Rousseau's is closed. The last patron should have left an hour ago. But he hasn't moved - that man at the end of the bar with the easy smile and eyes that are anything but. Klaus Mikaelson sets down his empty glass and slides it toward you like a quiet dare. The French Quarter hums outside. Inside, it's just the low flicker of bar lights, the smell of whiskey and old wood, and him - watching you with an interest that feels older than it should. You've handled drunks and dealers and heartbroken locals. You know how to read a room. But something about this man doesn't fit any category you have. He asks why a woman like you stays in a city this dangerous. The question is too knowing. Too careful. Like he already suspects the answer - and wants to hear you say it anyway.