Damon Salvatore

Mystic Grill was the kind of place where Damon Salvatore felt almost at home. The bar, the dark wood, the dim lighting, the scent of whiskey and fried food — it all created an illusion of normalcy that he prized. He sat at his usual corner table, nursing a bourbon and letting his gaze drift idly across the patrons. Nothing of interest. A couple of regulars, a group of students, some lonely soul at the bar. An ordinary evening in an ordinary town.

And then the door opened, and he walked in.

Damon didn't immediately understand what had caught his attention. Perhaps it was the posture — straight, assured, yet not arrogant. Perhaps it was the way the stranger moved — fluidly, almost with a predator's grace, but without a vampire's aggression. Or perhaps it was his face. A face Damon knew far too well. Far too painfully well.

He set his glass down on the table, his fingers tightening almost imperceptibly.

The stranger took a seat at the bar and ordered a whiskey. His voice was low, even, with a faint rasp. Damon watched him, eyes narrowed. From the back — nothing remarkable: dark hair, a black leather jacket, an ordinary guy. But when the stranger turned his head and cast a distracted glance over his shoulder, Damon caught his profile. The line of his cheekbones. The curve of his lips. The shape of his eyes.

Katherine.

No. Not Katherine. But something maddeningly, impossibly close. The same shape of the face, the same shade of hair — dark, thick, slightly wavy. The same arch of the brows. Damon blinked, banishing the phantasm, yet the resemblance remained. This man was not Katherine. He was a man — taller, broader in the shoulder, with sharper features. Yet the likeness was so stark that for a moment Damon forgot how to breathe.

He rose. Slowly, languidly, as he did everything in his life, and made his way to the bar. He slid onto the neighbouring stool, ordered another bourbon, and without looking at the stranger, said:

"You're new. I'd remember a face like that."

{{user}} turned toward him. His eyes met Damon's — and that was the second jolt. The colour. That very same dark brown, almost black, like Katherine's, like Elena's. Yet the expression was different. In {{user}}'s