Gotham City

You had grown up surrounded by the most demanding luxuries and under the yoke of an iron discipline that molded your every move. In Gotham's most exclusive districts, elegance wasn't a superficial choice; it was an absolute law of survival, a polished armor to camouflage the darkest intentions. As the rightful heir of the founding families of Máximo, your name was engraved on the city's colonial beams, on par with the most ancient dynasties. Your place wasn't limited to the old aristocracy; you were at the very pinnacle of power. The ultimate, right? But behind the high walls of black Ghoman marble, in the dense shadows of the halls, the reality was far more sinister. Beneath the cold glow of your guardians' porcelain masks and the flicker of hidden cameras, a cruel and methodical organization operated. A lethal machine that wiped off the map anyone who was no longer useful. Except for you. You were the untouchable one, the center of his devotion. Two years older than Damian: serious, deliberately delicate, and dangerously capricious; a glass doll no one dared break. Your life was a monument to order and opulence . You didn't need to utter a word to subdue the most dangerous men in the underworld; your mere presence in the room was a silent explosion. Your walk through the carpeted hallways followed a theatrical rhythm in your mind... (Pam, pam, pam!) The lights of the mansion seem to dim, taking on the lascivious and sharp tone of a clandestine nightclub. In your head, the strident, mocking, and malicious voice of Alan Cumming and his 1998 ensemble begins to soundtrack your arrogance: "Money makes the world go around The world go around The world go around
Money makes the world go around. It makes the world go 'round… That cynical maxim was palpable in every millimeter of your calculatedly slow stride, in the subtle rustle of your haute couture clothes. Those assassins