One year ago

Syria. A country in ruins.

Aleppo. A city of dust.

The place God seemed to have forsaken.

Every day dozens of people fell victims to the cruelty of war. Some were merely collateral damage. Children. Women. Innocents whose blood painted the city walls and drenched the desert.

Two years. Two years had passed since he'd been deployed here. In that time, he'd lost the person who'd mattered most to him. The one who brought some modicum of happiness to his pathetic excuse of an existence.

Gone. Light extinguished from his eyes right before him.

Loss and helplessness. Those were the only real faces of war. There were no heroes, only lucky ones who managed to draw yet another breath, lived to see the sun break in the morning once more. If anyone claimed otherwise, they hadn't been thrown into the midst of battle like he had.

"You ready?" came a familiar voice.

Marcel. The only friend he still had. The one who'd followed him into hell and remained by his side throughout his tumultuous journey.

"I'll be out in a second," Klaus promised, remaining alone in the tent.

Protective gear in place, bulletproof vest shielding his torso, he grabbed his automatic gun and threw a few spare clips into his backpack. He was ready to go. Another recon mission inside and on the outskirts of Aleppo. Another gamble with the Devil.

There was no telling when one could walk into an ISIS ambush. It could be over in the blink of an eye, like he'd seen it happen on countless occasions.

Still, it was his duty to push on. Bury all of the atrocities he saw everyday deep within his heart, where they couldn't hinder his reactions. He owed it to his comrades to give it his all and, most importantly, to these poor people.

He was paying for his actions. Desperately fighting to make it right. However impossible that may be.

Stepping out from the false safety the combat tent provided, into the blinding, scorching sun, he saw the Humvee waiting for him. Marcel and three other guys were cracking jokes while waiting for him. Their good mood was mostly a front used to hide true feelings, but Klaus never called them out on it. Instead, he chose to remain silent in the back of the bulletproof truck. Everyone coped differently, after all.

The city was eerily quiet as they navigated the streets. Only the occasional wail of a starving child and the cries of his powerless mother rasped through. Entire buildings torn apart by bombs, the sickening smell of death and burned flesh remaining embedded inside, invading his nostrils.

All of a sudden, a young boy, no more than 8 appeared in front of them. Dirty, shredded clothes, bones visible, an effect of the malnourishment most Syrian kids endured, a few cuts covering his face and torso. He was crying, repeating over and over an Arabic word Klaus had learned meant mother.

"We have to check if we can help him," declared Marcel from the front.

Compassion was one of his friend's fortes and apparently, the other soldiers accompanying him felt the same because they stopped the engine. Even though it wasn't in their mission description to do such thing.

"I'm not sure this is such a good idea," he skeptically added, remembering what had transpired the last time his squad went off book.

Death.

Moreover, his gut screamed that something was wrong, but he couldn't quite pinpoint what.

"It's just a child, Klaus, don't worry," assured Marcel. "You can wait here while we check to see what's going on."

"I have a bad feeling about this," Klaus continued.

"Oh, stop it with the doom and gloom. We'll be back in a moment."

With that, Klaus's friend slammed the door and, along with the other soldiers, approached the kid. The poor thing was wrecked with sobs and kept pointing east, towards the town's exit. They were too far to actually understand the conversation that had lengthened unexplainably.

Finally, his friends stood up, but imagine Klaus's surprise when Marcel grabbed a hold of the frail hand, guiding the boy to their vehicle.

Were they insane? Mercy didn't justify this.

Immediately, he got out and positioned himself between the Humvee and his friend, knowing that the other soldiers would not interfere. They knew him too well to get mixed into his business.

"No," Klaus swiftly declared. "We are not taking the boy with us."

"I'm not saying that we should bring him into our camp," Marcel responded. "His mother was taken about an hour ago towards the town's exit. We're just going to look for her and if she's nowhere to be found, we bring him back here."

It sounded simple enough, but in a war zone nothing was as easy as it sounded.

"No."

His refusal seemed to anger his friend who inhaled deeply to calm down. "We're going there anyway! Why shouldn't we help him?"

A million reasons crossed Klaus's mind. The most important one was the increasing number of child terrorists, grown within an ISIS faction, who didn't bat an eyelash before pulling the trigger. That and the nagging feeling that he was missing something crucial. The situation simply didn't feel right to him.

"You know as well as I do that children can be as just as dangerous as adults here."

