It’s nighttime in Mystic Falls, and the air is heavy with the kind of hush that always comes before a storm. Streetlamps flicker against the velvet darkness, casting long shadows across the parking lot of Mystic Falls High. The loud purr of a motorbike breaks the silence as Théodore Toussaint pulls into the lot, the engine echoing like a ghost of rebellion in a town that never forgets its secrets.

He kills the engine, the low hum fading into silence. Pulling off his helmet, he rakes a hand through his unruly dark brown hair. His knuckles are bruised, and his limbs ache from hours of exhausting training under Alaric Saltzman’s sharp eye, but he still smiles—because that’s what Théodore does. Always. Even when it hurts.

Caroline Forbes is already walking toward him, her blonde hair glowing golden under the amber lights, a wide smile painted across her face like it’s her favorite accessory. It softens something in Théodore’s chest, a warmth he’s long grown used to associating with her. She’s always been light to his shadows, brightness to his quiet pain.

“You’re late,” she teases, but there’s no sting behind it.

Théodore swings his leg off the bike and sling his duffle bag over his shoulder. “I got everything you asked for. Including glitter. Lots of glitter.”

Caroline grabs the remaining bags from him, eyebrows lifting with approval. “Of course you did. Because Senior Prank Night isn’t complete without glitter explosions.”

He chuckles softly, the sound tired. “Right. Glitter bombs. Just what I need after Ric nearly murdered me today with that stake training.”

“How’d it go?” she asks as they walk through the quiet halls of the school, their steps echoing off the lockers, bags rustling.

Théodore sighs, shrugging as if the weight of his future isn’t breaking his shoulders. “I’m not a quick learner. Ric says I’m not fully ready. Still sloppy. Still too soft.”

Caroline frowns slightly. “No one starts off perfect. I mean, I didn’t exactly jump into being a vampire with grace and elegance either. Took time—and more than a few bad days. But you’ll get there, Théo. You’ve got heart.”

He glances sideways at her, a small, crooked smile tugging at his lips. “Thank you.”

She smiles back, soft and reassuring. “Let me know if I can help.”

“You can help,” he says dryly. “I still haven’t fought a vampire face to face. You know, one that’s actually trying to kill me.”

Caroline grins mischievously. “Oh, I’m in. As long as I get the privilege of punching that ridiculously pretty baby face of yours.”

Théodore smirks, unbothered. “I’m pretty sure your boyfriend has more of a punchable face than I do. Tyler oozes punch-me energy.”

He throws in a mock shudder, as if just saying Tyler Lockwood’s name leaves a bad taste in his mouth. His nose wrinkles in theatrical disgust.

Caroline groans, already regretting bringing Tyler up. “Seriously?”

Théodore raises his brows with all the sass he can muster. “What? You know I’m right.”

“We agreed, no fighting with Tyler,” she says sternly, the kind of tone she used to boss around their entire class in middle school.

“Whatever,” Théodore mutters, rolling his eyes so hard it’s a miracle they don’t fall out. “Still don’t get why you like him.”

Caroline lightly punches him in the arm, grinning. “Unless you have a secret crush on me, Théodore Toussaint, you’ll just have to wait your turn to get lucky.”

They both burst into laughter, the kind that softens memories and blurs the edges of heartache. For a moment, they’re just two teenagers again—two old friends playing out the rhythm of their shared past. Once, a long time ago, they’d made a pact. If they were both still single at thirty, they’d marry each other and travel the world. It had been silly, a child’s promise... but now, it feels like a ghost of something he’ll never live long enough to reach.

Théodore smirks as they keep walking. “If only I live up to see that day.”

The words fall too casually. Too easily. Like they mean nothing.

But Caroline’s smile falters. It breaks just a little, her expression dimming like a star pulled behind a cloud. She stops walking, and Théodore follows suit, turning to her with that same nonchalant, heart-wrenching ease. “Don’t say that.”

He snorts, a dry sound without amusement. “Why not?”

“You know why.” Her voice is firmer now. Not angry. Just… hurt.

There’s silence between them, only the quiet buzz of the school lights humming overhead.

“There must be something,” she says, stepping closer. “I could talk to my mom. She’s got connections. Maybe she knows a specialist—a better one. Someone who—”

Théodore cuts her off with a shake of his head, the bags rustling at his side. “It doesn’t matter. Nothing’s going to change it, Care. I know that much. You know that much. Glioblastoma doesn’t make room for hope.”

Caroline opens her mouth, but the words don’t come. She’s not used to feeling helpless. Especially not with the people she loves.

“It’s either I die in a hospital bed, stuck with wires and morphine drips, or I spend my last months living.” He forces a smile, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “And I’d rather do the latter. Ride my bike, prank the school, get glitter in places glitter shouldn’t go.”

“Live until you can’t,” Caroline whispers, her voice catching.

He nods slowly. “Exactly.”

Her eyes shimmer with unshed tears. “So you’re just going to keep hiding it from everyone?”

“That’s the plan,” Théodore replies. There’s no hesitation in his voice. Just quiet acceptance.

