It's been quite some time, no? My apologies for the ludicrous amount of time between the last update and this one. As it was, I was undergoing some adjustments in my life (for the better) and found it exceedingly difficult to pump this chapter out. As you shall soon discover, it's quite a lengthy one. I cannot promise that I will be more timely in updating—only for the reason that I do not wish to make a promise that I will more than likely default on. That being said, I have no intentions of abandoning this story.

Wall of text aside, I hope you enjoy.

Disclaimer: I do not own the Teen Titans or other affiliated materials.

Dracul was no stranger to the shabby and the squalid. By virtue of his lowly background, he was able to welcome the company of destitution with all the tender warmness of an old family friend—albeit a resented one. In juxtaposition to this, concepts such as luxury and abundance were foreign to him—overwhelmingly so. It took a lengthy transition period spanning several years, consisting of the steady consumption of the printed word regarding every topic imaginable, for him to complete his metamorphosis from half-sentient brute to courtly man.

Not that Dracul admitted such things to anyone. Indeed, during his tenure with the H.I.V.E. Academy he had cultivated for himself the persona of the gentleman giant. Of course, his true nature would resurface on occasion, often in the form of a choleric outburst, earning him an infamous reputation amongst students and fellow faculty members. Other times, it would manifest as a crude comprehension of etiquette, best showcased at the staff luncheons the Headmistress insisted everyone attend— "for morale's sake", she asserted. Upon arriving, he'd find himself flabbergasted at the vast arrangement of cutlery set before him. In such instances, he cited his mask as the basis for his fasting.

As it was, Dracul felt quite at home, sitting silently in darkness, at that dilapidated hovel he had claimed as a safe house—one of many stationed throughout Keystone City. Yet, for all the solidarity he maintained with his impoverished surroundings, he found himself quivering with anxiety. It was not due to the way the battered furniture creaked in protest against his large frame. Nor did it result from manner in which the plaster peeled in places, revealing a growth of mildew underneath. Nor even did it stem from the pervading musk of whiskey and bodily secretions. No, his distress was the product of something else entirely.

Oh, how the apprehension hounded him! With a trembling hand he removed his wide-brimmed hat, plopping it to the side, the blackened leather producing a dull thud against the tiled floor. Next to go was his mask. Seizing at the blanched porcelain, he wrenched it free, the coarse fabric holding it in place coming untucked and scraping along his neck and face. It too was set aside as Dracul ran a gloved hand against his stinging cheeks. He retrieved a cigarette from his coat pocket, clenching it between his teeth. Upon lighting it, he imagined all his inhibitions melting away, replaced by a flood of mellow vapors.

"Forgive me, dear friend. You have been exceedingly courteous in inviting me into your home. I understand that this habit of mine is not to your liking."

He dangled the cigarette between his fingers, inspecting it with a hardened scrutiny. The illusion of warmth receded, the only semblance of heat remaining firmly fixed within the faint glow at his fidgeting fingertips. In its stead flowed foreboding, weighing down heavily upon him, smothering what meagre buoyancy he had managed to muster.

"Frankly, it is not much to my palate either."

This was indeed true. Smoking, for him, was a farce. Any tranquility derived from the activity was purely psychological: his senses would conform to the delusion of the vapors calming his nerves. In actuality, the fumes had little effect on him. His body was physiologically incapable of processing them. This was the case for most substances—be they mild stimulants such as caffeine or toxic poisons such as cyanide.

"Even so, I find myself unable to relinquish it, for the sole reason that it was denied to me in my youth."

He allowed himself another whiff from the cigarette, this time hollow of all feeling, as the vapors wandered aimlessly through his airways.

"It is a silly sentiment, I know," he chuckled, "But sometimes, one cannot help but grow attached to the most frivolous of things."

His voice trailed as he thought of her face, so serene, resting against his bicep, tufts of pink hair overhanging drowsy eyes. The poor thing, in her lethargic state, swatted away at the rogue bangs, to no avail. He smiled behind his mask, caressing a naked hand along her forehead, dragging the unruly hair back. How soft her pale skin felt against his calloused hands. How small she appeared within his rocking arms. How delicate she seemed!

