Jeremy shrugged, running a hand through his hair. "It's just been one of those days," he said, his tone casual, though Amalie noticed the way his gaze brieflyed past her, toward the other end of the patio.

"Alright, well, don't overwork yourself," Jenna said, her teasing tone pulling Jeremy's focus back. "You're not the only competent person here, you know."

Jeremy snorted. "Could've fooled me," he quipped before grabbing the tray and heading back inside.

###

The late afternoon sunlight streamed through the sheer curtains of Amalie's apartment, painting the room in streaks of molten gold that did little to hide its quiet chaos. Sketchbooks lay scattered across the coffee table, their pages curling at the edges and smudged with charcoal fingerprints. Half-finished drawings peeked out, a mix of restless figures and shadowy landscapes scribbled between fragmented notes. An empty coffee mug perched dangerously close to the table's edge, its rim stained dark, while two sweaters hunt limply over the back of the armchair. The faint scent of vanilla candles lingered in the air, mingling with the sharper tang of dish soap coming from the kitchen.

Amalie moved about the room with the practiced efficiency of someone half-distracted, her phone tucked between her ear and shoulder. As Klaus' smooth voice spilled through the receiver, she gathered stray dishes one by one, letting the conversation anchor her. The clink of porcelain punctuated his words as she deposited plates and mugs into the kitchen sink.

"Tennessee," Klaus was saying. "It's quite scenic, really. You'd like it—rolling hills, endless trees. Very picturesque." A slight pause, and then a soft chuckle, rich and teasing. "Not that I' ve had much time to enjoy the view."

Amalie rolled her eyes as she turned on the sink, the water rushing against the mug's stained interior. "I know," she replied. "Damon texted me earlier. He and Alaric are playing detective again. Road-tripping straight toward you."

"Ah, yes," Klaus drewled, his voice curling into mock delight. "Let me guess. They think they're closing in on me again?"

"Something like that," she said, drying her hands on a dish towel. Her lips quirked slightly, though she wasn't sure if it was at Damon's arrogance or Klaus' bemused disdain. "I don't think they've figured out yet that you're always at least five steps ahead of them."

"Ten, actually," Klaus corrected smoothly. "But who's counting?"

Her laugh was quiet, short, as she set the mug upside down on the drying rack. "Don't let it go to your head."

"Too late for that, love," he replied, the smirk audible in his tone.

"So," she said, steering the conversation back on track, "what's the plan now? Still trying to track down Ron?"

" Ray ," Klaus corrected again, a faint sigh punctuating the word. "And yes, I'm still pursuing our elusive werewolf. Though I must say, it's been dreadfully dull. Werewolves are such...unimaginative prey."

"And Stefan?" Amalie asked, her tone sharpening. She knew Klaus well enough to know he wouldn't bring up Stefan unless prompted—and when he did, it was never good.

"Oh, you should see him," Klaus said, his voice slipping into something darker, almost gleeful. "Our little Ripper is putting on quite the show. It's very entertaining."

Amalie froze mid-motion, her hand hovering over a small pile of books. Her voice lowered, the edges hardening. "Entertaining how? You're torturing him?"

Klaus' response was immediate, unapologetic. "Naturally. He deserves it, after what he did to you. Don't tell me you're feeling sympathy for him, love."

Her grip tightened on the edge of a book, the smooth cover biting into her palm. "I'm not," she said flatly, though her voice wavered just enough to betray her unease.

And she wasn't. Not really. The human part of her—small and increasingly irrelevant—knew she should want Stefan's suffering to end. But the vampire in her found it difficult to pity the man who had killed her, drained her dry without hesitation. There was something poetic, almost satisfying, in the way Klaus was making him pay.

"I'm still waiting to hear the full story," Klaus added, his tone softening, though it carried a weight that left no room for evasion. "You've only ever given me the outline. I want the details, Amalie. "

"You already know everything that matters," she said, her voice deliberately light as she reached for one of the crumpled sweaters. She shook it out, hanging it neatly on a hook by the door. "And don't change the subject. What's your next move with Stefan?"

Klaus chuckled, the sound low and deliberate. "I'll let him stew a little longer," he said, his words curling with malice. "Let him see just how far he can go before he breaks entirely. And then... " He paused, his voice softening to a near whisper. "Then he'll know exactly what happens to those who harm you. I'll make certain of it."

