❧ stefan has a long list of victims ❧

≪•◦ ❈ ◦•≫

The faint crackle of a turning page broke the gentle stillness of Amalie's apartment. She sat perched at the kitchen counter, one leg tucked beneath her, the other bouncing idly as her pen hovered over the half-finished crossword puzzle sprawled across the page in front of her. The warm light of the pendant lamps overhead bathed the space in a soft, golden glow, their faint hum blending with the distant whir of the AC.

To her left, a steaming mug of hot chocolate sat abandoned, the surface swirling faintly as wisps of steam curled into the air. Amalie tapped her pen against the marble, her brow furrowed in thought as she chewed on the inside of her cheek.

The sharp, insistent knock on the door broke her concentration.

Amalie sighed heavily, letting the pen clatter onto the counter with exaggerated dramatics. "Seriously?" She muttered to the empty room, glancing toward the door with reluctant irritation. Sliding off the stool, she padded toward the door in socked feet, the faint whisper of fabric against hardwood the only sound accompanying her.

She already had a guess as to who was on the other side. Elena, no doubt. She pulled open the door, already preparing herself for whatever plea or bargain awaited her.

But it wasn't Elena.

"Katherine," Amalie said, leaning casually against the doorframe as her gaze swept over the woman standing there. Her voice was smooth, practiced, but the flicker of surprise in her dark eyes betrayed her composure. "To what do I owe this...pleasure?"

Katherine stood just outside the threshold, framed by the dim hallway light like a painting. Every detail of her appearance seemed calculated, deliberate. Her dark curls spilled over her shoulders, framing her face. Her jacket was unzipped, revealing a deep red blouse that seemed to contrast against her skin. Her lips curled into that familiar, dangerous smile, her eyes gleaming with mischief.

"Let's just say I missed you, Moya Lyubov," Katherine purred, the endearment rolling off her tongue like silk.

Amalie raised a brow, her lips twitching into a faint smirk. She crossed her arms loosely over her chest, leaning more heavily against the doorframe. "Did your latest scheme fall apart already?"

Katherine gasped theatrically, a hand flying to her chest. "You wound me." Then, with the graceful ease of someone who had long since stopped asking permission for anything, she stepped forward, brushing past Amalie and into the apartment as though she owned it. Her fingers trailed fleetingly along Amalie's arm as she passed, featherlight and deliberate.

Amalie turned slowly, watching as Katherine shrugged off her cardigan and tossed it over the back of a chair without a second thought. "So," Amalie began, her arms still crossed as she leaned against the door, "what's the plan this time? Hiding out? Laying low? Or are you just here to ruin my morning?"

Katherine shot her a sly grin, sauntering toward the counter. "Why can't it be all of the above?" She quipped, her voice dripping with casual amusement.

Amalie opened her mouth to retort, but Katherine closed the distance between them in a blink. Her cool hands brushed against Amalie's shoulders, her touch as light as it was deliberate. The movement was casual enough to seem innocent. But Amalie knew better.

"You work too hard," Katherine murmured, her voice dropping into something soft, almost coaxing. Her fingers traced an imperceptible path along the curve of Amalie's shoulder, drifting toward the base of her neck. The touch was so casual, so fleeting, that it felt like a trap.

Amalie's hand shot up, catching Katherine's wrist mid-movement. Her grip was firm, her gaze unflinching. "Nice try," Amalie said coolly, though her steady voice belied the way her pulse thundered beneath her skin.

Katherine's smirk didn't falter. If anything it grew, her eyes gleaming with amusement. "You're really going to play the stoic card with me?" She teased, her lips a breath away from Amalie's ear. "I know you've missed me."

The words hung there like a flame held too close to paper, the room growing heavy with an unspoken tension that hummed in the silence. Katherine's gaze was dark, magnetic, daring Amalie to close the gap. And for the briefest moment, Amalie considered it—considered giving in to the fire that Katherine always carried with her, reckless and consuming.

But Amalie held firm.

With a quiet sigh, Amalie pushed Katherine's hand away, stepping back to put a deliberate distance between them. "You're deflecting," she said, her tone firm but even "You never show up without an agenda. So, what do you want?"

For a heartbeat, Katherine didn't answer. Her smile faltered, just for a second, the mask slipping enough for Amalie to catch a glimpse of something raw beneath the polished exterior. But it was gone almost as quickly as it appeared, replaced by Katherine's usual air of untouchable confidence.

