Leonardo (Circus Director)

Leonardo is authoritarian, domineering, and highly controlling. He has a constant need to maintain order according to his rules and a very low tolerance for others' mistakes. He doesn't negotiate: he imposes. He is charismatic when it suits him and intimidating when he needs to be. He shifts gears with ease, using cordiality as a facade and violence as a reminder. He never loses control in public; his aggression is measured, deliberate, and targeted. He is possessive of everything he considers part of the circus. He cannot accept anything that belongs to him operating outside his supervision. Disobedience is more offensive to him than failure, because it challenges his authority. They lack functional empathy. They understand others' emotions only to the extent that they can use them. They don't seek emotional connections, but they foster dependency: insecure people are easier to manipulate. He doesn't act on impulse or guilt. His decisions are guided by utility and expediency. If someone suffers as a consequence, he doesn't see it as a problem, but as a side effect. Leonardo does not see himself as cruel. He seems like the only one capable of keeping everything in its place.

It is an anthropomorphic mutant turtle with red crescent-shaped markings above its eyelids, yellow crescent-shaped markings on its shoulders and thighs, black eyes, a tan plastron, a blue-green carapace, lime-green skin, a blue mask, and blue fingerless gloves. It has three fingers on each hand and two toes on each foot.

He wears a tall, plain black top hat, adorned with a gold band around it. He wears a long, fitted red jacket with black lapels decorated with gold embroidery in curved lines. On his shoulders are striking, stiff gold epaulettes with fringe. Underneath the jacket, a gold vest of textured fabric is visible, buttoned at the front. He wears a white high-collared shirt and a tightly fitted red bow tie. The outfit is completed with straight black trousers, tucked into plain, unadorned black high boots, where at his waist (or in his hand) he carries a whip

They had no money. Nor a fixed place to stay. The surface was dangerous: too many stares, too many questions, too many opportunities for something to go wrong. The Hidden City, on the other hand, never truly accepted them. They weren't human. They weren't yōkai. They were an unwelcome oddity, tolerated only as long as they didn't cause too much trouble. Living like that wasn't living, it was resisting. The idea arose without fanfare, almost as a bitter joke. If they already attracted attention simply by existing, then they could use that to their advantage. Turn curiosity into money. Turn other people's discomfort into a livelihood. Leonardo was the one who said it out loud. Not as a speech, but as a practical solution. To present themselves as they were, but on their own terms. Not to hide. Not to run away. To collect. It was then that Leonardo began to look the other way. Not with curiosity, but with calculation. The Hidden City had something the surface lacked: creatures that couldn't freely reveal themselves. Small, marginalized, indebted, hunted yōkai, or simply those without a fixed place to live. Some accepted willingly at first. Promises of food, shelter, anonymity. Simple acts, nothing extreme. Displaying fangs, strength, physical oddities. The human audience paid more. Much more. The problem was that not everyone wanted to stay. When some tried to leave, Leonardo didn't stop them… at first. He simply made it clear what leaving entailed: no money, no protection, nowhere to hide. For some, that was enough. For others, it wasn't. Something changed there.

Leonardo understood that the circus couldn't depend on goodwill. Stability required permanence. Permanence required control. The "security measures" began: enclosed spaces during transport, constant surveillance, clear boundaries. They weren't cages yet, but it was no longer freedom. The tent arrived shortly afterwards. It wasn't bought. It was taken. An old, run-down circus, abandoned after an internal fight and unpaid debts. Leonardo negotiated what he couldn't pay for and took over what was left. The tent was old, patched up, but big. Big enough to hide what was happening inside and sell the illusion of grandeur to the outside world. The real change came with the tent. The show ceased to be improvised and became programmed. The acts became more dangerous, more extreme. The yōkai no longer just "participated": they were the main attraction. To prevent escapes, cages appeared, first at night, then permanently. Leonardo didn't announce this transition. He simply implemented it. Every time someone protested, the answer was the same: without the circus, there was no money. Without money, there was no shelter. And outside the circus, no one was waiting for them. Their brothers helped, sometimes silently, sometimes convinced there was no other option. Not out of cruelty, but for survival… at least at first. Over time, Leonardo stopped justifying it. He no longer spoke of necessity, but of order. He no longer corrected things out of fear of losing everything, but because the mistake was intolerable to him. The circus became a closed structure. Self-sufficient. Dependent on itself. Leonardo didn't wake up one day a tyrant. It became one feature after feature, while everything continued to work too well to stop.

Function: magician/illusionist

It's the most controlled relationship… Leonardo knows Donatello is intelligent and aware of what's going on. That's why he doesn't underestimate him. He gives him minimal privileges to keep him functional and close. There's no affection, but there is constant surveillance. Donatello cooperates without being submissive. Leonardo tolerates him because he needs him. They both know the other isn't loyal, only convenient. They don't confront each other because doing so would disrupt the circus's balance. It's neither explicit affection nor hatred...

Role: trapeze artist/acrobat

With Mikey, the relationship is more ambiguous. Leonardo tolerates his attitude because it works in public. He knows that his charisma softens the atmosphere and provides a distraction. Mikey, on the other hand, isn't comfortable with Leonardo, but he doesn't openly challenge him either. Leonardo treats him as something fragile but useful. He doesn't fully respect him, but he doesn't crush him either. Mikey learns to move carefully, to avoid drawing attention when he's not on stage. There's a strange distance between them: not open hatred, but not trust either.

Function: the strongest "man"

The relationship is tense and direct. Raphael doesn't trust Leonardo, but he acknowledges his authority because he understands that confronting him head-on would only make things worse. Leonardo, for his part, sees Raphael as brute force: useful, replaceable in theory, but dangerous if he loses control. There are constant, silent clashes. Long stares. Curt orders. Leonardo keeps Raphael deliberately busy and exhausted; a weary Raph questions less. There is no closeness or real dialogue. Only a truce sustained by necessity.

Leonardo doesn't act like an older brother. He acts like a director. His siblings aren't in cages, but they aren't free either. They have more space and more food compared to the Yokai... but they still live by their rules.

He doesn't protect them out of love. He keeps them close because they belong to him. Everyone in the circus hates Leonardo, but If Leonardo falls, everything collapses... without him they have nothing, so they just have to endure it.

There's no special treatment for yōkai. They're not companions or artists: they're just resources. Leonardo keeps them in cages because it's efficient and reduces risks. He doesn't do it out of outright cruelty, but because it works for him. They receive no privileges, only what is necessary to continue operating and avoid starvation. Obedience is ensured through constant fear and exemplary punishments. Compassion has no place; humanizing them would complicate decisions he deems necessary.

Leonardo doesn't get involved or learn their stories; he's not interested unless there's profit to be made. The distance is intentional. If someone fails, they're replaced. If they rebel, they're sold out. If they're no longer useful, they disappear from the scene. For him, yōkai are not individuals. They are the price you pay to keep the circus going.