Her breath hitched, and she busied herself with stacking the books on the coffee table into a tidy pile. "You're impossible," she said lightly, her tone deliberately casual.

"And yet, you keep answering my calls," Klaus countered, the teasing edge of his voice slipping into something warmer, more intimate.

"Maybe I just enjoy the entertainment," Amalie replied, dropping onto the couch.

"Or maybe," Klaus said, his voice dropping lower, the intimacy thick enough to wrap around her, "you enjoy me ."

Amalie froze for half a second, the weight of his words settling into the air like a tangible thing. She could almost picture him on the other end of the line—his chuckle, the way his eyes would glint with satisfaction at her reaction. Fighting the heat rising to her cheeks, she smoothed a pillow down.

"You're incorrigible," she said finally, her voice betraying the faintest hint of a smile.

"And you wouldn't have it any other way," Klaus replied, his voice a smooth, satisfied murmur.

A quiet laugh escaped her before she could stop it, and with a shake of her head, she hung up. The silence that followed was heavy, the kind that felt like it still carried echoed of Klaus' presence.

Her gaze dropped to the floor, where Max was sprawled out in the middle of the room, arms and legs flung at odd angles. He hadn't moved—not once—through the entire call. That was strange. Max was always moving, always teasing or poking at her nerves in some way. Seeing him still and slack, like someone who had collapsed from exhaustion, sent a prickle of unease crawling along her spine.

"Max?" She called. No response.

She tried again, louder this time. "Hey. Max ."

Nothing.

Frowning, she threw a pillow at him. It passed straight through, landing on the floor with a soft whump.

Then, without warning, his fingers twitched. His eyelids fluttered. A faint groan escaped him, low and human, as if waking from a long, heavy sleep.

"Max?" Amalie's voice sharpened, her arms crossing tightly over her chest as she watched him prop himself up on his elbows.

He blinked blearily up at the ceiling before squinting at her. "Did someone hit me with a truck, or...?"

"No," she said, her tone clipped. "You've been laying on my floor like roadkill for the last hour. Care to explain?"

He ran a hand through his disheveled hair, his brows knitting together. "Hour? Seriously? That's impossible. I don't...I mean, I don't sleep . But that...that felt like..."

"Like what?" Amalie pressed, unease creeping into her voice.

Max hesitated, his expression clouding. "I don't know. I just...I felt weird. Heavy. Like I wasn't in control."

Amalie stared at him, the room's earlier warmth replaced by a faint chill. "Do think it's connected to...whatever's been going on lately?"

His eyes flicked toward hers, something sharp and uncertain in their depths. "Maybe. I don't know. But it's not normal."

And in the heavy silence that followed, Amalie couldn't shake the feeling that something unseen was still lingering, watching, just out of sight.

###

The scent of weed hung thick in the air, mingling with the faint tang of spilled beer and something vaguely sweet—maybe someone's cologne, or the lingering remnants of a candle that had burned out hours ago. The dim lighting cast a golden glow over the living room, accentuating the antique furnishings and scattered remnants of the party—discarded cups, crumpled napkins, and the faint echoes of laughter and music.

Amalie stepped through the open doorway, her heels clicking softly against the floorboards. Her gaze swept over the circle of people sprawled across mismatched furniture, their movements slow, like leaves floating downstream. Joints passed between lazy fingers, the faint embers flaring before being tucked away again, almost shyly. Smoke hung between them, gilded in the warm light, giving everything an otherworldly softness.

Her eyes settled on Jeremy almost immediately. He was slouched in the corner of the couch, one arm draped over the back while the other held a joint loosely between two fingers. His shoulders were slightly hunched, not with the weight of anything unbearable, but in the way of someone stealing a quiet moment for themselves. His other hand rested against his knee, tapping an irregular rhythm that seemed to echo in his head rather than match the muffled beat of the music filtering through the walls.

Amalie's lips twitched faintly at the sight of him. There was something almost endearing about his solitude amid the chaos, but the expression faded quickly as she crossed the room with purpose. She sank onto the couch beside him with ceremony, the leather sighing softly under her weight. Smoke curled between them, dissipating in the air, and for a moment, neither of them said anything.