"Who says I want anything?" Katherine replied lightly, leaning against the counter as though she belonged there. Her posture was artfully casual, her gasp sharp and unreadable. "Maybe I just wanted to see you."

Amalie arched a brow, clearly unimpressed. "You don't do just anything. Now spill."

Katherine sighed dramatically, as though Amalie were asking far too much of her. "Fine." She drawled, pushing off the counter. "I know where Stefan is."

Amalie's arms dropped to her sides, her stance straightening as her eyes narrowed. "And you're telling me because...?"

"Because I'm feeling generous," Katherine replied with a breezy smile, though the glint in her eyes betrayed the sharp calculations swirling beneath the surface. "He's in Chicago. You should probably start packing."

Amalie stepped closer, her gaze steady and unflinching as she studied Katherine's face "Generous?" She repeated, skepticism dripping from every syllable. "What's in it for you?"

Katherine's lips curled into a teasing smile. "Maybe I just want to see how this play out. Or maybe," she added, her voice dropping into a sultry whisper as she stepped into Amalie's space again, "I've missed the way you look at me when I'm being useful."

Amalie snorted softly, though her amusement was tempered by the heat that still lingered between them. "Always an angle with you," she muttered.

"And you love it," Katherine murmured, her hand lifting to brush against Amalie's cheek. Her fingers lingered, light and deliberate, as her gaze searched Amalie's face—waiting, daring her to close the space between them.

But Amalie didn't.

Instead, she caught Katherine's wrist again, her lips curving into a rueful smile. "Not today, Katherine."

Katherine's eyes lingered on hers for a moment, something almost wistful flickering across her expression before vanishing behind her impenetrable smirk. She let out a soft, bitter laugh, slipping her hand free as she stepped back.

"Still the same Amalie," Katherine said, her voice light but edged with something sharp. "Always too good for your own good."

"And you're still the same Katherine," Amalie replied, her tone even but carrying the faintest trace of affection. "Always trying to turn everything into a game."

Katherine paused at the door, her hand resting on the knob. She turned back, her smirk firmly in place, though her eyes softened with something more genuine. "You'll come to Chicago," she said. It wasn't a question.

Amalie didn't respond, but the flicker in her gaze was enough of an answer.

Katherine's grin widened. "I'll see you soon," she said, slipping out the door without another word.

The door clicked shut, and the silence spilled into the room. Amalie exhaled slowly, her gaze lingering on the empty doorway before she turned back to the counter. Her mug of hot chocolate was lukewarm now, the crossword puzzle untouched.

She picked up the mug with a small, resigned smile, muttering under her breath. "Always an angle."

And yet, as she took a sip, she knew she would pack her bags.

###

The low hum of a jazz record spun lazily on the turntable in Damon's room, its smooth, sultry notes weaving through the stillness. Damon stood near the dresser, one hand holding a glass of bourbon. The amber liquid caught the dim light as he swirled it lazily, savoring the rare moment of calm in the ever-chaotic Salvatore house.

"Nice place," came a voice, cutting through the music like a knife.

Damon turned on instinct, his sharp reflexes sending a splash of bourbon over the rim of his glass. He blinked, momentarily caught off guard by the sight of Amalie leaning casually against the doorframe.

"Don't you knock?" Damon asked, his tone flat as he set the glass down and gave her an annoyed once-over. "Or is breaking and entering just your thing?"

Amalie smirked, pushing off the doorframe with effortless grace. "Relax," she drawled, her tone dripping with nonchalance. "And I didn't break anything, technically. Your door was open, so..."

"Technically," Damon replied dryly, grabbing a cloth to wipe the bourbon off his hand, "you're still uninvited. Now, if you're here to beg for bourbon, you're out of luck. Try Alaric's stash."

Amalie chuckled softly, shaking her head. "You really think I came here for your bottom-shelf bourbon? You give yourself too much credit."

Damon gave her an unimpressed once-over. "So, you do have a reason for being here. Color me intrigued."

Amalie perched on the edge of the bed, her easy confidence suddenly laced with something sharper, more deliberate. "I know where Stefan is."

That got his attention. Damon froze, the lightness in his expression hardening. "And you're telling me why?"

Amalie shrugged, her smirk softening but still present. "I thought you'd want to know. You do want to know, don't you?"