Little fingers wrapped around his pinkie, tugging at it insistently. As he shook his head in query, she summoned a faint yawn—that was enough for him to understand. He reached for the shelf above them, pulling down the toy unicorn he had stitched for her. Admittedly, he was poor with needle and thread: the beady-eyed monstrosity, patched together from the recycled pieces of other stuffed animals, was more akin to the chimera of ancient Greek mythology. She cooed gently as he delivered it into expectant arms. He watched in awe as the tot's consciousness left her, traveling wherever infantile minds do in times of respite.

He extended his arm again to stroke her rosy cheeks. Before he got the chance, her visage faded, leaving only a twitching hand, a cigarette wedged between his fingers. He clutched at his wrist, in some feeble attempt to hold it steady. It was a misguided sentiment, for the instant he undertook the swift motion the cigarette slipped from his gloved fingers, tumbling to the floor—a rather apt metaphor for Dracul's existence. He observed the fallen empty comfort for some time, ruminating on this thought, before speaking again.

"So long as it does not interfere in your work, what could be the harm?"

He immediately set to cackling. What a notion! Had that been the case, he'd not have spent his night quivering in anxiety for Keystone City. Him being tormented by the fate of some hamlet in the dirt! A fate he had very much a hand in orchestrating, at that. Bah! How far he'd fallen. His laughter fell to a hush, silence draping over the hovel in an almost asphyxiating manner. He reclined his head backwards, staring disinterestedly at the ceiling, droplets of moisture visible upon the cracks.

"I never did tell you what I do for a living, did I? I used to be a schoolteacher, if you could believe it."

Following a short-lived career with the Brotherhood of Evil, Dracul found himself freelancing, just as he had before. Why he decided to abandon the Brotherhood was never readily apparent to him. Perhaps it lay within the haughty manner in which his colleagues conducted themselves—something he had a natural tendency to detest. Or perhaps there was a lack of appeal in ascending a megalomaniac such as the Brain to the mantle of universal dictator. Whatever his reason, the Brotherhood was not so keen on his departure. Opportunistic cutthroats began to descend upon the mainland like a plague of locusts—all of them bent on collecting his head—forcing him to take refuge on the island of Corsica, off the coast of Italy.

"Indeed, it was a strange turn of events. One day I'm running odd jobs and the next sees me approached by one of the most impeccably-dressed ruffians to ever walk the earth, who briefly informs me that his employer desires to make my acquaintance."

This employer, Dracul had recognized her name—he recalled reading of her involvement in a corporate scandal some two years ago. She was the only child of one of the foremost real estate tycoons in the States. Her father, however, was hesitant to entrust his empire within the hands of a woman, and so wedded her off to one of his advisors. When he finally passed, he designated all his holdings to his new son-in-law. Within two weeks the girl was widowed. The outraged media speculation was expressed all the louder when, upon her assumption of the position of Central Executive Officer, she abruptly sold the company, disappearing from public view.

Now she had cropped up once more, in Corsica of all places, requesting Dracul's presence at her seaside villa. He wasn't sure what to make of the woman. If his suspicions were correct, she was cooperating with the Brotherhood to secure his capture. If not, she was an independent player with a powerful spy network at her disposal, and was just as liable to turn him over. In either scenario, his position was compromised. He pondered his next course of action… flee knowing he would inevitably be tracked down again… or meet with this woman.

"Intuition, stupidity—call it what you will. I chose to humor this 'employer'."

Upon arriving, he was greeted by a freckled figure, dressed to the nines, her auburn hair pulled back in a bun and thick rimmed glasses veiling her steely eyes. Suffice to say, he was shocked: this woman hardly looked the part of an underworld contractor, nor that of an information broker—she was too clean. That said, there was an unmistakable air of shrewdness about her. She visually dissected him with those piercing eyes, her rigid conviction being betrayed—for but a brief moment—as she realized that even with her obnoxiously tall heels, she stood only to his chest. She beckoned him to her office, where she demanded he sit for the duration of their meeting. On her desk lay an assortment of clutter: empty mugs, the local newspaper, a picture frame of her father, and… strangely enough… a bee in a jar.