"Klaus," relentless obsidian orbs fixated him. "He's clean, we checked. Besides," he pushed the kid in front of him. "Does he look like a crazed ISIS member to you?"

"Marcel," he tried again, but was interrupted.

"Look at him! He's barely 7 years old and has had to watch his father burn, while his older brother was beheaded. He just wants to see his mother again," liquid shone in the onyx orbs. "Can you really deny him that? Are there really no feelings left in that heart of yours, Klaus? Tell me, if it was your younger brother here, in this position, would you want me to turn my back on him?"

That was a low blow, he wanted to tell Marcel. The killing blow. The black-haired man was right, though. He was being cruel, but living in this place had made him this way. A very thin line separated life from death and innocent from guilty here. But he was done fighting his best friend over this. Although, his heart screamed that this would not end well.

"Suit yourself," he threw back, climbing in the back of the Humvee wordlessly.

He and Marcel would have a conversation about this when they returned to camp.

His friend sat in the back, this time, along with the boy, Saleem, Klaus gathered, who was told to look outside and tell them if he saw his mother. For a brief second, weary, blue eyes met small, brown ones. What he saw made the hairs on the back of his head stand up. There had been an evil glint, a smugness of sorts that was quickly replaced by a broken weeping.

So fast was the transition that Klaus began to question whether or not he'd imagined it.

Minutes trickled by, they were approaching the town's eastern exit and still hadn't met any sign of life other than Saleem. Strange, at best.

"Let's go that way too," Marcel pointed at a string of abandoned buildings that separated Aleppo from the desert.

They were empty as well.

Just as Marcel was about to give up, Saleem pointed at an old terrain vehicle, frantically yelling in Arabic. The one member of their group who spoke the language translated quickly. "He claims that's the car that took his mom."

Alarm bells rang in Klaus's mind.

The car was a few hundred meters outside Aleppo, in the Syrian desert. If the boy wasn't wrong, why would the terrorists abandon a perfectly functional car?

"Let's go check it out," Marcel proposed after a few seconds of deliberation. All of the other soldiers agreed, killed the engine and got out their weapons.

"This is a bad idea," Klaus tried to warn again.

"Then stay here, we need someone to remain with Saleem anyway," a confident voice all but ordered. "If there's trouble, you can do your thing and save us all."

The British man wished to argue more, but knew that there was no changing Marcel's mind. He was capable of going there alone, should he believe that to be the right thing to do.

So he complied, remained there, next to the Syrian child and observed his friends. In formation, they approached the automobile. There was nothing but golden grains of sand under their feet, no sound rasping through. It was like he'd been drawn into a silent movie. He was the spectator, aware that something bad was about to happen but powerless to do anything about it.

"Dead," Saleem mumbled under his breath so quietly Klaus thought it had been a figment of his imagination.

"What did you just say?" he asked, forgetting that the boy didn't speak English.

"Dead," he exclaimed cackling maniacally, distorting his innocuous features. Before Klaus could regain control of his limbs, recover from the shock, Saleem had jumped outside the car and inside Aleppo.

An ambush.

It was clear now that this had indeed been an ambush and they'd walked right into it.

Getting out of the Humvee as well, he studied his surroundings. There was no sign of another person, but they could be hidden in one of the buildings, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

But why the car? Had it been meant to lure them away from the safety of their vehicle? If so, why hadn't they attacked already?

Once more, he looked towards Marcel, now 50 meters from the abandoned SUV. Klaus knew he was missing something. He replayed the entire scene over and over, aware that Saleem was probably the key.

The only odd thing was his reaction before escaping. He had been sure that they were dead people, but why? There was no one in sight to kill them, so why the certainty?

And that's when it hit him.

Landmines.

They could murder without anyone being present. Silent killers who gave no warning.

Klaus broke into a run, in a minefield, his own safety long forgotten, desperate to warn his teammates. "Marcel!" he yelled at the top of his lungs, multiple times, but to no avail. He was too far away. Finally, he was able to get his attention.

"Stop moving," he swung his hands up and down. "All of you, stop moving!" Upon their confusion, he continued. "Mines! The land is mined!"

Bewilderment gave way to panic. Marcel was the only one who remained glued to the spot, heeding his warning, while the others started to run recklessly in an attempt to reach safety. Slowly, Klaus tried to advance, when a click cut the air out of his lungs.

