Author's Note: Sometimes even Kol can get sentimental, especially when it involves his favorite pastime – murder.

Set somewhere Kol is awoken and alive, possibly an unrealized future.

Sentiment

Kol stands facing the wall-high windows of a midtown apartment, looking down at the glittering city.

He loves the night. Now more than ever.

Waking up to this new century with bustling metropolises and fast cars has been exhilarating. And these nights, lit up by a billion little light bulbs, glowing in yellow, red and neon, they are simply love at first sight.

It's not only the world that has changed, but also its inhabitants.

This fresh brand of girls – the ones who wear skimpy clothes and go out late at night, who like to visit smoky locales, get wasted and dance like there's no tomorrow, who are searching for excitement, an adventure, not love but lust – well, they are love at first bite.

He prowls the dark streets, sipping from a bottle he holds by the neck and just breathing it all in. He sits, lights a cigarette and watches the unsuspecting passers.

He knows it's sick, the kind of material they use in modern horror movies. He is the psychotic creep, the boogeyman, and the thought just amuses him. It makes him feel even more powerful. He is what they are afraid of (even if they are so blissfully ignorant) and fear is power.

How to pick when the selection is so rich? he muses. He feels spoiled, grinning to himself like a highly content fat cat.

Finally, he gets off his ass and follows a girl. She's everything a "gentleman" could ask for – she wears a skirt so short that it seems misleading to call it one, fishnets, high heeled boots, a bright top and a fake leather jacket that looks too small for her – a sight that makes his grin broaden.

He praises his observing skills when she does, as he predicted, enter a nightclub two blocks away. It's an ugly, filthy place, but only when you look close enough. For the unheeding youth the flashing lights hide what lurks in the darkness and only show what is meant for them to see – the colorful cocktails and rows of shots poured out, the semi-famous DJ and hordes of hands held up in drunken approval (and if others like it, it must be good, right?).

This place makes him think more highly of himself, less of a monster, or should he say it makes him see that humans can be just as bad, just as predatory as his kind?

The space around the bar counter is crowded but he pushes through with ease, orders a double scotch (those colorful drinks make him want to barf) and takes seat in one of the many shadowy corners.

Again he watches. They are a patient species in many ways. But their patience is not a virtue; it's a prelude to more terrible deeds. Patience is simply needed to make the game more interesting.

He watches the way she dances, free and wild, the way she rotates a glass in her hand absent-mindedly before she takes a sip, the way she speaks to her friends, shouting over the music, laughing, throwing an arm around each other's shoulders.

It's not in the I-want-to-get-to-know-you sense, it's in a twisted sense in which a killer studies his subject. 'Professional interest', he calls it and smirks knowingly.

The time is long past midnight and her legs are weak from dancing and booze when he decides to introduce himself.

It's so very simple, really, that it's nearly ridiculous. He appears next to her when she's at the bar to get another drink. He gives her a look, all bright smile and warm eyes (or so it would seem). She feels the gaze even as she's yelling her drink order over the rackety club scene. Humans have their instincts, too.

She's so like her predecessors. Returning his smile, she lets him pay for her drink. She never sees anything dubious about him, she never suspects anything sinister. Oh, how trusting this fresh brand of girls is.

An hour later he leads her into a deserted alleyway in a half-hearted attempt to test her sanity for the last time. She follows him without question, hanging onto his arm, chattering and giggling. He's not entirely sure she's even paying attention as to where they're going.

Before he has time to make a move (and that's rare considering what he is), she wraps her arms around his neck and sticks her tongue down his throat. Ah, he thinks, so it's true – romance is dead. He doesn't care if it is. He's never been a big fan of heartfelt confessions and sickly-sweet declarations of love.

Her kisses are sloppy and her mouth tastes of vodka. He doesn't mind, he gets bored easily one way or another. Of course, he could take her home and make the fun last a little longer; she would come willingly, after all, but even he has standards, contrary to popular opinion. So instead he trails down her chin to her neck and when he sinks his teeth into the soft skin, feels the warm touch of blood on his lips, there's not a hint of regret in his mind.

First, there's the gasp of surprise, then comes the scream, already lost into the row of the city.

He could let her live. Compel her; make her forget all about him. He doesn't. It's only a fleeting thought in his head, a passing ship he waves good-bye to as it disappears into the distance.

He lets go and she drops onto the dirty asphalt like a ragdoll, bloodless, lifeless, a waste.

Staring at her, he waits for the rush of gratification but it never comes. It's what? The twentieth, fiftieth, hundredth body he's drained dry in this new century? It used to be so much fun but now… now he just feels empty.

It's too fucking easy, he realizes with complete shock.

There's no thrill in the chase, because, well, there's no chase. The girls walk off with you, alone, without a blink, they smell of liqueur and cigarettes and not of nice things, they're ready to jump into bed with you after an hour of acquaintance, no ruined reputations or angry fathers, no stolen kisses, no whispered promises (he's not a romantic, honestly!) and strangely he feels cheated.

