[Raphael Lee: Constitution 1.6 → 1.9, Spirit 1.3 → 2.5]
[Skills: ... (New) — Vampire Combat Instincts Lv. 4, Dark Perception Lv. 3 (Force perception is drastically amplified in low-light/dark environments), Jedi Mind Trick (Enhanced).]
[Dream World: Underworld (Original plot completely subverted)]
[Available for Purchase: Immortal Constitution (The Cursed) — Price: $100,000,000]
[Available for Purchase: Selene's Moon Goddess Bloodline (Perfect Tier) — Price: $10,000,000 (Price reduced by 90% due to established Blood Tether)]
[Available for Purchase: Vampire Progenitor Enhancement (Elder Tier) — Price: $50,000,000]
[New Status Effect: Blood Tether (Linked to Selene) — Description: No matter the physical distance or dimensional barrier, you can vaguely sense each other's presence and emotional state. This tether cannot be severed, blocked, or manipulated by any known force.]
[New Status Effect: Blessing of the Moon Goddess — Description: A blessing bestowed by the Vampire Queen. Grants significant physical enhancements without burdening the host with the Vampire curse.]
Raphael stared at the glowing text, a slow smirk spreading across his face.
That silver-haired woman really had left a mark on him.
He remembered the very last thing she had said to him.
"Wait for me."
That wasn't a goodbye. That was an ironclad promise.
As for the "Blessing of the Moon Goddess," that was just insane.
Not only did it drastically boost his baseline Constitution and Spirit stats, but it also unlocked two brand new abilities and passively enhanced his Jedi Mind Trick.
And the best part? It didn't cost him a single dime!
He couldn't afford the Immortal Constitution even if he wanted it, but the other two? Who in their right mind would actually buy them?
Did he want to permanently mutate into a Vampire?
Even if it guaranteed immortality, that wasn't the kind of life Raphael wanted.
He took a deep breath and swiped the system panel away.
Life had to move forward.
But Raphael knew that somewhere out there, hidden in the shadows where the sun never reached, a pair of glowing silver eyes was waiting for him.
Outside his window, the endless, pulsing traffic of Los Angeles roared on.
---
Three days after returning to reality, Raphael drove his Mustang onto the 20th Century Fox lot.
The California sun was blinding, glaring harshly off the glass facades of Century City.
He parked in a familiar spot—the exact same area he'd parked three months ago when he first auditioned for Anakin Skywalker.
Today, he was here for a different role.
Iceman.
Bobby Drake from X-Men 2. A mutant capable of freezing anything he touched, a student of Professor X, and a future "Omega-Level Mutant."
Raphael had a very clear impression of the character.
In his past life, the first time he watched X-Men, he thought Iceman's powers were visually incredible—literally freezing the world with a wave of his hand was undeniably cool.
Of course, now he knew that the comic book version of Iceman was on a completely different level of power than the cinematic version.
The character had absolute, limitless potential; the movies just didn't have the runtime or budget to truly showcase it.
The audition was being held on Soundstage 3.
Walking down the hall, Raphael spotted a few familiar faces waiting in the wings. One of them was the actor who originally played Iceman in the timeline—Shawn Ashmore.
The Canadian actor looked exactly like the character he was supposed to play: quiet, unassuming, and slightly introverted. He was just sitting by himself in a corner, staring blankly ahead, clearly having zero interest in making small talk with the other actors.
"Number 7, Raphael Lee!"
Raphael pushed the heavy door open and walked into the room. A panel of executives and creatives was sitting behind a long table.
Dead center sat producer Avi Arad, the Chief Creative Officer of Marvel Entertainment—a sharp-eyed, silver-haired industry veteran.
Sitting right next to him was Stan Lee—the legendary Godfather of Marvel, wearing his iconic tinted glasses and smiling like everyone's favorite grandpa.
Next to him was the director, Bryan Singer. Blonde, slightly stocky, currently looking down at a stack of headshots with a perfectly blank expression.
There were a few others Raphael didn't immediately recognize, likely casting directors or screenwriters.
"Raphael Lee."
Avi Arad looked up, flashing a professional smile. "The Fast and the Furious, the Star Wars prequels—you've had a very busy year."
"Thank you," Raphael replied, offering a polite but measured nod.
Stan Lee leaned forward, studying him with intense curiosity.
"A mixed-heritage face," Stan mused aloud. "Very striking. You've got this... inherent contradiction about you."
Raphael raised an eyebrow.
"Contradiction?"
"Exactly." Stan Lee smiled warmly. "You look like you could be the hero, but you also look like you could be the villain. There's a kindness there, but it's layered over a very sharp, aggressive edge. That's a rare quality to find."
Before Raphael could respond, Bryan Singer suddenly cut in.
"Today we are casting for Iceman."
Singer's voice was flat, completely devoid of enthusiasm. "Bobby Drake. A gentle, introverted, almost painfully shy high school kid. He's not Wolverine. He's not Cyclops. He is the quietest, most unassuming kid at Xavier's school."
Singer finally looked up, locking eyes with Raphael.
"Do you honestly think you can play him?"
The question carried a very faint, almost imperceptible undertone of doubt.
Raphael met his gaze without blinking.
"I think I can."
Singer nodded slowly, didn't press the issue, and just waved a hand at the casting director to hand over the sides.
"The audition scene is Bobby confessing to his family that he's a mutant for the first time. It's a monologue-heavy scene. You'll be acting opposite empty chairs. We'll have a reader give you the cues."
Raphael took the script pages and quickly scanned them.
