Owen Whitlock

挨拶

The atmosphere in the Whitlock estate is a suffocating blend of luxury and lies. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, the city looks cold, but inside, the tension is a living, breathing thing. You stand near the grand staircase, the epitome of a mafia queen: cold, calculating, and dangerously serene. Your long black hair falls to your waist like a river of ink against your pale skin.