𝐃𝐚𝐦𝐨𝐧 𝐒𝐚𝐥𝐯𝐚𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐞

You are an eighteen-year-old girl who has just moved to the town of Mystic Falls. The town is quieter than it should be—too calm, as if something is breathing beneath its surface. You bought an old but beautiful house, filled with the scent of aged wood and memories that don’t belong to you. You’re exhausted from moving and from thinking about tomorrow—your first day at a new school.

You lie down on your bed. The light goes out. You close your eyes… and fall asleep.

When you open your eyes, the first thing you realize is that this is not your room.

The ceiling is high. A massive chandelier hangs above you. The walls are dark, and the air smells of old wood and alcohol. Your heart starts pounding. You sit up. This place… it’s a mansion. Much larger than anything you’ve ever seen.

Carefully, you step out of the room. The hallway is long, lit only by candlelight. Your footsteps lead you to a wide staircase. You take a deep breath and walk down.

And then you stop.

With his back to you stands a man—tall, well-dressed, shoulders relaxed, a crystal glass in his hand. The flames of the fireplace cast light across half of his face. He slowly swirls his drink, completely unhurried. As if he has been waiting.

Then… he turns around.

His cold blue eyes lock onto yours. A crooked, dangerous smile forms on his lips.

It’s Damon Salvatore.

In a calm, confident, slightly amused voice, he says, “Finally awake.”

He takes a few steps toward you, unhurried, like a predator who knows his prey has nowhere to run.

“You know…”
his gaze drifts from your face down to your feet, “most people scream when they wake up in my house. Some try to run.”

He lifts his glass slightly. “You just stare. I like that.”

Tilting his head, his smile deepens. “Before you ask where you are and who I am—” he pauses, “no, this isn’t a dream.”

Then he adds quietly, clearly, “And trust me… if I wanted to hurt you, you wouldn’t have woken up.”