Damon crossed his arms, skepticism etched across his face. "This wouldn't have anything to do with Klaus, would it? Or is this one of your little games?"

"Not everything's a game, Damon." Amalie's tone turned frostier, her eyes narrowing. "Klaus is in Chicago. And so is Stefan."

Damon's lips twitched in a humorless smile. "Chicago. Of course, he's in Chicago." He grabbed his jacket off the back of a chair, sliding it on with practiced ease. "What the hell is he doing there?"

"Ask Klaus. He's the one pulling the strings," Amalie replied, rising from the bed. Damon brushed past her toward the door. She didn't bother to hide her irritation at his lack of gratitude. "Wherever Klaus goes, Stefan's the dutiful little shadow."

Damon's boots thudded against the hardwood floor as he stalked down the hallway. Amalie followed an unhurried pace, her footsteps soft compared to his heavy, purposeful strides.

At the top of the stairs, Damon paused and turned, fixing her with a sharp, probing look. "Why do you even care? Stefan's not exactly your favorite person."

Amalie's jaw tightened, her expression unreadable. "I don't care. But Elena does. And let's face it, if she gets herself killed trying to find him, I will not hear the end of it."

Damon let out a sharp laugh, shaking his head. "Right. Glad to know you've got priorities."

Amalie's lips curled into a bitter smile. "Trust me, if it were just you running off to get yourself killed, I wouldn't have bothered."

The tension crackled between them like electricity, neither one willing to back down. Damon's smirk faltered for a moment, replaced by something more genuine, almost amused. He nodded toward the stairs. "Well then, let's go."

They descended together, the weight of their unspoken irritations filling the silence. Damon grabbed his keys from the foyer table, tossing them in the air before catching them with a practiced flick of his wrist.

"I'll drive," he muttered, pushing the door open. "Wouldn't want you putting another dent in the car."

Amalie scoffed, sliding into the passenger seat with a pointed slam of the door. "Do you ever stop talking?" She shot back.

"Not if I can help it," Damon said with a smirk, starting the engine.

###

The highway stretched endlessly ahead, a dark ribbon cutting through the void. Occasional flickers of headlights from passing cars broke the monotony, but inside the car, the atmosphere was heavier than the quiet hum of the engine. Damon sat behind the wheel, one hand draped lazily over the steering wheel as if they weren't hurtling toward yet another disaster. Elena sat rigid in the passenger seat, her fingers twisting the chain of the necklace around her neck.

Amalie lounged in the backseat, her boots propped against the edge of Elena's seat, arms crossed, watching the tension between her companions with a faint smirk.

"I sure hope we find him," Damon drawled, breaking the silence with his usual brand of sarcasm. "Because it would suck if the last memento of Stefan was that crappy old necklace."

Elena stiffened, her lips pressing into a tight line. "It's an antique, Damon. Like you." Her tone was clipped, but the defensive edge was unmistakable.

Amalie's smirk widened, her voice dry. "Nice one, Elena."

Damon ignored them both, reaching into the backseat and grabbing a worn leather journal. With a flick of his wrist, he held it out to Elena. "Here. Read this. Paints a pretty little picture of Stefan's first experience in Chicago."

Elena blinked at the journal, her brows knitting together in alarm. "This is Stefan's diary. I'm not going to invade his private thoughts."

Amalie sat up slightly, one eyebrow arched. "Oh, please. Stefan's the king of brooding. If he left it lying around, he probably wanted someone to read it."

Damon glanced at Amalie in the rearview mirror, his lips quirking into a grin. "Thank you, Amalie. See? At least someone here understands how to get things done."

Elena shot a glare in Damon's direction. "You're impossible. Both of you."

Damon chuckled, but the humor in his voice ebbed as his expression shifted. "You need to be prepared for what you're about to see," he said, his tone suddenly more serious.

Elena frowned but said nothing. Her hands stilled on the necklace as she stared at the journal with thinly veiled apprehension. "I've seen Stefan in his darkest periods. I can handle it."

Amalie let out a slow laugh, shaking her head. "Oh, sweetheart. You've seen Stefan recently dark. You haven't seen him at his worst. There's a difference."

Damon flipped the journal open with one hand, his fingers scanning the pages like he was skimming an old novel. "Here's one," he announced, his voice adopting a mock-serious tone. "March 12, 1922."