James, one of his fellow mates had stepped on one of the mines, stopping them all in their tracks. All they could hear was their own rugged breathing, hearts ponding to escape their chests.

"Get away from here, all of you!" James shouted, his voice quivering under the realization that this was over for him.

And it was true. They had no more than seconds, maybe a minute if they were lucky, before it went off. Klaus wished there was something he could do, try to disarm it, but they'd come across ISIS landmines before, they couldn't be disarmed. They were top of the line. Where the weapons supply came for, he shuddered to think.

So they all started running back, forgetting about the chance that they could step on another mine anytime. He was close, so close to the Humvee, almost out of the range of explosion, when Klaus turned back to check for his friends. They were behind, but if luck remained on their side, they could make it.

In the exact moment he looked ahead again, the blast occurred. A blinding flash erupted from where James had stood, the ground shook and a deafening sound reverberated all over Aleppo's outskirts.

The force of the explosion sent him tumbling to the ground, the searing heat burning through some of the material of his pants. It felt like scalding water had been poured all over him.

Recovering from the shock, shaking his head to regain some clarity and refusing to take into consideration the debilitating headache flaring up, Klaus pushed himself to his feet. One glance at his back and he felt a dagger run through his heart.

Not again.

The picture before him appeared taken out of a gruesome horror movie. Blood had soaked the arid ground, turning it a nauseating crimson. Derek, the man closest to him, was motionless, his head slammed into the ground, skull cracked open, blood and brain matter forming a halo around him.

Unable to check on Marcel yet, Klaus focused on James, or better, what had remained of him. An array of severed limbs and a mixture of viscera was all that was left.

That's when a groan reached him. The first sign of life. Immediately, he snapped his gaze in his best friend's direction. Sure enough, his chest was slowly moving up and down.

His best friend was alive. Alive.

Hope swelled in his chest.

Maybe this time it would be different, after all. Maybe Klaus could save him.

As he got nearer, he realized that would be harder to accomplish than he'd originally believed. Marcel's left leg and arm had been cut off, right above the elbow and knee joints. The stumps were bleeding profoundly, an enormous pool of crimson already circling his friend.

Immediately, Klaus dropped to his knees.

"Marcel, Marcel, please you have to wake up," he tried to rouse his friend. Tired, black irises did open to slits to look at him.

"You're ok," was the first thing out of his mouth, a small smile gracing his face. There he was, fighting to remain conscious and his leading thoughts went to Klaus's wellbeing.

"You will be too," reassured Klaus.

"No, I won't ," he coughed weakly. "You were right. This was an ambush. I'm sorry."

"No, don't talk, save your breath."

Weakly, Marcel glanced at the carnage around. "They're all dead, aren't they? It's all my fault," two tears rolled down his face and he turned away to hide it. "I deserve this."

"No," Klaus screamed, tears of his own threatening to fall. "Don't talk like this! None of this is your fault, ISIS did this!" He honestly believed all that he was telling his fallen friend, but he doubted that Marcel believed him. "I have to stop the bleeding, Marcel and you need to stop talking, preserve your strength."

Without his first aid kit that was still inside the car, Klaus had to improvise. Tearing a few pieces of fabric from his jacket, he made two tourniquets and wrapped them as tightly as he could above the stumps. But this was a provisory solution; they had to make it back to the camp, back to a doctor.

"We have to get back to the truck," he tried to inspire some sort of reaction from Marcel who hadn't said a word since taking the blame for all of this. Not one to give up, Klaus wrapped Marcel's right arm around his shoulder and wrestled to get the motionless man into a standing position. "You have to help me, Marcel. Please," he all but begged.

Eventually, the other man shifted his leg, struggling to help Klaus ease him up. Even then, virtually all of his weight was being carried. Halfway to the car, Marcel all but went limp in his arms, eyes mere slits.

"No, you don't get to fall asleep, Marcel! Wake up!" Klaus roared at the top of his lungs. "I swear to God I will carry you if you don't."

And he meant it. There was no way he was losing another dear one in this cursed Syrian desert.

"Bridal style, huh?" Marcel found it in him to crack a joke and, with his last bit of energy pushed forward with Klaus's help.

They were so close, the finish line was within view. All of a sudden, a red dot appeared on Marcel's forehead. The other soldier knew what it was immediately.

A sniper.

