Chapter 1: The Merchant of Gotham
Gotham City – Old Town
A month ago, a peculiar shop appeared in the depths of Gotham's old district, nestled between abandoned buildings and forgotten alleys. No one knew where it came from or who owned it. But in a city drowning in crime, corruption, and chaos, no one cared to ask.
Tonight, Gotham was drowning in a storm. The streets were slick with rain, and the dim glow of streetlights flickered like dying embers. A black luxury car rolled to a stop in front of the shop, its headlights cutting through the gloom. The car's door opened with a soft click, and an elderly man in his sixties stepped out, his polished cane tapping against the wet pavement. Behind him, a burly bodyguard followed, his sharp gaze scanning their surroundings with suspicion.
They entered the shop.
Inside, it resembled a pawn shop—dusty shelves lined with trinkets, oddities, and forgotten relics. But the true focal point was the front desk. Rows of seats faced a counter, where a solitary brass bell rested. The old man's cane tapped against the floor as he walked forward, unfazed by the eerie silence. He reached the counter and rang the bell.
From the shadows behind the desk, a figure emerged. He was dressed in a perfectly tailored black suit, a fedora resting atop his head. A white masquerade mask covered his face entirely, concealing his identity. When he spoke, his voice was distorted, unnatural.
"Welcome, customers. Welcome to my shop. What do you desire?"
At the sound of his voice, the bodyguard tensed. His instincts screamed danger. But the old man remained composed, showing he was no stranger to this place.
"I desire many things," the old man admitted, his voice tinged with greed. "But tonight, I have come for one thing—immortality. I wish to shed this weak, mortal shell and transcend into something greater. Can you grant me my wish, O Great Merchant?"
The masked man studied him in silence. Though his expression was hidden, the air in the room grew heavier. Then, behind the hollow sockets of his mask, his eyes glowed—a deep, ominous red.
"I can," he said, "but the cost is greater than you can imagine. Are you prepared to pay the price?"
The old man's lips curled into a thin smile. "What is the price?"
"One hundred million dollars."
Without hesitation, the old man signaled his bodyguard. The man stepped forward, placing two heavy suitcases on the counter. With a click, he unlatched them, revealing stacks of neatly arranged cash.
The Merchant extended his hand. As his fingers brushed the money, it dissolved into shimmering blue particles, vanishing into his body. The masked man inhaled deeply before exhaling in satisfaction. Then, from the folds of his coat, he produced a glass jar.
Inside, a dark red liquid swirled, thick and foreboding.
"This is the potion that will grant your wish," the Merchant explained. "Not only will it bestow immortality, but you will gain superhuman strength, speed, regeneration, flight, enhanced durability, and even mild mind control. Your body will revert to its prime—youth restored, ailments erased."
The old man's eyes gleamed with anticipation. "And the drawbacks?"
"You will no longer eat or drink like a human. Your sustenance will come from blood—any kind will suffice. Your senses will be dulled in daylight, though sunglasses will mitigate this weakness. The sun won't kill you, nor will garlic or holy relics. However…" The Merchant paused. "Your head must remain attached to your shoulders. Sever it, and your immortality ends."
The old man chuckled. "So, I become a vampire?"
"Something like that," the Merchant replied. "A small price to pay, wouldn't you agree?"
Without hesitation, the old man took the jar, uncorked it, and drank.
At first, nothing happened. Then, his body convulsed violently. He dropped his cane as he collapsed, writhing in agony. His skin stretched and reshaped, muscles bulging, bones cracking and realigning. His wrinkled face smoothed, his brittle hair darkened to a deep black, and his hunched frame straightened.
He was young again. Stronger. Faster.
The bodyguard took a step forward, alarmed. His hand moved to his holster. But before he could draw his weapon, the Merchant's glowing red eyes locked onto him. A crushing force pressed down on the bodyguard, and his knees buckled as an invisible weight forced him to kneel. He gasped, unable to resist.
The old man—no, the newly reborn creature—lifted his hands, marveling at his renewed form. Then his gaze fell upon his kneeling bodyguard.
A wicked hunger ignited in his eyes.
In a blur of motion, he lunged.
The bodyguard barely had time to react before fangs sank into his throat. His muffled scream was drowned by the storm outside as blood drained from his body, turning his once-strong frame into a lifeless husk.
The newly born immortal wiped his lips, crimson staining his fingers. He turned to the silent Merchant.
"Couldn't leave witnesses," he said simply.
Then, with a burst of speed, he vanished from the shop, a shadow in the storm.
The Merchant remained still, unfazed. He turned to the corpse and snapped his fingers. Purple flames consumed the body, reducing it to nothingness.
Then, without a word, he stepped back into the shadows, waiting for the next customer.
For in Gotham, desires were endless.
And the Merchant was always willing to deal.
To be continued....