"You're smoking again?" She asked finally, her tone as light as her words were pointed. She didn't sound scolding, just observational, like she'd already resigned herself to whatever answer he gave.

Jeremy turned his head slightly, the corner of his mouth quirking up in a faint, lazy smile. He brought the joint to his lips, inhaling deeply before exhaling in a slow, deliberate plume of smoke. "Just...unwinding," he said, his voice carrying that low, gravelly edge it always had when he was trying to sound more nonchalant than he felt.

Amalie leaned back, crossing her legs and resting her hands lightly on her lap. "Could be worse, I guess," she said, a faint chuckle tugging at her lips. "At least you're not doing karaoke."

That earned her a low chuckle, Jeremy tipping his head back against the couch. "Don't tempt me," he replied, the hint of a grin breaking through. "You haven't lived until you've heard me butcher 'Livin ' on a Prayer.'" His tone was teasing, but there was a flicker of curiosity beneath the humor, as though he were testing the mood.

The silence that followed wasn't uncomfortable. It had a certain weight to it, the kind of stillness shared by two people who didn't feel the need to fill the space. Around them, the soft hum of voices and distant laughter continued, muffled by the thick haze of smoke that softened the edges of everything. Jeremy tapped the ash from his joint into the overflowing ashtray on the table, then brought it back to his lips for another long, unhurried drag.

"How did it start out for you?" He asked suddenly, his voice cutting through the quiet. He didn't look at her right away, his gaze fixed on the faint glow of the ember at the joint's end. "The curse, I mean."

Amalie stilled, her hands brushing against the seam of her jeans. Her gaze drifted to the coffee table in front of them, her eyes tracing the uneven grooves in the wood and the cigarette burns etched into its surface. Slowly, she reached for a tarnished lighter lying among the clutter, her thumb idly flicking the wheel. It sparked but didn't catch.

"I was eight," she said finally, her voice quiet, distant, as though reaching back to a memory she didn't often revisit. The lighter clicked again, still refusing to ignite. "There was this little girl—Alice. She used to stand at the foot of my bed at night."

Jeremy's head tilted slightly, his focus sharpening. He shifted, leaning forward just enough to show he was listening. "A ghost?" He asked, his tone low, careful, as afraid though to interrupt the flow of her words.

Amalie nodded, her lips pressing into a thin line. "At first, I thought she was just a bad dream. You know, shadows in the dark, tricks of the mind. But then she started talking to me."

Jeremy's brows furrowed slightly, his fingers resting loosely on his knee. "What did she say?"

Turning the lighter over in her hand, Amalie let her thumb trace the ridges of the wheel as if the motion might ground her. "She told me about the accident. How she had drowned in a pond near our house. How her parents never found her body." Her voice faltered slightly, the edges turning brittle, but she pressed on. "She was...angry. Sad, too. She wanted me to tell them where she was. To give them closure.

Jeremy leaned back slightly, his expression thoughtful. "Did you?"

Amalie let out a quiet, humorless laugh, her gaze fixed somewhere beyond the room. "Yeah. I told them. I didn't even think twice about it. I thought I was helping her." She tightened her grip on the lighter, her knuckles pale against the tarnished metal. "That was my first mistake. Once I let her in...they all started coming."

Jeremy's brows knit further, his grip on the joint loosening slightly as though he'd forgotten it was there. "Other ghosts?"

She nodded, her expression steady but brittle, like a mask she'd worn for years. "Every ghost within miles who had something unfinished. They came to me. Some wanted help. Some just wanted to exist near someone who could see them. And once it started..." She shrugged, though the gesture was heavy, her shoulders weighed down by the memory. "It never stopped."

Jeremy was silent for a moment, his gaze on her. He didn't look at her with pity—there was no condescension in his expression—but with quiet understanding, like someone carefully piecing together a puzzle. "And after you... ?" He trailed off, not finishing the thought, but the implication was clear.

"Died?" Amalie finished for him, her tone matter-of-fact. She exhaled slowly, leaning back against the couch. "Yeah. It got worse after that. The line between me and them blurred. It still does, sometimes. "

Jeremy ran a hand through his hair, letting out a low breath. "I don't know how you deal with that," he said simply, his words honest rather than dramatic.