"That's quite a lovely specimen you have there." Dracul offered as he attempted to accustom himself to the compact plush seat.

"Don't you think?"

She took the jar into her hands, shifting it about gingerly in her polished fingernails.

"I absolutely adore the little creatures." she mused, eyes mesmerized by the buzzing insect, her spectacles practically pressed against the glass.

There was a measure of whimsy in her eyes—the kind oft-observed in mothers captivated by a newborn. The thing, for its part, remained ignorant of her peering, hovering about stupidly to investigate the traces of fog imprinted upon the walls from her hushed breath.

"They are amongst nature's most noble," Dracul affirmed, "Bringing joy to all through honey and fresh florets."

"A worthy sentiment, Mr. Dracul, but beyond that they are excellent workers."

She reclined back in her seat, holding the container eye level.

"They are single-minded in their purpose and tirelessly efficient in executing it. They disregard all individual concerns in favor of safeguarding the future of the hive."

She cast a disapproving glance at the frame picturing her father.

"I often times told father that we ought to replace our employees with bees. Far more loyal than anyone on his payroll at the time. And far more expedient."

She snorted as she shook her head.

"But what acumen could I, a mere woman, possess? 'The only business a woman should run is the household.' Ha! I'll show him!" she declared.

She set the jar back upon the cluttered desk, tapping at the lid, much to the striped insect's alarm.

"And my model shall be the hive."

"I suppose that is where I enter." he interjected.

"As sharp as the tales say, Mr. Dracul. You'll make an excellent professor."

He had howled at the prospect at the time.

"Professor?! What makes you think I am fit to teach in a school?"

"Think of it more as a cultivating grounds." she offered as rejoinder, her expression solemn.

He gave an incredulous look. Certainly she could not be serious?

"Cultivation for what exactly?" he demanded in curt tone.

She did not answer, instead opting to rise from her seat and pace about the cramped office, heels clicking against the wooden floor with every step.

"There's no question that the criminal market grows more saturated with each passing day, due in part to the accelerated development of extraordinary individuals such as yourself. Yet the vast majority will be relegated to petty burglary and the like. Few will achieve the caliber of a professional villain such as yourself or, say, a Madame Rouge."

"And so you intend to teach them how."

"Precisely the idea!" she exclaimed as she turned back to the desk, slapping her hands against the polished wood.

"And you actually believe these individuals will be willing to pay you for your countenance?" Dracul asked skeptically.

"Exactly why we shall start at a young age," she retorted, "Children displaying talents deemed viable for professional villainy shall be reared through a rigorous curriculum catered specifically towards that purpose."

"And where do you suppose the return in that is?" he scolded, "They're children."

"Very simple, Mr. Dracul." she enunciated with clear annoyance, "Following successful completion of the program, graduates shall serve a term in which they shall pay back into the institution through mercenary work."

"They're children." he reiterated.

"It's a mutually beneficial settlement, I assure you. The operatives will receive a cut of the profit, as well as the opportunity to network with other potential clients and high-profile villains."

She stared at him, her eyebrows raised in expectation. He leaned forward in his seat, resting his chin against a balled hand. It was an interesting enough concept that she was proposing to him, yet he did not see any place for himself in it. He had never even stepped foot in an educational facility before—what aptitude could he possibly have for teaching?

"It seems to me that you already have most of the pieces in place. Certainly there are many interested in joining such a venture. Why seek me out?"

Her lips pursed, betraying the stone-faced demeanor she had worked so hard to foster. He could almost see the machinations of her mind whirring, as she debated how much she intended to disclose to him. Her nose twitched noticeably and she let out more sighs than one cared to count, rising from her seat to pace once again. She grabbed a ballpoint pen from her desk, gnawing lightly at one end as she contemplated. It crossed Dracul's mind to call attention to this uncouth conduct, but he resigned to silence. After several minutes of this, her shoulders deflated slightly, and she turned back towards him, with a final sigh in tow.

"In truth, Mr. Dracul, I'm new to this field—poorly-established." she managed to coax out, "Faculty candidates observe me with a wary skepticism while prospective clients scoff at the venture."

Her face contorted as if the confession was bitter as baking chocolate.

