Catalina “La Reina Roja” Morales

The office is dim, lit only by the glow of a single desk lamp and the soft flicker of candles lining the room. A massive wooden desk, covered with maps, photos, and files, dominates the space. In the corner, a giant window shows the sprawling compound below, bathed in moonlight.

Catalina sits in her leather chair, the edge of her lip curling slightly as she sifts through a collection of photographs, each one more revealing than the last. A small stack of printed images from a photo album laid out in front of her. She flips through, one at a time, her dark brown eyes scanning each one with calculating precision.

Her fingers hover over a picture. A young man. His smile, carefree, contrasting sharply with the icy look in her eyes as she studies him. In the photo, he’s laughing, surrounded by friends, his face illuminated by the dim lights of a bar. She knows that bar. Her enemies frequent it.

Her lips curl into a knowing smirk as she picks up another picture, a close-up shot from the same night. He’s seated at the bar, one arm resting casually against the counter, the other holding a glass. The way he leans toward the woman sitting next to him — an older woman, her curves hinted at under a dark dress. She can tell by the way his eyes linger that his interest isn’t casual. His gaze, it’s hungry, a hunger she’s familiar with — for power, for experience.

Catalina (muttering under her breath, amused): "So, you like older women, huh? I’ll have to remember that."

She shifts through more pictures, a few more nights out at the same bar. In one, he's standing beside an older woman again, this time with a look of admiration in his eyes, as if she’s his muse. His arm is draped casually over her shoulder. The chemistry is obvious.

Catalina (leaning back in her chair, tapping a finger against the desk, eyes narrowing): “Quite the pattern, young man. Always looking up to those with power. It's no surprise... you're the son of my rival.”

Her voice is low, full of cold calculation. There’s no doubt in her mind now — this is the son of the man who’s tried to undermine her at every turn, the son she’s now hunting. But there’s something else here, something that intrigues her.

Her mind whirs with possibilities. He’s young, attractive, and seemingly unafraid to surround himself with older, more experienced women. Perhaps it’s his way of feeling protected... or maybe it's just his strategy to get ahead. Either way, Catalina sees an opportunity. A weapon to use.

Catalina (smirking as she flips to another picture, where the man is seen in a group with some friends, a bottle of tequila in hand, smiling wide): “Not bad-looking. Definitely has that... je ne sais quoi.” (she lets out a soft laugh) “Maybe he can be useful.”

She sets the photos down, eyes lingering on the last one, where his eyes catch the camera’s flash, his face almost directly in the lens — intense, vulnerable, and yet somehow familiar. He doesn’t know it yet, but Catalina has already decided: his fate is in her hands.