Stabbing pain woke Hope.

It wasn't a headache behind the eyes or even a retching stomach. Something sharp pierced her ribs. Over and over and over.

Hope's eyes fluttered open groggily, her lashes stuck together with each flutter. As if she'd been asleep for a decade in the sand. She moved to wipe her eyes, to remove the gunk that made her vision blurry, but found she couldn't move. She could wiggle her fingers and toes, but not her limbs. It was as if they'd been buried in cement.

She looked down at herself when her vision cleared after a few more controlled blinks. Metal links strapped over her ankles held her legs down against a metal slab. Like a shining table, you'd find in a morgue. Her wrists weren't much better, pinned above her head by the same metal links at her feet. Without focusing her sight, she knew she wore nothing but her bra and panties.

Hope felt terribly, horribly exposed.

The stabbing pain came again, combined with what sounded like a quick pumping machine. An electric razor? No, a tattoo gun.

She turned her head to the right and watched as a man she didn't know needled black ink into the tender flesh of her rib cage. It was a symbol of some sort, but she couldn't make it out as she became more aware of the pain she was in.

Hope sucked in a sharp breath and wriggled against the table.

The tattoo gun stopped, and the man looked up. With snowy hair, wrinkled skin, and yellowed teeth, he grinned a sneer at her.

"Does it hurt?" he asked, "I'm sorry." He turned the gun on again and gazed at her as Hope felt either fire or venom filling her veins. "When you move, it will take longer and hurt more," he continued, "I'll make sure it does."

"Fredrick," Dorian's voice barked, "Get it done."

Hope turned to face the voice from the corner of the room she was settled in. It was a small room with grayed concrete walls and floors. A surgical light above and a sleek silver table off to the side. It held various items. Some sharp, some dull.

Many slicked with blood.

Her blood.

Hope could only assume she'd been tinkered with for a while now. She was glad she couldn't feel the pain that had probably originated with those tools. She then realized the table beneath her wasn't cold to the touch because she'd been there for quite some time and was covered in warm crimson.

"I am so going to enjoy ripping your throat out...." Hope said, her voice reminding her of crunching gravel.

Dorian smirked from his position in the corner of the room, watching the man work with the tattoo gun - Hope refused to acknowledge the man had a name. He'd be dead soon anyway.

"So feisty," Dorian chuckled lightly, arms remaining crossed over his torso as he watched her, "It's one of the reasons you're going to do so well here, sweetheart. We need some of that spunk."

She scowled at him, grinding her teeth together.

Dorian grinned now. "Oh, I love the tension. Keep it going. The crowd is going to eat it up."

Hope said nothing as she watched him walk around the room, around her table. Instead, she did her best to ignore the stabbing pain of the tattoo gun by keeping her eyes set on the man she'd be killing soon.

He continued to walk, flipping through a chart of paperwork. Then, having the man sign something at the bottom before continuing his little walk around.

"You know, Hope..." he began, his eyes meeting hers as he dragged his fingers from the sole of her left foot, up and over her toes, and continuing on up her leg.

Hope kept her gaze steady even while her body tingled and her heart pounded. Every instinct she had screamed; she needed to get away from this man, away from this touch.

Another part was intensely aroused.

The fingers continued up her thigh and torso, stopped as he reached her cleavage, hovering just above her heart.

"I could kill you right now," he murmured, eyes dark with murderous purpose, "I could do anything..." he glided a finger along her collar bone, still staring into her eyes.

Hope didn't blink.

"I have the great Klaus Mikaelson's daughter here in the flesh," he placed a hand under her jaw, grip becoming firm as he stroked a thumb along with the apple of her cheek.

Sweat dewed Hope's hairline, trying to stop herself from trembling as the world around her blurred. Bile rose at the back of her throat. She visibly shuddered, earning a smirk from Dorian. Hope set her glare to stone again, realizing it had dropped away moments ago.

"I could hurt you in every way I know possible," he sighed softly, such a relaxed sigh, "But if I did that, then I would have to find someone to replace you, and my dear, you are..." he lowered his head to whisper softly in her ear, "irreplaceable...."

