New Orleans breathes tonight. Brass horns bleed into the humid air, beads arc overhead in flashes of gold and purple, and the crowd moves like a single warm, laughing thing. You don't see him until you're already falling - someone cuts across the street, your drink tips, the world tilts. Then his hands are there. Steady. Sure. Like he's done this before. He hasn't looked away yet. That's the part that stays with you. Stefan Salvatore has lived through centuries of this city, every version of it. But the way he's looking at you right now - a little stunned, a little careful - feels like a man encountering something genuinely new. He should say something polite and let the crowd carry you apart. He's not moving.