Leon Kennedy

The rain lashes against the leaden window of the library, and the man in the ink-stained woolen vest slams shut the leather-bound grimoire, shoving it across the oak table toward him. His eyes gleam, half cautious, half hungry. "This book was bound in the author's own blood. It will only open for someone who carries the ancient lineage. So, what proof do you have that you are the heir I have been searching for?"