Mystic Falls smelled like rain and old wood, the kind of town that pretended nothing ever changed while quietly rotting underneath.
I noticed it the moment the bus pulled away—the Welcome sign leaning slightly to one side, its paint faded, letters promising a "community that cares." I almost laughed. Communities like this didn't care about anything that mattered. Not really. Not in ways that survived the years.
I adjusted the strap of my bag, shrugging off the chill, but the dull pressure behind my eyes started immediately—the kind that whispered danger before anything had even happened. Normally, it waited. Not tonight.
The streets were empty, not surprising for this hour. White fences lined the roads, and houses with perfectly cut lawns stood like porcelain models. But even in daylight, there was a stillness that felt unnatural, a heaviness in the air that made shadows cling to walls. The town watched, patient, waiting.
And then I saw them.
Threads.
Thin. Red. Some bright as fresh blood, some dark and rusted like old wounds. They moved subtly, almost imperceptibly, coiling and stretching across the street, wrapping around people I hadn't noticed yet, tugging softly, like the world itself had stitched secrets into invisible seams.
I froze.
I had learned the rules the hard way:
Don't stare.
Don't touch.
Never follow a thread.
Yet instinct betrayed me.
I took a careful step back, only to collide with something solid.
"Careful there," a voice drawled, smooth, amused, almost teasing.
Hands steadied me by the shoulders. The instant our skin met, a sharp lancing pain erupted behind my eyes, electric, warning me. The threads pulsed violently, reacting to his presence.
I looked up. Damon.
He was impossibly tall, dark hair falling into his eyes, a smile that was dangerous even when it didn't mean to be. He leaned casually against me, as if we'd rehearsed this encounter a thousand times.
"Most people do not survive bumping into me," he said lightly. "Consider yourself lucky."
I forced myself to look away. My vision snapped back, the world seemingly normal again. Only normal wasn't real. Not here. Not now.
"I'm… fine," I said, voice steady, though my hands trembled slightly. "Just… didn't see you."
"Of course," he said. His eyes narrowed just slightly, scanning me like a puzzle. "It's kind of my thing, you know?"
I swallowed hard. There it was again—the threads, coiling tighter, whispering warnings I wasn't supposed to hear yet. I could feel the weight of the debts around him, tangling in ways that didn't make sense.
A subtle hum brushed against the edges of my awareness, different from the threads I knew. It lingered longer, stretched farther, as if someone—or something—was observing from beyond the town.
I pressed my fingers together briefly, trying to ignore it. That was… new.
"Walk away," I whispered under my breath.
I did.
The walk to the boarding house should have been calm, but it wasn't. Every step made the threads hum under my fingertips, even through the soles of my shoes. Every shadow stretched too long, every leaf rustled with a subtle warning. By the time I reached the building, my heart hammered not just from fear, but from anticipation.
The woman at the front desk barely glanced up. "Name?" she asked, as if she already knew the answer.
I gave it carefully. The key slid across the counter. "Room's at the end. Breakfast at eight."
No warmth. No smile.
As I turned, I noticed it—a single red thread slipping out from under the desk, brushing against my ankle. I froze.
She looked up, sharp eyes flicking at me. "You alright, honey?"
I nodded quickly. "Just tired."
And for a moment, that faint hum returned—the one that had been different earlier. I didn't see anything, didn't know what it meant. But the sense of being watched lingered, patient, deliberate, and… unyielding.
The room was small. Bed. Desk. Window overlooking trees that leaned closer than they should. I locked the door and sank to the floor, sliding down against it, hands pressed to my temples.
The threads still tugged, invisible and insistent. Someone in town was overdue. Someone's debt was coming due. And somehow… they were connected to him. Damon.
I had to be careful. I couldn't reveal my full power yet, couldn't show the threads or how I saw them. Not now. Not ever if I wanted to survive.
Still, curiosity clawed at me. The threads were alive in a way that demanded attention. I closed my eyes, reaching out just slightly, feeling their hum. One thread trembled violently—leading straight to Damon.
I inhaled sharply, then let go. The vision vanished.
Hours later, sleep claimed me briefly, only to be interrupted by a faint whisper of threads brushing against my wrist. A warning, a pulse of anticipation, something I couldn't name.
And beneath that, a deeper, quieter sense lingered. Someone—or something—was watching. Old. Calculated. Patient. Waiting.
I pressed my fingers to my forehead. This was only the beginning.
Mystic Falls had already noticed me.
And I had no idea whether it would be curiosity, caution, or death that greeted me next.