Veyron stared at his reflection in the cracked mirror. The man he once was had vanished. His body had transformed into something extraordinary—and terrifying. His height now rivaled that of the tallest men, his fiery red hair fell in waves over his shoulders, and his crimson eyes glowed faintly in the dim light. His sharp teeth glinted whenever he spoke, a reminder of the vampiric essence coursing through his veins.
He couldn't live like this—not as Veyron. People would notice; they would ask questions. Gotham wasn't kind to those who stood out. He needed a way out, a way to disappear while keeping everything he had built intact.
Veyron reached for the rotary phone on his desk, dialing a number burned into his memories. Fredrick answered after two rings.
"Freddy," Veyron rasped, deliberately making his voice weak and uneven. "It's bad news."
"Veyron? What's wrong?" Fredrick's voice was sharp with concern.
"Blood cancer," Veyron said, coughing for effect. "Doctors say I've got a week—maybe less."
There was silence on the other end before Fredrick finally spoke. "You? Cancer? You're tougher than that."
"Not this time," Veyron murmured. "Listen to me carefully. My son… Rowan… he's coming back from overseas. He'll inherit everything—the bookstore, the properties, everything I've built."
Fredrick hesitated. "Son? You've never mentioned having a kid."
"I kept him off the records for his safety," Veyron replied smoothly. "He's ambitious, Freddy. He'll dominate Gotham if you help him."
Fredrick sighed deeply but didn't argue further. "What do you need me to do?"
"Handle the legal transfers," Veyron said firmly. "Make him my heir in every way that matters."
Fredrick agreed reluctantly before hanging up. Veyron leaned back in his chair, a faint smile playing on his lips as he stared at his reflection again.
Within weeks, Fredrick had done exactly as instructed. The Gotham Gazette carried the headline:
"Beloved Bookseller Veyron Dies; Estranged Son Rowan Takes Over Family Legacy."
The legal documents were flawless—birth certificates, school records from Switzerland, even fabricated letters from a fictional mother who had died years ago.
Fredrick worked tirelessly behind the scenes to ensure everything fell into place without suspicion. To everyone else, Veyron was gone—a tragic victim of illness—but Rowan was here to carry on his legacy.
When Fredrick finally met Rowan in person at the bookstore late one evening, he almost dropped his briefcase at the sight of him. The man standing before him was nothing short of regal—seven feet tall with fiery red hair cascading over broad shoulders and crimson eyes that seemed to pierce through the soul. His tailored suit clung to a frame that exuded strength and authority.
"Mr. Fredrick," Rowan said smoothly, extending a hand that felt both familiar and foreign to Fredrick. "My father spoke highly of you."
Fredrick swallowed hard before shaking Rowan's hand, his mind racing as he tried to reconcile this towering figure with the man he had called his closest friend for three decades.
"You look… nothing like him," Fredrick managed to say.
Rowan smiled faintly, revealing sharp teeth that gleamed under the dim light of the bookstore's chandelier. "I take after my mother," he said simply.
Fredrick nodded slowly but couldn't shake the feeling that something was off—something he couldn't quite put into words.
As days passed, Rowan settled into his new role seamlessly. The bookstore reopened under his name, its shelves filled with rare tomes that drew scholars and collectors from across Gotham. The properties Veyron had owned were now under Rowan's control, their tenants whispering about their enigmatic new landlord.
But behind closed doors, Rowan was far from idle. The space ring on his finger pulsed faintly with energy as he explored its contents—a damaged alien ship, advanced weapons humming with dormant power, and desiccated alien corpses that seemed to watch him with hollow eyes.
Rowan stood before the cracked mirror in the vault beneath the bookstore one evening, studying his reflection carefully. The man staring back at him was no longer Veyron—not truly—but something far greater.