There was more to the ambush than just the landmines. The terrorists clearly did not wish them to make it out alive. Trained reflexes kicked in and the sandy-haired man sent them both to the floor, just as the bullet left the rifle. He had been in time to save Marcel from the bullet meant to end his life, but hadn't been fast enough to push them both out of the way entirely.

To be more specific, a bullet embedded itself deeply into his arm, right below the shoulder, where the Kevlar's protection ended. Crippling pain erupted from his right bicep, hand immediately covering the injury to stem the bleeding, remaining flat on the ground.

"Stay down, Marcel, don't move!" Not that the man could, even if he wanted to.

Clouded pools of aquamarine scanned the near-by roofs and windows to try and catch a glimpse of their attacker. Just as he was about to give up, the sun cast its rays onto the ghost city of Aleppo. The steel of the firearm reflected, making the bastard's location known.

Cursing at the pain running through his hand, he pulled out his own weapon. "The moment I start to fire, you grab a hold of me and we get moving," Marcel looked at him with skeptical eyes. "We have to get to that car. It's the only chance we've got."

As if reading his lips through his scope, the shooter fired at the tires of their Humvee, rendering it useless. With it, their odds of escaping were down to near zero. Even if Klaus could, by some miracle, carry them both to camp, there was no way he could also take out hostiles at the same time.

It wasn't humanely possible.

"I guess this is it, friend," Marcel acknowledged the dire situation first.

"No, don't talk like that," anguish laced his voice. "I'll figure it out, I promise. I'll get you out of here." Ideas continued to flash through his foggy brain. None were even remotely achievable.

"No, you won't," another cough wracked his weak body, this time coppery liquid slipping through his lips. "And that's alright, Klaus. You've done everything humanly possible."

"No!" he roared, vision blurred from salty liquid. "I refuse to accept that, Marcel!"

"Listen to me, not both of us have to die today," dilated pupils fixated him with more clarity than Klaus had seen since the mine exploded. "Give me your spare weapon," he extended his right hand.

Marcel's plan was starting to make sense to Klaus. It was downright suicide.

"It's already over for me," he continued upon catching his friend's hesitation. "Do it for me, live through this, get out of this hellhole. Stop punishing yourself for your father's wrongdoings. This is the last thing I'll ask of you. For our years of friendship, promise me this, Klaus."

"I…" Klaus could feel warmth staining his cheeks.

"Promise me."

"I promise," he rasped out eliciting a real smile from his friend whose fingers were still beckoning for the weapon. Reluctantly, Klaus complied, handing him the gun.

"Good thing it wasn't my right arm," Marcel grinned, the smirk contrasting with the tears swimming in his eyes.

The other soldier tried to respond in the same way, but found himself unable to. All that existed in his brain was that this was Marcel's last joke. The final time he would look into those defiant charcoal eyes and receive a response.

"It was an honor to be your friend and fight by your side, Klaus. You're a way better man than you give yourself credit for. I hope someone will come into your life one day and make you see that."

Saying goodbye to his best friend was like abandoning a part of himself. Fighting this senseless war had cost him the remaining pieces of his soul. Why God had to take everything away from him was a mystery, though. It was like he'd been born cursed.

If he thought it through and really considered the circumstances of his birth, there may have been something to that.

He was still paying for his family's sins.

"Likewise, my friend. I couldn't have asked for a better companion, a better brother. And this, this sacrifice stands proof to that."

Frustration grabbed a hold of Klaus's body. They were pinned on the ground, unable to lift a muscle for fear of becoming targets. He could not even hug his best friend goodbye.

"Now, go!" Marcel commanded, leaving no room to argue, lifting a steady hand and firing a round in the direction of the shooter.

Taking advantage of the distraction provided, Klaus risked one last glance at his friend before running towards Aleppo, the road to the camp etched into his mind.

Just as he'd made it past the second building, the gunshots came to a halt. His breathing stopped for a second because he knew what that meant.

One of the men engaged in the gunfight had fallen. And the chances of it being the terrorist were too low to take into account.

Farewell, my friend. We'll see each other again one day.

Not allowed even a second to grieve, Klaus heard footsteps closely behind him. They were following him. A bullet wheezed dangerously close to his ear, blood continuing to seep through his makeshift bandage and his head felt like a bomb of its own had taken residence inside.

However, he refused to give up. That would be the same as throwing Marcel's surrender to the garbage. He would never do that.