"Eyes on the road, Damon," Elena snapped, her expression pinched.

He ignored her, affecting a dramatic voice as he read aloud. "I've blacked out days. I wake up in strangers' blood. In places I don't recognize. With women I don't remember."

Amalie's posture straightened as her gaze snapped to the journal. Her smirk faded, and her jaw tightened slightly. She let out a slow breath, leaning back into her seat.

Damon turned to look at Elena, a wicked grin on his face. "Ahh! I'm shocked! Stefan's not a virgin?"

Elena snatched the diary from his hands, her tone sharp. "Eyes on the road, grandma."

Damon huffed, straightening in his seat. "Fine. Back to my game. Tell me if you see a Michigan plate."

In the backseat, Amalie's eyes were still fixed on the diary now resting in Elena's lap. Her expression had hardened, and she let out a quiet sigh. "Careful what you read, Elena," she said, her voice quieter now, less teasing. "Stefan's history is...messy."

Elena turned slightly to glance at her, sensing the shift in tone. "You okay?"

Amalie forced a smirk, though it didn't quite reach her eyes. "Just reminiscing," she said, waving a hand. "Don't mind me."

Damon's gaze flicked to her briefly in the mirror. "Oh, that's right," he said, his voice laced with false cheer. "You got the full Stefan Ripper experience, didn't you? Fifties, wasn't it?"

The atmosphere in the car shifted, the air growing colder. Amalie's gaze hardened, her voice sharp and controlled. "Yeah," she said tightly. "Fifties. A good time for everyone except the people he drained dry."

Elena's fingers brushed over the leather journal, her eyes darting to Amalie. "I didn't know..."

Amalie waved a hand dismissively, though her tone carried a bitter edge. "It's in the past. Doesn't matter now. Just keep in mind, the guy you're hoping to save might not be the same guy you're expecting to find."

Elena opened the journal, scanning the first few pages with quiet determination. Amalie leaned back against the seat, her gaze shifting to the passing trees, the tension in her shoulders lingering like a ghost of her past.

In the driver's seat, Damon's smirk faded slightly, replaced by something unreadable as he kept his eyes on the road ahead. For once, the car was filled with silence, heavy and uneasy, as Chicago loomed closer with every mile.

###

The hallway of the old apartment building reeked of stale air and mildew, the faint tang of rust clinging to the edges of each breath. The walls, once painted a pale cream, were now yellowed with grime and time, their surfaces cracked and peeling in uneven strips. The flickering light fixtures overhead buzzed faintly, casting jittery shadows that danced across the warped floorboards. Elena wrinkled her nose as they walked, her arms crossed tightly over her chest, as though trying to shield herself from the oppressive atmosphere.

"Stefan could live anywhere in Chicago," Elena muttered, her voice low but tinged with exasperation as she glanced at Damon. "And he chose this?"

Damon smirked, his steps light and unhurried, hands tucked casually into the pockets of his leather jacket. "Well," he said, gesturing vaguely outside, "there used to be an all-girls high school around the corner, but it shut down due to attendance issues. Weird, right?"

Elena glared at him, her brows pulling tight. "If you're trying to scare me into giving up and going back, it's not going to work."

Before she could launch into another pointed remark, Damon lifted a finger to his lips, silencing her with a sharp, exaggerated "shh." His head tilted slightly, his dark eyes scanning the numbered doors lining the hallway. Then, finding what he was looking for, he stopped in front of one: Apartment 309.

"This is it," Damon announced, his voice low but brimming with smug confidence. Without hesitation, his fingers worked deftly over the rusted lock. The faint clunk of metal breaking was followed by a soft creak as the door swung open. "Stefan's second personality humble abode."

Amalie followed, her arms crossed loosely over her chest, her expression neutral but observant. She took in the dim, lifeless apartment with a critical eye as she stepped over the threshold. The air inside was heavy, laced with dust and something faintly metallic, like old blood that had seeped too deeply into the wood.

The apartment itself was sparsely furnished, every piece of furniture mismatched and worn with age. A battered armchair slouched in the corner, its once-plush upholster now threadbare and sagging. A scratched coffee table sat crookedly in the center of the room, its surface cluttered with empty whiskey bottles. The walls were bare except for a single, peeling map of Chicago pinned haphazardly over the small kitchen