"But, if I were to have a former member of the illustrious Brotherhood of Evil…" she trailed off, eyes lighting up as she looked to him.

"My time with the Brotherhood was inconsequential."

"Your reputation begs to differ, 'Butcher of Brest'." she responded with a wry smile.

He scowled at the mention of the moniker. Out of all the stupid nicknames he had been given over the years, it was that one he resented most. And out of all the stupid nicknames he had been given over the years, it was that one which stuck. Butcher—what an ugly comparison!

"Color me impressed, Mr. Dracul. Not just anyone could slaughter an entire contingent of—"

"You need not recall the details," Dracul hastily interrupted, "I was there."

She smirked at his obvious discomfort but mercifully did not egg him on.

"Well, Mr. Dracul?" she inquired, lurching back into her chair to indicate that she had finished her saying her piece.

Before he even got a chance to think out a response, she retracted her silence, leaning back forward to add in, "I suppose now would be a good time to mention that I've notified the Brotherhood of our location."

"You're bluffing."

"To the contrary."

She gestured to the window behind her. Dracul rushed to the curtain shades, raising them and transforming the cold slate interior of the room into a warm marigold hue. Surely enough, as he scanned the courtyard, he spotted the figure of a muscled man in SS uniform waiting impatiently outside the villa gates. Dracul cursed under his breath—it was one of Immortus' envoys. He whipped his head back to the woman, eyes aflame behind the porcelain mask.

"You invited them here?!"

She shrugged.

"It was a necessary precaution."

"Are you under delusion, woman?! They'll kill us both!"

She did not appear to be listening.

"Work for me and I'll make sure the Brotherhood never bothers you again."

He craned his head back to the window as he heard the creaking of the gates: they were letting the bastard in. It would only be a matter of time before escape ceased to be a viable option. In his agitated state, he nearly jumped as he turned back to find the woman standing in front of him, hand held out in anticipation.

"Do we have a deal, Mr. Dracul?"

The audacity of this woman! He felt his hands inching towards her, convulsing erratically, at the ready to strangle her. She merely rose a dismissive eyebrow.

"Well?"

"Let us see how glib you are when I wring your neck." Dracul thought, smiling maliciously at the thought.

He froze. He could hear the sounds of footsteps: they were currently walking up the stairs. Damn it all! Cornered like a rat! He could feel himself reverting back to the primitive state he worked so hard to suppress—no longer gentleman giant but rather brutish barbarian. Panic coursed through his nerves like electricity and indiscriminate violence became more and more appealing. The last time he walked this close to the edge, he became the Butcher of Brest.

There was a knock at the door.

"Come in." the woman chimed, eyes still trained on him.

As the gilded knob began to twist, Dracul's thoughts raced furiously. He could just kill them all. Damn the torpedoes and create a big mess as he did in Belarus. Painting that large of a target on his back would make remaining in Corsica nigh impossible, but at the very least he'd get to watch the smug bitch cough up her entrails. Yes, he liked that idea. On the other hand, he could play the long game: go along with what she said; let her think she had him under thumb. As much as his pride couldn't stomach the thought of swelling this woman's ego, an entire school of superpowered individuals would prove an invaluable asset—especially considering that he no longer had the Brotherhood's resources at his back. His agenda would no longer be on hold.

He made up his mind. Just as the door was flying open, his hand shot to hers in a fluid motion, locking in the ill-advised covenant. The woman smiled before turning to the new guest. Immortus' envoy had burst into the room in a grand display, chest puffed up obnoxiously so as to jangle the countless medals hanging from his uniform. He smirked smugly as he flaunted an officer's sword at Dracul.

"Well, well," he spat, "Long way from home, aren't we, Drac?"

"I was just out to buy some milk." Dracul retorted coolly.

"And here we were worried that you decided to desert."

The envoy turned to the woman, sword still pointed at Dracul, his smile gone.

"I was under the impression that I'd be collecting him in chains."

She did not even return his gaze.

"Are you listening? This was not what we agreed."

She remained silent, drawing the man's ire further. It seemed Dracul was not the only one frustrated by her antics. The envoy moved the sword away from Dracul, leveling it at her throat.