And that is what comes as a shock, because isn't that the perfect scenario made so unbelievably convenient? Yet, he discovers that without the work, without any effort, it's just plain dull.

He wipes his mouth with the back of his sleeve. Not very proper, but he has his excuses. If he wasn't drunk enough before (and he was), then now, after a round of her ethanol-laced blood, he feels pleasantly giddy.

Still, he must admit that a sufficient level of drunkenness is his only achievement for the night.

Next time he'll aspire to do better.

He travels back to the only place he knows they hold the kind of event he's in search for (courtesy of his dearest sister and her gossipy ways).

Mystic Falls is still very much the small, sleepy town he left behind and at once he recalls the many reasons he couldn't wait to get out of there.

Today, though, its atmosphere is vibrant and residents busy. It's Founders Day and as soon as he gets a glimpse of Civil War era uniforms and long, frilly dresses, he feels right at home.

He lounges under a tree near town center, where most of the festivities take place, with a bottle of brandy and observes the parade.

As per usual, he picks out his meal beforehand. He decides in favor of the girl with the prettiest, most authentic dress. It's a theme night, so why not go all out?

And he does. He puts on the polite façade, perfected over the centuries, that he used to employ when his victims did not submit quite as happily, when the painful process of wooing was still the standard.

That evening, after dancing and what seems like hours of inane chit-chat, he directs her outside the Lockwood Mansion. The air is crisp and cool, the sky a dark navy color. She stops in the middle of the dewy lawn and he finds himself jerking to a halt as well.

"What's the matter, darling?" he asks her.

"Um, you do know this town is infamous for animal attacks?" she says, staring into the darkness. "Maybe we should go back inside…"

He feels the grip on his arm tightening.

"Don't you want some alone-time with me?" he pouts, his voice both teasing and innocent at the same time, but the wink he sends her way is positively mischievous.

She looks at him appraisingly, doubtfully. "You seem like a nice guy," she starts (so there goes the notion of her being a smart girl). He can already sense a 'but'. He knows this type of girls too well. Usually he avoids them (they scream 'boring!'). "But we only just met and I think we really shouldn't wander around outside this late."

He smirks inwardly. It's not perfect but it's as close as he can probably get. Considering his last encounters, it's as if he wrote the script himself.

"Just the gazebo, then," he coaxes, putting on his best smile. "It's not far and I'd like to see the view from there."

A brief, shy smile flits across her face and she agrees.

They walk along the path and up the small hill to the gazebo. As they admire the view, he carefully takes hold of her hand, knits their fingers together and turns to her, leaning ever closer. She simply stares at him, bewitched for a moment, but when his face is but an inch from hers, she draws away.

"You know, I-" she tries to diffuse the tension, only to be interrupted by him as he places his lips on hers. He kisses her, tenderly (he can be tender when he wants to), and she gives in.

It does feel rather like old times, he ponders – she in a beautiful dress, her hair set fastidiously, surrounded by the sweet smell of perfume, and he in black tie, gentleman at least on the surface.

He breaks the kiss to look into her eyes. "You won't scream," he compels her. After all, there's no background noise tonight, just the lonely chirps of crickets, which is not nearly enough to conceal a bloodcurdling scream (he's kind of an expert in such matters).

Then he bites her, taking his time to revel in the rich taste of fresh blood, the one taste that never gets old. A red trickle makes its way down her neck, marring the dress, and slowly her body goes slack in his arms, knees buckling.

He lifts up his head, but doesn't let go of her. She appears drowsy and confused, frail and vulnerable, a damsel in distress.

Although he knows she's not a lady, not in the old-fashioned sense, that he hasn't been transported back to the early 20th century, yet he feels… He gazes at her half-lidded eyes and that lovely mouth, barely ajar, frowning. Goodness gracious, he feels sentimental! A disease his brother, no doubt, has imposed on him after keeping him in a box for a century.

For a short while, he stands frozen, astounded by his revelation, then he collects himself and flashes a courteous smile, she cannot register in the slightest. "Sweetheart," he whispers, "forget you ever met me."

He lowers her weak form to the bench and walks off decidedly.

He feels good and he feels sad and it doesn't make any sense; he feels the sort of nostalgia that squeezes your heart so that it hurts, because he knows he'll never be in New Orleans again, with his family, it will never be 1912 again and they'll never be as happy as they were back then.

Not glancing back, he throws his hand in the air in acknowledgment. "Thanks for the dinner, but I think I'm better off on fast food!" he shouts and gives a bout of laughter.

Kol doesn't want to feel the numb, aimless pain he feels right then. Not now, not ever. He hates sentiment, and yet a part of him loves it. It has this warm, fuzzy effect on people, but alcohol does just the same without the emotional baggage in tow.

"I'm heading for the Grill, in case you were wondering!" he adds. "I'm in a mood for a drink."