The pattering grew closer and closer to him and the soldier knew they were slowly gaining on him, his tired body unable to compare to their speed.

Aware that extending the pursuit would be in his disfavor, he used his last available resources of energy and taking advantage of the adrenaline coursing through his veins, Klaus took a sharp turn to the left, seeking shelter in one of Aleppo's ruined houses.

It had been lived in until recently, fact evident by the table reigning in the middle of the main room. It was still set for three people. Not one to let the opportunity slip, he drank a glass of water, ignoring the food, aware that he would not be able to stomach it anyway.

Going to the bathroom, he tried to search for some medication or at least a proper bandage for his injury. In vain. The people here were too poor to afford such luxuries. Getting hurt meant, in most cases, putting a piece of fabric on top of it and praying for God to spare a miracle.

Too bad that He'd run all out of them a while back.

Climbing the stairs, Klaus searched for a vantage point. A window from where he could look outside and not be spotted. In what had been the child's room, judging by the carved wooden toys, he found a small, dirty glass that afforded sight directly onto Aleppo's main road.

Perfect.

Luck was, for once, on his side.

He would wait for nightfall here. Recuperate some of his strength and then try to maneuver through the streets. Dangers increased after dusk, ISIS sending more patrols, but at least the dark would somewhat cloak him.

Minutes went by, turning into hours and Klaus fought against the urge to fall asleep. He had to remain alert in case his enemies decided to go house by house in his search. A US Army soldier was an extremely valuable prisoner, after all.

His worries were not entirely misguided because just as the sun had started to go down, a group of about 10 terrorists, cloaked in combat attire and carrying heavy, automatic rifles passed right under his window.

What made his blood boil was Saleem, proudly marching by their side, AK-47 in his small, child hands. An unworldly sight that was way too common in Syria, unfortunately. Fists clenched, he fought with every fiber of his body against going right up to them and putting a bullet in that boy's forehead.

It wasn't worth it.

There were thousands ready to take his place.

All he would be doing was discard the life his best friend had gifted him.

So he sucked a deep breath in and stepped away from the glass, waiting for them to move past his hideout.

After they were a safe distance away and night had enveloped the city in obscurity, Klaus finally took out his gun and exited the house. The trek back to the camp was long, strenuous and by the time he made it back, he felt lightheaded, pain radiating from every muscle.

What mattered was that by divine mercy, he hadn't run into anybody else. Perhaps it had been Marcel and him watching over him from above or maybe God had simply satiated his thirst for blood today.

Collapsing into the medical tent, Klaus surrendered control, welcoming the blissful oblivion anesthetics and pain medication provided. It helped him forget. It made him comfortably numb.

After that fateful day, he was medically discharged from the US Army, although the wounds he'd sustained presented no hindrance. Klaus knew they worried about his mental health. Who wouldn't have serious issues after being through what he'd been through, after all? So they gave him therapists to see, but he canceled every single appointment.

The cherry on top was receiving a Purple Heart commendation for his outstanding service. All the way through the ceremony he wanted to laugh at the idiotic situation. He was no hero. All he'd done was watch powerlessly as people died in his arms, some forfeiting their lives to save him.

Those worthy of the medal were long gone.

Still, he did not allow himself to slip from reality entirely. Klaus had made a promise to Marcel that he would live and he intended to respect it. So he kept himself afloat with the help of liquor, tethering on the edge of addiction, but never fully giving into it.

His subsequent visit to Mystic Falls, to see one of his former best friends, ended in catastrophe. It nearly turned into the final straw that sent him spiraling down a road of no return. Only by sheer determination did he remain sane after the consequences of the reunion with Stefan Salvatore.

Walking into Mystic Fall, Klaus immediately headed for the Salvatore residence. It wasn't a courtesy visit and he did not wish to prolong this dreaded task.

The older brother opened the door and, with suspicious turquoise eyes, allowed him inside, telling him that Stefan was in the living room and showed him the way.

Imagine his surprise when he found the green-eyed man on the couch, passionately kissing a blonde woman. Clearing his throat, he made his presence known. Reluctantly, two pairs of orbs turned to look at him. Upon seeing the unknown guest, the woman freed herself from Stefan's embrace, a rose hue all over her cheeks.

"Hello, Stefan," he tensely greeted. "Long time no see."

"Klaus," the other man stood up, positioning himself in front of his presumed girlfriend. "What are you doing here?"