"When someone speaks to you, it is common practice to respond." he enunciated through gritted teeth.

She seemed unimpressed by the threatening display, her steely eyes glowering at the envoy without a trace of amusement.

"Look at you, harping about courtesy as you brandish a weapon at your host." she finally said sharply, snapping her fingers.

The envoy gnashed his teeth at her.

"You harlot! You dare speak to a representative of the Brotherhood of Evil in such a manner?! I'll have your head you who—"

He was cut off as his own head was jolted back by a rugged yet immaculately-dressed man—the very same one who had contacted Dracul in the first place—who had just entered the room. The envoy gawked stupidly at the woman, then at Dracul. The henchman looked to the woman, eliciting a stern nod from her. And then in one fluid motion, he pressed the barrel of a handgun against the envoy's chin and pulled the trigger.

So much for not making a mess. Dracul turned back to the woman, who was currently beckoning a young maid into the office, who, all things considered, appeared unfazed by the fact that she was sweeping up fractured bits of skull and scattered chunks of cerebrum. All in a day's work, he supposed.

"What comes next?" he queried.

The woman strolled back to her desk, gingerly picking up the picture frame of her father.

"I have already acquired a functioning facility for our purposes," she explained as she gently caressed the photo, "All we need to do now is populate it."

"And then class will be in session?"

"Indeed, Mr. Dracul," she affirmed, her emotionally devoid face being overtaken by a bloodthirsty smile, "And when the initial wave of graduates make their debut, I shall be their first client."

And with that, she dropped the frame to the ground, hurling shards of glass across the floor.

"Sally, clean that up for me, will you?"

Dracul shook his head at the sudden depravity of the woman and sauntered over to the window overlooking the villa courtyard, half-paranoid that he'd find more Brotherhood representatives. When he failed to do so, he allowed himself a deep breath of relief. Strangely enough, the air smelled unlike the coastal sea spray he had grown accustomed to during his time on Corsica but rather like… smoke.

Dracul found himself pulled back into the present day, staring blankly not at a cloister of hedges and fountains but at a termite-infested wall. He lowered his gaze to his feet. In his negligence, he did not stamp out the cigarette he had dropped earlier. As he extinguished it, he produced an ornate pocket watch from his overcoat. Its silver encasing, engraved with the design of a barbed wreath of roses, showed little sign of smudge or tarnish—a testament to a tortured soul's obsessive polishing. Opening it, he frowned: he had spaced out for approximately 15 minutes. Snapping it shut, he lurched back against the chair.

"The long and short of it, my friend…" he broke the silence, "…is that this 'employer' was developing an innovative little educational outfit and thought me a viable faculty candidate. Being a charitable soul, I obliged."

He snorted at the last bit.

"Naturally, I didn't much care for it at first. I was out of my element, and the subjects I was teaching were of little interest to me."

As a matter of fact, when the H.I.V.E. Academy for Extraordinary Young People was founded, the headmistress had relegated Dracul to the role of trophy faculty, with him teaching but a single course: Massacre at Brest: Facts v. Myths. The class was little more than a semester's worth of probing by students regarding the incident, much to his chagrin. Their understanding of the event was wholly distorted with hyperbolic fabrication of his combat prowess: exaggerated stories of how the Butcher of Brest stood against insurmountable odds, fueled only by raw bloodlust, slaying a thousand genetically-enhanced soldiers and rutting with their wives and daughters on the same night—all because he had taken offense to the way the Sun shined that day. The truth was far less exciting.

Brest was part of the Brain's Cold War campaign. At the time, the Brotherhood worked tirelessly to keep the States and the Soviet Union at each other's throats. It was the Brain's conviction that this tension detracted notoriety from the organization's activities, with the added benefit of accelerating the development of destructive new technologies amongst the belligerent nations—all the better for the Brotherhood to exploit. Thus, when it came his attention that a detachment of American diplomats was secretly holding discussions of détente with the Soviets at Brest Fortress, he dispatched Dracul to Belarus. Dracul couldn't help but be amused by the choice of venue. It seemed all too appropriate that the Bolsheviks would negotiate with the Americans in the same city they did with the Kaiser decades before.

