The streets of Mystic Falls were quieter than usual. Not because the town had grown peaceful—but because something cold had crept into its bones. People didn't know why, but they knew something was wrong.
At the Salvatore Boarding House, the fire crackled in the fireplace as Damon poured another drink. Bonnie sat curled in one of the armchairs, eyes darting between old witch grimoires and her notes. Caroline paced like a lioness in a cage.
"He killed someone last night," Damon said, setting his glass down harder than he intended. "Young guy. No compulsion. No cleanup. He wanted to be seen."
Caroline stopped. "He's making a statement."
Bonnie looked up. "Or leaving breadcrumbs."
"I don't like games," Damon muttered.
"And yet you're always playing one," Bonnie said under her breath.
Before Damon could retort, the lights flickered. Then dimmed. Then went out completely.
All three stilled.
Bonnie closed her book slowly. "That's not the power. That's magic."
A low, cold voice whispered from the shadows:
"Did you miss me?"
Bonnie's spell barrier surged too late. The front door creaked open on its own, and in stepped Steve.
He looked unchanged from the night before—clean black boots, long dark coat, those haunting red eyes. His aura sucked the warmth from the room like a collapsing star.
"You break into people's houses often?" Damon growled.
Steve gave a smirk. "Only when I used to live in them."
Bonnie stood. "You're not welcome here."
"Oh, but I was. A long time ago," Steve replied. "Ask your ancestors, witch. Mystic Falls didn't start with the Salvatores. Or the Mikaelsons."
Damon clenched his fists. "You're wasting time. Why are you here?"
Steve strolled past them, touching the back of a leather chair, admiring the house like a man remembering a ghost. "I'm here because something was stolen from me. Something I buried long ago in this town."
"Buried where?" Caroline asked.
Steve turned to her slowly. "Wouldn't you like to know."
He took a step forward, and the lights surged back on. Bonnie raised her hand to cast, but Steve was gone—vanished again into thin air.
Silence.
Then Damon muttered, "I really hate that guy."
---
Elsewhere, in the abandoned Fell Church, Steve appeared—breathing deeply like a man taking in the scent of old memories.
The pews were covered in dust. The stained-glass windows cracked. But beneath the altar, hidden behind layers of enchantments, was a crypt. A crypt only someone of Steve's bloodline could open.
He pressed his palm to the stone floor. Whispered in a language lost to witches. The ground rumbled.
And then, the crypt revealed itself.
Inside were bones. Symbols. A ring.
Steve picked up the ring with reverence. The signet was old—older than the Salvatore line—carved with a serpent eating its tail.
"Still waiting for me," he whispered. "After all these years."
He slid it on. And for a moment, the shadows around him moved—bent toward him like servants bowing to a king.
---
Back at Mystic High School, Elena's younger cousin, Grace, wandered into the library after school. She had heard rumors about someone strange watching students at night. She didn't believe them—not really—but she liked to snoop.
She didn't expect to find the room colder than the rest of the building.
Books lay on the floor. Some torn. One of them burned at the edges.
As she bent down to pick one up, she heard a voice.
"Curiosity kills faster than fangs, you know."
She turned, heart jumping into her throat. Steve stood in the doorway, smiling softly.
"Who are you?" she asked, backing away.
"I'm your future," he said. "Or your end. Depends on what side you choose."
"I don't know what you're talking about—"
"Oh, but you will." He stepped forward. "There's more in your blood than you think. You're a Gilbert. That means something in this town."
He leaned down, nose inches from her throat. "And I'll be watching."
Then, like smoke, he was gone again.
Grace fell to her knees, trembling. Her phone buzzed, but she didn't check it.
The whisper he left behind echoed in her ears.
> "Gilberts always bleed redder than the rest."
---
Meanwhile, Bonnie and Damon visited Ric at the Armory. The artifacts department had been sealed off since the last time a vampire tried to weaponize it, but they were hoping for answers.
Ric opened a thick old ledger. "Scarlet Fang. Real name: Stephenus Lucian Argent. Born in the late 1400s. Turned during a blood moon ritual. He was… different. He didn't need to be invited. Could drink vampire blood. Could drain magic."
Damon raised a brow. "So he's a magical vampire vacuum?"
"He was banned from every coven and hunted by multiple Originals. The only reason he didn't die was because he went into hiding after 1532."
"Why now?" Bonnie asked.
Ric hesitated. "Because something's returned with him. And if I'm reading this right… he's not the only one waking up."
---
As the moon rose over Mystic Falls, fog began to thicken again. But this time, it wasn't natural.
Across rooftops, down alleys, through graveyards… shadows were moving.
Old vampires—some starved, some sleeping for centuries—were stirring. Drawn by Steve's presence. His ring. His call.
The hunt had begun.
And Mystic Falls was the hunting ground.