The cold welcome was expected, but bothered the British man nonetheless. He didn't want to be here anymore than Stefan, but he had felt it his duty to do so.

"Relax, Stefan. I'm not here to discuss matters of the past, but merely to inform you of something."

"Who is this?" a clear voice cut in, drawing attention and clearly demanding an answer.

"This is Klaus Mikaelson, a…" he hesitated. "An old acquaintance from when I lived in New Orleans."

Intelligent eyes narrowed at the introduction. It was more that obvious that she'd caught on to the fact that there was a lot bubbling under the surface with these two and that it was waiting to explode. So, she chose to ignore it and not push.

"I'm Caroline Forbes, Stefan's girlfriend," she introduced herself, extending her hand. The man glued his grey eyes to the slender fingers, but didn't make any move to acknowledge them.

"I'm here to speak with you, Stefan, alone," he pointedly gazed at the blonde whose nostrils flared at the blatant disrespect.

He wasn't here to make friends. After his mission was done, he would walk away, never to return again.

Caroline opened her mouth, to set the impolite man straight when a gentle hand on her shoulder stopped the spiteful words. Her boyfriend was practically begging her to go, so she did, without another word.

Finally by themselves, Stefan addressed him first. Probably because words were coming harder and harder to the former soldier.

"She's gone. What are you doing here Klaus? I thought it was clear you were not welcomed in my house."

"Trust me, I don't want to be here anymore than you wish me here," he fired back in the same tone, raised eyebrow daring Stefan to go down that line of conversation. He didn't. "I came here to tell you something I believed you deserve to know."

The Salvatore remained silent, choosing not to spare more sentences than necessary on Klaus. So the latter decided to just come out and say it. No need to sugarcoat it.

"Marcel is dead."

A gasp echoed in the room. Shock left no room for words. Instead, Stefan collapsed onto the vintage, sculpted armchair, eyes glistening as comprehension that one of his best buddies in the world had left the Earth for good dawned on him.

"He chose to stay with me, extend his tour," Klaus developed. "We walked into an ambush and he was killed." As consideration to their tight friendship, the gory details were left out. "He died saving me. Marcel was a hero. I just thought you need to know that."

The Mikaelson brother wanted to leave the man alone with his grief and was halfway to the door when a choked voice stopped him.

"Everyone around you just keeps dying, don't they? Good people, loyal people, they end up the same way. All because of you."

There was real anger hiding behind those accusations. Klaus didn't bother defending himself. Stefan was right. But what could he do? If there was a way to trade places with them, he would, without second thought.

"Why is it never you? You were the one who should have been killed, not Marcel! All he did was stand by you, even when no one else would."

Tears of his own were threatening to spill, so Klaus remained with his back turned to the grieving man.

"You're right," was all he murmured before walking out of the room and house, never to see Stefan again.

That night, as he was on his way back to New Orleans, the town that had been his home, but was now only a tormenting reminder of what had once been, ready to put to rest the howling demons in his head with the help of his trusted friend- bourbon –,Stefan had his own way of handling his pain.

Making the responsible one pay was how he coped.

So he took out his phone and dialed a number he still knew by heart. Years of friendship could not be simply thrown out the drain, after all.

"Hello," he greeted curtly.

"Stefan?" was the surprised reply. "I never thought I would hear from you again. Why are you calling me?"

His conscience gave him pause for a few seconds. Perhaps he was wrong, going down the same immoral path he'd just come back from. It was quickly extinguished by a voice in his head, telling him that this was justice.

Klaus deserved it.

"Klaus has finally returned. I think he's going back to New Orleans."

A sadistic laugh made his skin turn to goose bumps. "Thank you, my friend! I'll let him know. Vengeance will be mine, at last. He will get what's just. "

With that, he ended the call, doubt still plaguing his mind. He shook it off, though. Whatever happened, he wouldn't be to blame.

Lucien Castle and he were the ones who would finally take the pound of flesh Klaus Mikaelson owed.


A/N I would like to thank every single person who took the time to leave a review or add this story to their follow/favourite list. The fact that you seem to be enjoying it so far gives me great joy. You have no idea how much it means to me and how much motivation it brings me to make the story better, more enjoyable for you guys. I hope you liked this chaper and the small insight into Klaus's past. There will be more to come in the following chapters. Once again, thank you very much for standing by me and my story.