Only a few people know—his father Ryan, too drunk to care or notice. Meredith Fell, his doctor. Alaric, who watches over him like the father he wished he had. And Caroline. Always Caroline.

They walk in silence after that, until the faint sounds of laughter and footsteps echo from the gym hall. Senior Prank Night in full chaos mode.

Caroline steps into leader mode, waving at the other seniors, her voice rising with confidence. “You! No glue on the trophy case. And someone move those confetti balloons!”

Théodore lingers just beyond the doorway, one boot resting casually against the frame, but his blue eyes are anything but relaxed—they scan the dim classroom with the precise calculation of someone always braced for a threat. And then he sees him.

Tyler Lockwood.

Of course he’s here.

The idiot stands in the center of the room like he owns the place, carrying a bucket of mousetraps like it’s the family heirloom crown. Théodore’s jaw tightens instantly, the muscles ticking as if resisting the urge to lunge. The sight of Tyler grinning while setting traps like he's auditioning for a play makes Théodore want to gag.

Théodore Toussaint is known for being soft-spoken, kind even—but Tyler Lockwood has always found the exact frequency that makes him irrationally petty.

Tyler catches his eye and groans loudly. “Great. The French reject is here.”

Théodore rolls his eyes with theatrical exaggeration, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Great. The living embodiment of a brain fart is talking again.”

Without breaking stride, Théodore drops his duffel bag square on Tyler’s foot. It lands with a thud and a yelp—Tyler stumbling back, eyes wide with a mix of pain and disbelief.

“Oh. My bad,” Théodore says, tone flat, expression betraying absolutely no remorse. A beat passes, then his lips curve. “Actually, no—it was on purpose.”

Tyler’s shoulders square like he’s about to swing, and Théodore’s body responds like a switch flipped—stance shifting subtly, eyes gleaming, that barely-leashed storm of training rising just beneath the surface.

Then—

“Nope!” Caroline’s voice cuts through like a whip crack. She storms between them, one hand up like she’s diffusing a bomb. “Don’t even think about it.”

“He started it,” Tyler mutters, rubbing his foot.

“I’ll finish it,” she snaps back. Then turns to Théodore, eyes narrowing. “And you promised me. No fighting. Be nice.”

Théodore lifts his hands in surrender, shoulders rising in a careless shrug. “I am being nice. One of these days, someone’s going to thank me for knocking some sense into him.”

“Someone already tried,” Tyler snorts. “Didn’t work.”

Caroline groans, pressing a box of glow sticks into Théodore’s chest with unnecessary force. “Set these up in the science lab. Separate corners. I swear, I need a leash for both of you.”

Théodore opens his mouth to argue, but one look at Caroline’s face makes him stop. He sighs, quiet and long, and turns without another word. She's his best friend, after all—the one person who sees him without flinching, who makes him feel normal even when the rest of the world whispers that he’s not long for it. He’d walk through fire for her, but hell if he’ll make that easy to see.

He has very little time left. Every breath he takes is one closer to his last—and Caroline knows. She doesn’t speak of it, doesn’t pity him. She just pulls him into life every chance she gets. Tonight is no different.

Elena and Bonnie sweep into the classroom, both clutching bags of prank supplies. The room buzzes with low laughter and plastic clicks as mousetraps are lined up on the floor.

They're almost done when the door creaks open again.

Snap! Snap! SNAP!

Matt stumbles in and instantly sets off half the traps. He yelps, flailing, as mousetraps clatter and spring around his shoes.

“Oh, come on! Seriously?!” Caroline throws her hands up in exasperation, spinning on her heel with a dramatic huff. “Do you have any idea how long it took us to set all this up?!”

Tyler leans back against the desk, arms crossed, an amused smirk on his face. “Forgot about senior prank night, huh?”

Matt rubs the back of his neck, guilt flashing across his expression. “Clearly.”

Caroline whirls toward him, eyes wide. “How could you forget?! We’ve only been planning this since, like, freshman year!”

“Yeah, Matt. If I’m doing this, you’re doing this,” Elena says from where she’s perched cross-legged on a desk, her smile soft but teasing.

Matt laughs. “Honestly, I’m surprised any of you are doing this.”

“Caroline’s making us,” Bonnie says, tossing a roll of tape into the air.

“No comment on that,” Théodore mutters, amused. Caroline shoots him a look and he meets it with a smirk. For all his brooding and dry wit, he likes being here—around them. These fleeting nights are a kind of stolen heaven.

“We’re about to be seniors,” Caroline says, voice softening. “These are the memories that will stay with us forever. And if we don’t—”

“If we don’t make them now, then what’s the point of any of it?” Elena finishes for her, still smiling.

Caroline glances at her, then at Théodore, and the weight in her eyes presses at his ribs. She’s not just talking about memories. She’s talking about him. About what he won’t get to have. He feels it like a bruise under his skin but says nothing.

“Go ahead and make fun,” Caroline mutters. “I don’t care.”

“You’re all lame,” Tyler says, already shouldering his bag again. “And I’ve got ten more classrooms to prank.”

“Hey! Where are you going?” Bonnie calls as Elena stands, ready to follow.

