didn’t try.

He demanded.

From his own flesh. From his fractured soul.

He pulled the thread.

And far from there, at the exact moment John pulled, Elijah Mikaelson felt the impact.

He had failed. And failure was something he knew—but never accepted.

He had failed to protect the intruder. The clone. And for Elijah, failure didn’t turn into regret. It turned into purpose.

He began searching the alleys of Copenhagen, far from the postcard streets. He tore through the dens of decadent vampires.

With an Original, no one lied for long—not when Elijah made it clear he wasn’t asking for information. He was taking it.

His eyes didn’t threaten destruction. They stated it. As a fact.

It was on the rooftop of an abandoned building, coat immaculate despite the cutting wind, that something changed.

It wasn’t sound.
It wasn’t scent.

It was a light tug, right at the edge of his consciousness—like someone touching the other end of an invisible wire.

He recognized it instantly.

Not the name.

The presence.

John.

A life-signature he’d learned to recognize, whether he liked it or not.

It was weak, flickering—but it was a call.

And Elijah felt the direction.

Not an address, but a path—a point opening on the map of reality itself, pulling him east.

The hope that ignited wasn’t warm or pretty.

It was practical.
It was focus.

He turned his head. His eyes locked onto the exact point where that sensation ended.

It was time to retrieve him.

John was a problem, a copy… but he was his problem.

And no one touched what belonged to a Mikaelson.
-----
Post-Credit Scene:

Meanwhile, in New Orleans, the extinguished fireplace made the Mikaelson living room feel cold—even though three witches were present, and none of them were exactly calm.

Candles scattered across the floor flickered without wind, as if they were breathing. Crystals vibrated with low tones. An ancient map lay open on the table, scored with runes that pulsed faintly.

Freya had both hands on the map, her eyes glowing.

Finn kept the protection circle active, sweat trailing down his temple despite his rigid expression. His magic was steady—but under pressure.

And Kol… Kol was perched on the back of a chair, bouncing his leg, bored like a teenager stuck at Sunday mass.

“It’s taking too long,” he announced for the fifth time, fiddling with one of the crystals just to be annoying. The crystal shrieked and went dark. “Oops.”

“Kol,” Freya growled, not lifting her eyes from the runes.

“I’m just keeping morale up!” He raised his hands innocently. “Someone has to liven up the magic funeral, right?”

Finn didn’t look at him—but his jaw tightened.
“This isn’t a game. There are wards. The ritual hiding the boy is… more complex than we anticipated.”

“Of course it is,” Kol replied. “You’re dealing with a Mikaelson clone. Nothing about that is simple.”

Freya opened her eyes. And for one brief second—something answered.

The map shuddered.
The candlelight bent eastward.
Kol stopped fidgeting.

Finn straightened.
Freya held her breath.

A weak point flared on the map—a streak of golden light, wild and uneven.

Freya gripped the edge of the map, her eyes widening for an instant.

“That didn’t come from the ritual,” she said. “That was him.”

Finn exhaled slowly. “A rupture. As if his magic pushed back against whatever’s keeping him hidden.”

Kol tilted his head, genuinely interested now.
“So he tried something.”

Freya nodded, tense. “Something emotional. Instinctive. The kind of thing that makes magic leak even when someone’s restrained.”

Kol smiled, slow and sharp.
“Our little Frankenstein just turned on the beacon.”

Finn narrowed his eyes.
“But… it’s unstable…”