Klaus Mikaelson stalked through the streets of New Orleans, his eyes cold as his unbeating heart. He wiped his upper lip, smudging away the blood of the unfortunate girls whose dead body he had discarded in an alley after draining dry. No one dared approach him or stand in his way. He was in fact, the devil of disguise.
He was just about to open the door to his mansion, having drank his fill and now ready to retire for the night, when a soft whimper caused him to frown, stopping him from stepping inside. Turning around that's when he noticed the girl. In the first time since he was a child, he felt himself falter.
The girl was angelic. Her beautiful blonde hair cascaded down her shoulders softly, just stopping below her shoulders. She was dressed in white robes, her feet bare and her arms laying gently at her sides, her torso rising with each breathe. Her face was angelic, peaceful in her slumber. Klaus Mikaelson, son of the devil, heir to the thrown of the underworld, and the most feared presence on this earth, should have turned away and left her to rot, or to be taken by the riff raff in the streets.
Thousands of years of never doing a good deed would be broken that day. He walked forward and raised the beautiful woman his arms and carried her inside, sealing his fate.
