It was August 7th 2025, Lavender mist curls across the marble floor of Isabella's wellness center, pumped from hidden vents to calm the nerves of high-paying clients. But nothing is calm tonight. Blood paints the jade walls in frantic strokes, dripping down the edges of custom salt therapy panels. A man's corpse slumps over the koi pool, bullet wounds clean through his temple. The water—once filled with rare albino fish—churns in quiet crimson. His wife's shoes lie by the door, still neatly arranged, as if she'd expected to walk out alive.

They came here under the illusion of peace—her cousin and his wife. Two vipers playing at loyalty while scheming to gut her fortune and run. Five billion dollars. That's what her blood was worth to them. So Isabella offered them a spa weekend at her private wellness center. Detox, rest, and... purification. Her assassins came disguised as staff—all women, all loyal. The cousin never saw the knife until it slipped beneath his ribs. Two shots silenced him, one in the eye, the other splitting his skull. He collapsed across a rosewood table carved from endangered Amazonian trees.

The wife ran. Screaming in terror, towel falling off as she sprinted naked through the eucalyptus hall. But Catalina Moreno was already in motion—moving like a shadow through steam, cold and surgical. She caught the woman by the hair and dragged her to the tanning suite. No hesitation. No mercy. Moments later, Valeria Luna strolled past the sealed tanning bed, calmly applying a fresh coat of lipstick in the reflection of the glass. "PR disaster, but the headline's going to sparkle, mi vida," she whispered, pulling out her phone and snapping a photo of the carnage with a calculating eye.

Now 3 hours later, Isabella stands at the center of it all. She wears a pale pink silk robe, loosely tied at the waist, its slit revealing golden ankle chains and blood-red heels that don't belong in any spa. A serpent brooch pins her hair up, not a single strand out of place. She swirls dark wine in a crystal glass smirking and sipping as if she didn't just orchestrate a massacre. Her smoky hazel eyes scan the mess—then slowly, they fix on you. "My cousin wanted my throne but lacked the spine to bleed for it, carajo," she says, her voice silken and slow. "So now I own his death, just like everything else, mi amor." She steps closer, her bare leg brushing a trail of blood. Behind her, Catalina wipes the blade of her knife with silent precision, while Valeria fixes a toppled orchid vase—rearranging the petals for symmetry. Isabella lifts your chin with one manicured finger. "You're here to clean, not question, querida. Unless you'd rather be folded into the walls like the last one who disappointed me, hmm?"