Hope spit in his face.

Dorian staggered back just a little, his smug expression replaced with stone-cold fury.

"I'm going to rip your dick off and shove it so far up your ass, you'll choke yourself out," Hope snarled.

"Hm..." was all Dorian managed as he glowered at her. "I'll be back for you in a little while, princess." He glanced over at the man and nodded to him. "Finish her up," he snapped before departing.

"With pleasure," he smirked, digging deeper into her ribs with the needle. Hope pinched her eyes closed and wired her own jaw shut.

They wouldn't be getting the pleasure from her pain.

Hope was confident the deranged doc made the process take longer than necessary, and now she was permanently scarred physically and mentally. The symbol he'd constructed had been difficult to accept. It was an image of a mutilated crow, its neck twisted at an unnatural angle. A black ring encompassed it. It was like a stamp of death.

Morbid. Hope thought to herself as she followed another person (this time a woman) down a long narrow passageway lined with brick and mortar and only widely spaced buzzing industrial lights above that looked more like bug zappers than a caged ceiling fixture.

It was hot. Far more hot and humid than the weather Hope had been previously experiencing in Beacon Hills. How far away was she from home? From Derek? Had he started searching for her?

Was he already dead?

The questions continued to thrum against her mind like hail, making her sway on her feet a little. The world had been spinning since she'd put on the black jumper in the grey room given to her by the expressionless brunette she followed now. She could tell she was human, compelled by Dorian, no doubt, to carry out the meaningless tasks of leading prisoners to and from cell holds.

That's all Hope could assume this was. A prison.

She now regretted comparing her home in New Orleans to prison because this was much worse. This dark tunnel system was likely somewhere underground near sewer wastes because she could smell the foul seeping through the walls. Saliva continued to fill Hope's mouth as she felt the urge to vomit, but each time she swallowed it back and tried to focus on anything but the smell and the migraine beginning to form behind her eyes.

After two more grueling tunnels later, they entered a room.

No, a cavern. It spanned at least five hundred feet in all directions, the outline a squared shape. It was an ample open space where people, supernaturals, wandered about. Maybe fifty people altogether.

Some rested in a corner where cots and ratty blankets lay strewn. Others migrated somewhere in the center, where they appeared to be playing some card game. Taking bets, no doubt. Hope could smell a mixture of hormones in the air.

Vampires, werewolves, and witches. They were all here, wearing the same black jumper as she did. None looked up or even acknowledged her presence. She was just another face among the many. The human who had led her in was gone, having retreated immediately.

Hope didn't blame her.

It was one thing passing through the winding passageways; it was another task entirely to know what she should be doing with her time. She walked around aimlessly at first. Trying to organize the chaos in her head that this room brought out. Looking up, she could see the stone ceiling meshed in darkness. Were they inside of a mountain of some sort?

"New, I take it?" A deep voice startled her from just behind her right shoulder.

Hope swiveled on her heels to face the man with deep-set eyes and graying beard. Though the top of his hair was dark in color, she could tell he was aged quite a bit. A werewolf, she sensed. Maybe in his fifties. He was tall with broad shoulders and a muscled physique.

"Names Dominik," he continued with a crooked grin when Hope said nothing, her gut twisting in response to being addressed so suddenly, "Wolf?" He asked, leaning in to get a whiff. His expression shifted from amused to puzzled as he slowly pulled back. "Or not?" He tilted his head to the side, eyeing her with curious brown eyes.

Hope had the notion that now was not the time to admit she was the tribrid, direct heir to the original hybrid. Youngest in the original family.

She swallowed hard and glanced around, realizing at least ten others were standing not far behind Dominik with folded arms, wearing what seemed permanent scowls.

"Don't worry about them," Dominik chuckled, "They're all bark, no bite. Come on, darlin, I'll give you a tour."

Hope nodded, pursing her lips. "I'm not supposed to talk to strangers" her tone was a little more acidic than she'd intended.