“To superglue Alaric’s desk shut,” Elena grins, her eyes twinkling. She hooks her arm through Théodore’s before he can blink. “And you are coming with me.”

Théodore lets out a noise of protest, but she’s already pulling him toward the door.

“I love you both!” Caroline calls after them with a burst of laughter.

They step into the hallway. The buzz of voices and movement from other prank teams echoes faintly through the school.

Tyler is farther down, handing out saran wrap like he's leading a military op. “Get the faculty toilet seats, and Dana needs bodies in the gym. Let’s go!”

Elena snorts, and Théodore just rolls his eyes.

“Seriously, it’s like he thinks he’s Prom King of Mischief,” he mutters.

Elena looks up at him and gently punches his shoulder, drawing his attention. “How long are you going to hold this grudge against Tyler?”

Théodore pretends to think, then flashes her a crooked smirk. “Until the day I die, I guess.”

Elena shakes her head, laughing, but there’s warmth in her eyes. She knows him too well—knows that beneath all the venom and sarcasm, Théodore’s hate for Tyler is laced with a strange kind of childish rivalry. They’ve been trying to out-petty each other for years.

They turn the corner together, her arm still looped through his, when suddenly—

Elena stops. Her body freezes mid-step. The air shifts.

Théodore notices her silence first. Then the absence of breath. Then the tremble in her fingers. His eyes follow hers.

There, in the shadows, stands a man with messy, dirty blonde curls and a smile that drips with arrogance and something far more dangerous.

“There's my girl,” the man calls out, voice smooth as silk, laced with something venomous.

Elena’s breath hitches audibly, her voice barely more than a whisper. “Klaus.”

The man—Klaus—steps forward slowly, hands in his pockets, like he has all the time in the world. “In the flesh.”

Théodore hasn’t seen him before. Not in person. But Caroline’s voice echoes in his memory—rants and whispered confessions spilled late at night over tea and anxiety, about the Original hybrid with the charm of a king and the soul of a monster. So even if Klaus is a stranger to him, he already knows what he is.

And that’s enough.

Théodore immediately shifts, stepping in front of Elena without hesitation. His body becomes a shield, a barrier forged not just from instinct, but fierce loyalty. His jaw clenches tight.

“Elena,” he murmurs, eyes never leaving Klaus. “Go. Get help.”

Elena’s lips part in protest, her hand brushing his arm. “Théo, no—”

“Now,” he says more firmly, gaze hard as stone.

After a beat of hesitation, she finally runs. Her footsteps echo down the hallway, leaving Théodore alone with the predator.

Klaus watches her go, then looks back at Théodore with slow amusement, like he’s only now noticing him fully. “Théodore, isn’t it? I’ve heard a bit about you.”

Théodore tilts his head, his heart pounding, but his voice remains steady. “Good things, I hope.”

That earns a short laugh from Klaus. “We’ll see.”

Théodore moves into a fighting stance. He knows it’s suicide. Klaus is older than any vampire he’s ever read about. Stronger. Faster. Deadlier. And Théodore has no weapons. No vervain. Just stubbornness and the kind of courage that comes from someone who’s already made peace with dying.

His breaths are shallow, chest rising and falling with the anticipation of the fight. Every inch of his body hums with the residual edge of years of Slayer training. But none of it matters.

He lunges.

Klaus doesn’t even flinch.

In the blink of an eye, Klaus sidesteps the attack. Théodore barely lands a punch before he’s caught mid-air, slammed brutally against the lockers with enough force to knock the air from his lungs. The impact sends a sharp pain through his back, and his head snaps to the side.

Before he can recover, Klaus is already there—faster than human eyes can track. His hand clamps around Théodore’s throat, pinning him like a butterfly to glass, and his body cages him in, solid and unmoving.

Théodore’s fingers claw weakly at Klaus’s wrist, muscles straining, but the grip doesn’t budge. He grits his teeth, refusing to show fear. But in the stillness that follows, he closes his eyes.

So this is it.

This is how it ends.

And for a second, there’s peace in surrender. He’s given up so much already—his future, his dreams, a normal life. What’s one more thing?

But the death never comes.

He blinks his eyes open slowly—and Klaus is staring at him. Not with bloodlust. Not with rage.

With… something else.

Curiosity.

Théodore follows Klaus’s gaze and realizes his jacket has shifted from the impact. A pale scar along his collarbone peeks out beneath his shirt—jagged and pale, the relic of a night that changed him forever. France. Broken glass. The sound of his father’s roar. The sting of blood on skin, of loneliness so profound it left more scars than the glass ever did.

Klaus’s eyes remain fixed on it. His expression softens, just barely, almost too subtle to name.

Then his gaze lifts, locking back onto Théodore's.

There’s a flicker of recognition there. Not of the scar, but of something deeper. A shared shadow.

“Stay out of it,” Klaus says softly, almost like a warning. Or a kindness.

Before Théodore can find the breath to speak, Klaus moves.

It’s swift and silent—one strike to the side of his neck—and the world tilts.

Darkness pulls at the edges of his vision. The hallway blurs. The last thing he sees is Klaus reaching out to catch him as he collapses.

He doesn’t hit the floor.

The world goes black in the arms of the enemy.