Landon's house felt like a tomb when James woke in it. Sunlight struggled through grimy curtains, illuminating dust motes and the stale smell of unwashed sheets.
He sat up slowly, flexing fingers that weren't his—slimmer, calloused from bussing tables, nails bitten short.
The mirror across the room showed a stranger's face: curly dark hair falling over worried hazel eyes, sharp cheekbones, the faint acne scars of late teens. Landon Kirby stared back, seventeen and hollowed out by grief.
James inhaled, tasting the lingering depression that clung to the walls like smoke. Empty beer cans on the dresser—foster dad's, probably.
A photo frame face-down on the nightstand. He righted it: Landon and Rafael, arms slung around each other at some carnival, both laughing like the world couldn't touch them. Rafael's eyes were bright, alive.
Now he was dead, and James wore his best friend's skin. Guilt twisted, sharp and familiar. He shoved it down. Survival first. Ethics later—if there was a later.
He showered in lukewarm water that sputtered from an ancient head, dressed in Landon's cleanest jeans and a faded Mystic Falls Timberwolves hoodie, and pocketed the boy's phone and wallet.
The screen showed missed calls from social services, a half-written text to someone named "Seylah" that had never been sent. James locked the door behind him and started walking.
The Salvatore School was five miles out, past the town limits where pavement gave way to tree-lined gravel. Morning mist clung to the woods, muffling birdsong.
Danger Sense hummed quietly—no threats, just the low thrum of possibility. Fire coiled in his chest like a sleeping dragon, patient.
By the time the wrought-iron gates appeared, his borrowed sneakers were dusted gray and his breath came in visible puffs. The school loomed beyond them: gothic spires, ivy-cloaked stone, gargoyles leering from rooftops like silent sentinels. It looked exactly like the show, only real—imposing, beautiful, and humming with latent magic.
A keypad and intercom sat beside the gate. James pressed the call button, heart thudding against unfamiliar ribs.
A man's voice crackled through. "Salvatore School. State your business."
He let Landon's voice shake—easy enough, considering the raw ache in this body's throat. "My name's Landon Kirby. I… I live in town. I need help."
Silence stretched. Then: "Wait there."
Minutes later, the gates swung inward with a mechanical groan. A tall man in his forties stepped out—Alaric Saltzman, crossbow slung casually over one shoulder, salt-and-pepper stubble, eyes sharp with cautious concern.
Behind him, a younger woman with auburn hair tied in a messy ponytail hovered, arms crossed. Hope Mikaelson. James's pulse spiked; she was even more striking in person—fierce, guarded, beautiful in a way that made the air feel thinner.
Alaric stopped a few paces away. "Landon Kirby. You're local. Mystic Falls High, right?"
James nodded, shoving hands into his hoodie pocket to hide the tremor. "Yeah. I… I don't know if this is the right place, but people say you help kids who—" His voice cracked convincingly. "—who don't have anywhere else."
Hope's eyes narrowed, studying him. Recognition flickered. "We've met," she said quietly. "Two years ago. Town square dance."
Relief flooded him—she'd handed him the opening. He let confusion crease Landon's brow. "I… yeah. I remember. You were with some guy. Elijah?" He rubbed the back of his neck, a perfect teenage awkward gesture.
"You said if I ever needed anything…"
Alaric glanced at Hope, then back. "Why do you need something now?"
James looked down, scuffing gravel with his toe. The grief angle had to land soft—real. He drew on the body's memories, the hollow ache that lived under Landon's ribs like a bruise.
"My foster brother, Rafael… he died. Couple months ago. Car accident." His throat tightened; the emotion wasn't hard to fake.
"Since then everything's felt… wrong. I keep having these dreams. Fire everywhere. Me burning alive, but then waking up fine. Over and over."
He met Alaric's eyes, letting desperation bleed through. "I don't sleep anymore. I don't eat. My foster dad's gone half the time, and social services keeps calling, but I just… I can't be there alone anymore. I heard rumors about this place. That you take in kids who are… different."
Hope stepped closer, expression softening a fraction. "You think you're supernatural?"
"I don't know," he whispered. "Maybe. Or maybe I'm just losing it. But I'm scared. And I don't have anyone else."
Alaric's gaze flicked to Hope again—she gave a tiny nod. He sighed, the sound of a man who'd heard every variation of this story and still couldn't turn kids away.
"Come inside," he said finally. "We'll talk. Run some tests. If you're human and just grieving, we can still get you counseling. If you're something else…" He shrugged. "We'll figure it out."
They led him up the long driveway, gravel crunching under three sets of feet. The school grounds opened up—manicured lawns, students tossing frisbees, a girl levitating a book while reading it. Magic in broad daylight. James kept his wonder muted, playing the overwhelmed local.
Inside, the foyer soared with dark wood and stained glass. Alaric gestured to a side office. "Dorian will take some blood, check for vervain sensitivity, basic stuff. Hope, you want to sit in?"
She nodded, eyes still on James—curious now, not suspicious. "Yeah. I'll stay."
The tests were quick: a drop of vervain on his tongue (no burn), a simple spell from Dorian that confirmed no active magic signature. Human, for now. The phoenix lay dormant, untriggered without death.
Alaric reviewed the results, frowning thoughtfully. "You're baseline human. But grief can manifest strangely, especially in this town. And those dreams…"
He trailed off. "We've got an empty dorm bed. You can stay a few days while we monitor. Attend some classes, talk to Emma—our counselor. If nothing supernatural shows, we'll help you find a better foster placement."
James let relief sag his shoulders. "Thank you. Really."
Hope lingered as Alaric stepped out to handle paperwork. She leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed again but less guarded.
"You look different," she said. "Older, maybe. Rough couple years?"
He huffed a humorless laugh. "You could say that."
"I'm sorry about Rafael." Her voice softened.
"I didn't know him, but… losing someone like that—it changes you."
"Yeah." He met her eyes, letting a flicker of real gratitude show. "It does."
She studied him a moment longer, then pushed off the frame. "Come on. I'll show you the dorms. Lunch is soon—you look like you could eat."
He followed her down sunlit corridors, past laughing witches and brooding werewolves, Danger Sense quiet, fire banked but ready. The school smelled of old books and teenage chaos. Home, for now.
As they walked, Hope glanced sideways. "Those dreams about fire… if they get worse, tell me. Some things don't stay dormant forever."
James smiled faintly—Landon's crooked, boyish smile that felt foreign on his face. "I will."
Inside, he catalogued everything: exits, faces, power signatures humming in the air. He was in. Deep cover achieved. No more rogue firestarter on the run. Now he was Landon Kirby—grieving foster kid, potential supernatural, inside the heart of the story.
Tomorrow, the bus memorial would happen without him. Malivore's first monster would stir. And he'd be right here, watching it unfold from the safest seat in the house.
Hope pushed open a dorm door—simple twin bed, desk, window overlooking the woods.
"Home sweet temporary home."
He dropped his small bag of Landon's clothes on the bed. "Thanks, Hope."
She paused at the threshold, something unreadable in her eyes. "Welcome to the madhouse, Landon Kirby."
The door clicked shut behind her. James exhaled, long and slow.