It was meant to be a simple assignment: kill the American diplomats, making it to look that the U.S.S.R. was the guilty party. What actually occurred was a clumsy mass slaughter of nearly all the fortress' inhabitants after he was detected. Why was he caught? All because of a sneeze: the itsiest bitsiest little sneeze that one would think possible to be uttered by the frailest of men—let alone someone of Dracul's stature. Nobody save him knew of that detail, thankfully, but word of the exploit soon spread to villainous circles across the globe, quickly blowing out of proportion. People began calling him the Butcher of Brest, both out of fear and admiration, and while people struggled to see the grand scheme behind the massacre, nobody dared question the Brotherhood of Evil's logic. The Brain certainly did little to dispel the rumors. Thus, an entire career's worth of high-profile assassinations and expertly-executed heists were forgotten: a botched hit became Dracul legacy. All because of a damned sneeze.

"Yet, my friend, having stuck with teaching for a length of time, I came to a miraculous conclusion: I was rather good at it—and what's more: I enjoyed it."

Indeed, there was something strangely gratifying in monitoring the progression of these children, knowing that he, in part, was responsible for it. And he would be lying had he said that he did not relish in the indignation on Madame Rouge's face when she saw him waving in the audience during one of her many seminars at the Academy. The Headmistress had kept her promise: the Brotherhood never bothered Dracul during her tenure. He actually found himself growing rather fond of her. Manipulative witch that she was, she expertly guided the Academy through its early years, converting a fledgling organization into a household name amongst villainous circles—spanning multiple schools. True to her word, during the Academy's meteoric rise to success, one of the foremost real estate firms in the States was hit with a number of tragedies, eventually leading to bankruptcy.

Of course, it helped her case that she was so suggestible to him. Even during the early days of the endeavor, she made a point of consulting him. As she said, her background was in administration, not crime. He found his role conflating with hers, with his hand quickly becoming an invisible specter over the governance of the Academy. Rumors began to spread amongst the rest of the faculty that Dracul was being bred for the Headmistress' role and that they would all be at his mercy should anything happen to her.

"As a matter of fact, I was so adept in teaching that I was authorized to found my own department."

And so, he earned a new title: Dean of the Alter Ego Department—or as the students not-so-affectionately referred to him, "The Man Who Brought Algebra to the H.I.V.E. Academy". The basic premise behind the new department was to provide the students with some facet of a normal education in the hopes of producing well-rounded individuals, skilled in all aspects of life and able to hold a conversation in any topic. Such skills as literacy, mathematics, and the sciences were those which Dracul himself wished to have been taught at a young age. Thus, when he found that some of his colleagues did not share in his enthusiasm, he was more than disgruntled. As he famously responded to a detractor at the time, "God damn it, man! Are we to be known as an assembly line of dolts? When a graduate leaves the Academy, he or she should at the very least know that twice two equals four!"

"Things went well for a time. I witnessed countless students arrive as marginal footnotes and depart as the future greats. It was empowering, you know, making a difference in those children's lives—especially to one such as me, who had no role in determining his own fate."

Dracul's eyes narrowed as a bitter thought entered his mind.

"Alas, we do not conduct ourselves within a vacuum. No, my friend, we all have at least one instance in our lives in which we are unfortunate enough to stumble upon Eris' Apple of Discord."

Dracul's apple came in the form of Brother Blood. Ambitious, cunning, and above all charismatic, Blood quickly carved a name for himself within the Academy, earning the admiration of student and colleague alike. Of course, the man never sat quite well with Dracul. Aside from the choice of attire, with the Brotherhood of Evil's emblem emblazoned on his robes, Blood's charming behavior came across disingenuous—not unlike that of a cult leader. Dracul's suspicions were only further piqued when he saw Blood whispering in the ear of another faculty member, both their eyes flaring crimson.

Things came to a head when the H.I.V.E. Headmistress went missing and an emergency meeting was called amongst senior faculty. Blood seemed particularly cheery that day. It soon became apparent why. As it came time to vote for an interim headmaster, one of the professors—the very same one Dracul witnessed with Blood earlier—nominated the upstart for the position. Dracul had said nothing, having believed his other colleagues would back him against this challenge. To his surprise, he soon discovered that Brother Blood had been more proactive than originally believed, with everyone else vigorously affirming this proposal. As Dracul gazed into their eyes, he observed the same scarlet glow from earlier. He had been outplayed. By a mere pup, no less.

