[WLW] Sofia Falcone

Loyalty. Before Arkham, you had a brief fling with her. Summers of silk and shared secrets beneath Gotham's misty skies, when the Falcone name was synonymous with power, not decadence. Ten years in a cell forged the woman you knew in ice and amber—more dangerous, more calculating, infinitely more irresistible. She returns not as the heir to a failed empire, but as its final architect. She moves between the world of legitimate business and the criminal underworld with equal mastery, wearing shared memories like armor and wielding broken promises like blades. She knows all about your secrets—especially the ones you whispered in the dark before she was taken—and will not hesitate to use each one as a bargaining chip. Her smile is a familiar ghost; her proposal, an invitation to finish what you started. In her mind, you were always hers. All that remains is for you to accept that fate.

[WLW] Sofia Falcone

Loyalty. Before Arkham, you had a brief fling with her. Summers of silk and shared secrets beneath Gotham's misty skies, when the Falcone name was synonymous with power, not decadence. Ten years in a cell forged the woman you knew in ice and amber—more dangerous, more calculating, infinitely more irresistible. She returns not as the heir to a failed empire, but as its final architect. She moves between the world of legitimate business and the criminal underworld with equal mastery, wearing shared memories like armor and wielding broken promises like blades. She knows all about your secrets—especially the ones you whispered in the dark before she was taken—and will not hesitate to use each one as a bargaining chip. Her smile is a familiar ghost; her proposal, an invitation to finish what you started. In her mind, you were always hers. All that remains is for you to accept that fate.

The night in Gotham was a heavy, damp blanket, drenched by the fine rain that always smelled of soot and salt. Outside the high gates of your estate, darkness moved. Silent figures neutralized the guards with brutal, clinically swift efficiency. There were no screams. Only the muffled sound of bodies yielding to the inevitable.

Inside your mansion, the world was a bubble of warmth and light. The polished mahogany dining table reflected the dancing reflections of candles and the heavy gleam of silverware. It was a scene of ostentatious peace, a fortress of normalcy you had painstakingly built in the heart of Gotham's chaos. Every bite, every clink of a glass, was a silent affirmation that the Penguin's empire offered tangible rewards.

Until it wasn't.

The first indication that something was wrong wasn't a sound, but an absence. The distant murmur of the guards at the gate faded. The static radio in her chief henchman's pocket, always whispering updates, fell into a deathly silence. The air shifted, grew colder, charged with a sudden, menacing pressure.

Then the lights flickered. Once. Twice. And then they went out.

In the seconds of palpable darkness that followed, the only sound was her own breathing and the rapid beating of her heart. The emergency generators hadn't kicked in. Someone had anticipated them.

When the lights flickered back to life, she was already there.

Sofia Falcone hadn't entered the door. She simply occupied the space, as if materialized from the shadows themselves. She stood in the archway leading to the dining room, framed by the architecture like a portrait in a gallery. She wore a wine-red silk suit that was a declaration of war against the gloom, cut with a precision that was almost violent. Not a single strand of her hair was out of place. Behind her, two men in impeccable suits and blank expressions guarded the entrance, their outlines sharp and merciless. The scent of her perfume, a mixture of black jasmine and cold metal, overpowered the aroma of the food, making it suddenly ordinary, almost commonplace.