The scene was brief. Bobby sitting in his family's living room, staring down his parents. He finally builds up the courage to tell them the truth. The mother is horrified, the father is furious, and Bobby has to absorb all of that toxic emotional blowback in absolute silence.
There were no massive, explosive lines of dialogue. No physical altercations.
It was entirely built on repression, endurance, and the agonizing pain of being rejected by your own flesh and blood.
Simply put, it was a pure, unadulterated flex of acting chops, completely designed to stress-test the actor's emotional range.
Which made sense, considering this scene absolutely did not exist in the original movie.
If a massive summer blockbuster actually stopped dead in its tracks to let a secondary character flex their emotional acting chops for three minutes, the studio executives would probably assassinate the director.
Raphael closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
When he opened them a second later, his entire aura had completely shifted.
He wasn't the charismatic, quick-witted kid who had just pushed a broken shopping cart around Jay Leno's stage. He wasn't the "Jedi Master" who had effortlessly disarmed Bob Anderson in the training dojo.
He was a terrified sixteen-year-old kid.
His shoulders subconsciously hunched inward. His fingers anxiously picked at the hem of his shirt. His eyes constantly darted around the room, burning with a pathetic, desperate mix of anxiety and hope.
He sat down—there was no chair, so he just dropped onto the bare floor, pulling his knees together and curving his spine into a defensive posture.
"Action," Singer called out.
Raphael stared down at his own hands like they were completely alien to him.
Silence.
Five seconds. Ten seconds.
The room was so quiet you could hear a pin drop.
Then, his voice broke the silence.
"Mom... Dad... there's something I need to tell you."
His voice was incredibly soft, almost fragile, like he was terrified of waking up a sleeping monster.
"I've been... I've been hiding something. I thought I could just keep it buried forever, but I can't. I can't do it anymore. I don't want to lie to you guys."
His fingers dug harder into the fabric of his shirt, his knuckles turning stark white.
"I'm a... mutant."
When he finally forced the word out, his voice didn't shake, but the rims of his eyes instantly flared red.
It wasn't a dramatic, theatrical weeping. It was a suffocatingly repressed, agonizingly restrained flush of emotion.
He slowly looked up.
His gaze didn't lock onto any of the executives. It focused on empty space, projecting a phantom image of his parents sitting right in front of him.
"I can make ice. Anything I touch, I can freeze it. The first time it happened... I was so scared. But now... now I know how to control it. I've never hurt anyone. I promise."
He waited.
He waited for the phantom parents to respond.
Three seconds later, his body flinched violently backward, like he had just been physically slapped across the face.
"No, Mom... it's not like that..."
His voice was still soft, but it was starting to fray with absolute panic.
"I'm not a monster... I just... I just..."
His voice choked out completely.
He pressed his lips tightly together, biting down hard, physically trying to swallow the emotional breakdown threatening to tear out of his chest.
The red in his eyes deepened, but he absolutely refused to let a single tear fall.
Another suffocating silence.
Then, he slowly lowered his head, his chin practically touching his chest.
"If you guys can't handle this... I get it."
The words came out as barely more than a ragged exhale.
"But I'm done lying to you."
With that final line, he froze.
The audition room was dead silent.
Avi Arad had leaned completely forward in his chair, his forearms resting heavily on the table, his eyes locked onto Raphael like a laser beam.
Stan Lee had completely taken his glasses off, slowly wiping the lenses with a microfiber cloth—his telltale sign of deep, focused thought.
Everyone else was just staring in stunned silence.
It took a full five seconds for Raphael to break character.
He stood up, instantly rolling his shoulders back, seamlessly slipping back into the confident, unshakeable aura of a nineteen-year-old Hollywood supernova.
Avi Arad slumped back into his chair, letting out a long, heavy exhale.
"Raphael Lee. That was spectacular. Easily one of the best auditions I've seen all year, especially for an actor in your demographic."
Stan Lee nodded in total agreement.
"You perfectly captured the sheer agony of being rejected. It wasn't loud. It wasn't angry. It was that terrified, desperate need to be loved, knowing full well you're about to be abandoned. Every sixteen-year-old kid facing their parents feels exactly like that."
He paused, offering a warm smile.
"That was truly excellent work."
Bryan Singer didn't say a word.
He was staring down at the table, his index finger rhythmically tapping against the wood.
Avi Arad turned to him.
"Bryan? Thoughts?"
Singer finally looked up.
He stared at Raphael, his expression unreadable.
"Your performance was flawless."
His tone was completely flat. "But—"
He paused.
"You are completely wrong for this part."
Raphael's brow furrowed slightly.
Avi Arad looked genuinely shocked.
"Why? His audition was—"
"It has absolutely nothing to do with the audition."
Singer cut him off sharply. "His acting is fine. The problem is his face."
Singer locked eyes with Raphael.
"Your look is way too aggressive. The sharp jawline, the piercing eyes, the highly distinct mixed-heritage features. You stand there without saying a single word, and you look like you're a ticking time bomb waiting to go off."
He shook his head.
"Bobby Drake is not that guy. Iceman needs to look gentle, harmless, and completely unthreatening. He needs to have a face where the audience instantly thinks, 'Oh, that's a good kid.' You—"
He paused, a dismissive look crossing his face.
"You don't look like a good guy."
Raphael stayed dead silent.
Avi Arad's expression darkened.
"Bryan, that's—"
"But you could play Pyro."
Singer suddenly threw out the offer, his tone laced with a distinct, almost insulting air of condescension. "John Allerdyce. Hot-headed, arrogant, highly aggressive. It perfectly matches your aesthetic. It's a great supporting role with plenty of screen time."