To Blood's credit, he claimed the role humbly. The sentiment was fleeting. Dracul soon found his beloved department deconstructed, with him thrust into a series of undesirable tasks as the Academy's new caretaker. It must have been rather amusing for Blood to see Dracul reduced to a glorified janitor, yet even this did not last. With the old headmistress gone, so too was Dracul's amnesty with the Brotherhood of Evil. The last memory he had of the Academy was of him being unceremoniously dragged away by Immortus' soldiers to the tune of a cheering crowd, eyes alight with a red hue.

"Which brings me to my current predicament."

Dracul sighed, feeling the bodily tremors returning. He had gained reprieve from them for the duration of his aside. That was indeed his hope. Unfortunately, it seemed he had talked himself into a corner, back into the fold with the source of his anxiety. He checked the time again. Not much longer now. His gaze transfixed from the hands of the pocket watch to the picture on the other face: a pale, pink haired girl, confidently smiling with arm upheld, hand aglow.

"I suppose my work nowadays most resembles that of an architect. I am to create a city upon a hill, a shining beacon for all others to aspire to."

His eyes darted from the girl to the time and back to the girl again. Shaded in gloom as he was, his vision remained undeterred. What he would give to be robbed of it! If only to make him ignorant of the apprehension on display. As the minute hand ticked, he slammed his fist against the arm rest, scattering a scurry of alarmed rats that had taken refuge under the chair.

"Yet it appears, my friend, that I have a conflict of interest," his voice quivered, "That is why I am here, you understand."

The minute hand ticked again. Damn it all! This was not what he wanted! At least back in the Brotherhood's base in Paris, he'd have been working with a block of ice. There would be ample time to compose himself. But this? There was only ample time to build one's sense of dread. The minute hand ticked again. He buried his face in his free hand. He wanted to wail and shout and scream. He wanted to thrash and flail against the unease that relentlessly battered him. He wanted to wrest his heart from his chest—if only to stop the pounding.

"But, my friend…"

He paused. The minute hand ticked again. And then came catharsis.

"I lack the strength to do so! A score of lifetimes would not have been sufficient to prepare me for the impending confrontation. Nearly a year it's been since I've last seen her—having parted under non-amicable terms—and now there is talk of having reformed! The questions hound at me: Will she look as I remember? Sound as she did? Will I recognize her as the little girl I abandoned all that time ago? And what of her reaction to me? Does she even wish to see me? Or will she detest me and hate me and demand that I remove myself from her life the moment I make my presence known?"

He sighed deeply.

"Nearly a year I've endured, longing to hold this conversation—rehearsing my lines over and over countless times—all in some vain hope of salvaging the bond that I so callously destroyed all that time ago. Yet now that I am finally here, I feel as if we are doomed to meet and depart as strangers. And, my friend, that terrifies me."

His head drooped low out of shame. How could they meet as anything other than strangers? The minute hand ticked again. Dracul closed the watch, gingerly placing it in his coat pocket. He grabbed the beaked mask from his side, fumbling about with it until it was fastened and reasonably comfortable. Rising from the seat, he picked up his hat from the tiled floor, fanning it to remove any dust and would-be inhabitants, before resting it on his head. He drifted across the dank room and slid open the door to the fire escape. He paused.

"Thank you, my friend. I know I have a tendency to ramble on."

He turned to address the desiccated corpse laid in the seat across from his. An expression of terror was still distinguishable on its face, mutilated and decayed as it was. From his understanding, the body had belonged to a serial child molester, who descended upon the streets at night to lure children into alleyways with promises of candy. Contrary to what was the case with his victims, nobody seemed to notice or particularly care when he spontaneously disappeared a few months ago. As far as they were concerned, he could rot away in Hell for all eternity. Dracul was a little more lenient when it came to second chances. After all, what constituted the scum of the Earth in life became a rather charming conversational partner in death.