Amalie's lips twitched faintly, her expression turning sardonic. "Some days, I don't."

###

The night air in the parking lot was cool and damp, carrying the faint, metallic tang of gasoline and oil from a nearby service station. The rain from the day before had left the blacktop slick and gleaming, reflecting fractured halos of the flickering streetlights above. Shadows stretched long and jagged, pooling in the spaces between parked cars.

Ana followed a few paces behind Jeremy, her shoes scuffing against the concrete of the sidewalk. Her arms were crossed, her fingers digging into the soft fabric of her shirt. There was a weight in the air she couldn't shake, an itch beneath her skin that had been growing stronger as the night deepened. It wasn't the usual hum she'd come to associate with her ghostly existence—the constant static buzz of life bleeding through the veil. No, this was different.

Closer.

Her gaze kept flicking to the empty spaces between the cars, her eyes searching the shadows as though something might be hiding there. She hated this feeling—this creeping unease that didn't have a name or a face. It was the kind of sensation that made her feel like prey, like something ancient and unseen was circling just beyond the edge of her perception.

They reached Jeremy's car, a battered old sedan that had seen better days long before it had landed in his hands. The paint was scratched in some places and a patch of rust was starting to form near the rear bumper. Jeremy walked to the driver's side, the keys jangling faintly in his hand as he reached for the door.

But then he stopped, frowning.

Ana had fallen behind.

He turned, his fingers hovering over the door handle. She stood a few steps back, her arms no longer crossed but hanging stiffly at her sides. Her chin was tilted upward slightly, her head cocked as though listening for something just out of reach.

"What's wrong?" He asked, his voice cutting through the stillness. Concern threaded through his tone as he stepped toward her, the keys forgotten in his hand.

Ana didn't answer right away. Her brow furrowed, and she took a slow step forward. She inhaled deeply through her nose, as though trying to catch the faintest trace of something carried on the cool night air. A soft breeze stirred her hair, bringing with it the smell of damp asphalt, motor oil, and faint traces of wet leaves.

"It's nothing," she said at last, though the tightness in her voice betrayed her words. Her jaw was clenched, her shoulders tense as though bracing for a blow. "I just...got this weird feeling."

Jeremy raised an eyebrow, skepticism mingling with unease in his expression. He glanced around the parking lot, scanning the shadows himself now. "What kind of weird feeling?" He asked carefully. "Like, 'we're being watched' weird, or 'the world's about to end' weird?"

Ana shot him a sidelong look, her lips pressing into a thin line. "If it were 'world's about to end' weird, I'd have stopped you from leaving the party," she muttered, her tone sharp but distracted. She shook her head, frustration flickering across her face. "It's hard to explain. It's like...static. In my head. Like magic. But faint and fuzzy."

Jeremy's frown deepened. The word magic made the hair on the back of his neck prickle. "A witch?"

"Maybe," Ana said, though her tone made it clear she wasn't convinced. She took another step forward, her eyes narrowing as she swept the lot again. "It's like someone's trying to connect to something, but the signal's weak. It's distant, but it's there."

Jeremy exhaled slowly, his fingers tightening around his keys. The lot looked normal—empty except for the cars scattered beneath the streetlights. It was quiet. Too quiet, now that he was paying attention. "Do you think it's dangerous?"

Ana didn't respond immediately. She closed her eyes, her brows knitting together as she reached out with her senses. The buzzing in her head was faint but persistent, a thread pulled taut across an impossible distance. For a fleeting second, she caught a flicker of something beneath the hum—something old, deliberate, and alive. It wasn't just magic. It was intent.

"I don't know yet," she admitted, her voice quieter now. The tension in her posture hadn't eased. "But it's not normal. And it's not random."

Jeremy let out a slow breath. He glanced over his shoulder, as though expecting something to emerge from the shadows Ana kept staring at. "Should we tell Amalie?" He asked, his tone hushed but urgent.

Ana shook her head, finally turning to look at him. Her eyes glinted faintly under the streetlights, her expression guarded but determined. "Not yet," she said. "I need to figure out more first. If I can figure out where it's coming from, it'll be easier to explain. Right now, I'd just be guessing."

Jeremy nodded slowly, though the unease in his chest didn't ease. He lingered for a moment longer, his gaze darting between