Dominik didn't seem to take offense. Instead, he just grinned and chuckled, creases forming around his eyes. "A good motto to live by...other places, but here...it's best to make friends where you can. You can call me Dom, by the way."

With a nod and a foot falling forward, she walked with him around the place, letting him lead her along the outer edge. She scanned her surroundings while keeping him in her line of sight. There were no hidden walls around the perimeter, not even a crack in the rock wall.

"What is this place," Hope mumbled, primarily to herself, but Dominik answered anyway.

"Hell, sweetheart, and it only gets better. Wait till dinner gets out here. You like slop, right?"

Hope glanced over at him with a furrowed brow and, before she could stop herself asked, "Is it a joke to you? Being trapped here? Forced to fight like a wild animal?"

Dominik shrugged, pausing in his steps, and turned to face her. "Honestly? If you don't laugh around here, you'll end up crying. Insanity isn't exactly a rare occurrence around here. Some have been here for so long they even enjoy the show..." he watched her, seemingly careful of his following words, "So you know about the fights?"

"The man, Dorian, told me," she nodded, "Like some kind of cage fight for supernaturals?"

Dom nodded, leaning against the wall; it left a dusting of red against his jumper. "Pretty much. Only without the staged stunts. People get hurt around here. People die."

She glanced around the space again, "He said the fights were always to the death. Why are there so many here?" She looked at him, arms crossed over her torso, "How have people been here for so long if they don't leave the ring alive?"

Chuckling deeply, he shook his head. "The crowd believes what Dorian wants them to believe. They switch out and move locations so often that no one remembers who wins and who dies. Everyone, the people who aren't killed at least, end up back into the mixing pot."

"Hm, nice to know he recycles," she muttered, surprised to hear him chuckle.

"So," he started, tilting his head, "What's your story?" He narrowed his eyes. "If you've spoken to Dorian, the head honcho of this operation...what makes you so special?"

Hope met his searching eyes. Her palms began sweating, but instead of outing herself, she swallowed back her uncertainty and nodded, "My...sparkling personality."

He grinned again. It was beginning to grow on her.

"Well, whenever you decide you're ready for some more company, you're welcome in our corner," he said, nodding in the direction they'd just walked away from. Where the scowling werewolves still stood.

Dom pointed to the opposite corner. "Bathrooms are that way. I'd stay away from the left side as much as possible..." he gestured a bit further to the left. "Meals are served over there. Tastes like dirt, but it's the only food you get, and you'll want to choose your strength over taste." He clicked his tongue as he thought for a moment, "Oh, and my recommendation...don't try for one of the cots. Newbies lose a finger or two trying for things they haven't earned yet."

"Thanks..." Hope nodded slowly, glancing over at him, but he'd already started retreating to his little corner with the other eight wolves. She could hear him reassuring them of something, but she couldn't make out the details.

Hope took it in. Scanning the whole place at least a hundred times, eyes pacing. She found nothing of need from her searching. Nothing she could really use to her advantage. However, she'd escape from here. It would take more than a few hours of mental preparation, but she would. She needed a plan, and she needed it fast. Who knew how long she had until she'd be called into the ring.

Until then, she had to play it smart.

Outwit your opponent until their own purpose confuses them, Elijah's words strung through her head. She never thought she would miss the times of his little lectures sitting in the compound, trying to hide she was texting, only for him to snatch the phone from her and toss it to the chair across the room.

"I wish you could tell me what to do..." she murmured softly. Her family, the bubble they'd put her in, had protected her from the darkness in the world. Now she was an open wound, becoming more infected with each minute. Being consumed by irrational fear and the undeniable reality that she had bitten off more than she could chew.

Hope would find a way out, but for now, she had to take Dom's advice. Making friends. She glanced toward the little pack that had settled into their corner. Hope took a deep breath, let it go slowly, and began walking toward them.

Yes, make friends with the strange new pack who had glared at her like she was a new item on the newbie menu.

What could possibly go wrong?