The neon hum of the "L’Echo des Ondes" sign flickered, casting a sickly yellow glow over the cracked pavement of the French Quarter. Inside the loft, the air was thick with the scent of old parchment and dried blood—a smell Klaus Mikaelson had come to associate with the inevitable betrayal of family.
He downed the rest of his drink and grabbed his coat. The screen flickered one last time, the progress bar hitting 100%, but the Mikaelsons were already gone, out into the New Orleans night to ensure the ending of this particular story was written in blood, not pixels.
Klaus smirked, though there was no humor in it. "The modern world is a nuisance, Elijah. I miss the days when a simple messenger could be decapitated for being too slow. Now, I’m forced to wait for 'buffering' while our brother Kol plays at being a warlock and our mother prepares an altar for our souls."
"Technical difficulties, brother?" Elijah’s voice drifted from the shadows, smooth as silk and twice as dangerous. He adjusted his cufflinks, the picture of composure despite the fact that their mother was currently systematically dismantling their lives.
"It’s titled 'The Brothers That Care Forgot,'" Elijah noted, looking at the metadata. "A bit on the nose, don't you think?"
