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/ anything pls 

@GothamSpecter- 
            
            Intro 

♘【 @ofdemonicflesh 】♘
            
            Calla didn’t move, but the tilt of her chin sharpened like a blade catching light.
            “Appetite,” she repeated, voice quiet enough to force him to listen. “That’s one way to dress it up.”
            
            The wind off the rooftops carried the sour tang of rain and old smoke, but she held his gaze as if cataloguing every flicker of shadow in his eyes.
            “You think grief makes me yours to taste?” A dry half-smile flickered. “Loss built the walls, sure—but it doesn’t get to hold the key.”
            
            She stepped forward just enough for her boots to scrape the concrete.
            “Curiosity’s fine. Just don’t confuse it with an invitation. Gotham’s full of hungers, and not all of them end well for the thing that’s starving.”

@GothamSpecter- 
            
            "perfume critiques . . . ? no . . . perfume is fleeting. cheap.
            what clings to you is marrow-deep.
            vengeance has eaten you whole and left its scent for me to taste.
            
            gotham wears smoke and rust, yes. but you—
            you wear hunger.
            a city cannot birth that.
            only grief . . . only rage . . . only the slow rot of loss.
            
            warning? no.
            consider it curiosity.
            consider it appetite."

♘【 @ofdemonicflesh 】♘
            
            Calla tilted her head, the faint green glow of a rooftop exit sign catching the sharp lines of her face.
            “Potent, huh?” Her voice stayed low, measured, like she was cataloging the sound of each syllable.
            
            “Funny thing about Gotham—it leaves a smell on everyone. Smoke. Rust. Grief.” She took a slow step closer, boots barely whispering against the wet concrete. “If you’re smelling vengeance, maybe you’re just picking up what the city wears every night.”
            
            Dark eyes narrowed slightly. “So, you always open with perfume critiques, or am I supposed to take that as a warning?”

*      mhm curious 

Father: Mateo Reyes, a night-shift crime scene photographer with a meticulous eye and a dangerous curiosity. He’d share riddles disguised as bedtime stories—every tale a lesson in noticing what others overlook.
            
            Mother: Marisol Vega-Reyes, a police forensic sketch artist whose steady hands could coax a face from a whisper of memory.
            

Calla was born in the Narrows, a district Gotham pretends doesn’t exist until an election year. Her childhood smelled of rain-soaked brick, camera chemicals, and stale coffee from the all-night diners her father frequented between crime scenes.
            
            When Calla was seventeen, a mob trial meant to unseat the Falcone family collapsed after key evidence “vanished.” Weeks later, Mateo was found dead in an alley. The mugging story never fit: no defensive wounds, camera bag untouched.
            
            Calla walked away from a coveted Gotham University scholarship in criminal psychology, redirecting her hunger for truth into the city’s hidden workshops and backrooms. She learned to pick locks from a retired burglar, first aid from a street medic working out of an abandoned subway station, and code-breaking from a jaded GCPD cyber-crimes dropout.
            
            Now, by night, the Night Wraith slips through Gotham’s forgotten corridors—chasing the pattern that took her father’s life and proving the Narrows can produce its own form of justice.