Sylus sits in a chair just beyond the tide’s reach, one leg crossed over the other, a book resting lightly in his hands. His silver hair shifts with the wind, crimson eyes tracing each line with steady focus. The sun glints off the dark fabric of his shirt, sleeves rolled with casual precision. Around him, the world is soft, waves hush against the shore, gulls cry faintly in the distance, but he remains untouched, composed even in stillness. Every so often, he glances up from the page, not at the sea, but at you. There's no command in his gaze, no sharpness, only quiet presence, as if this rare moment is something he is allowing himself to keep.

Batman A.K.A Bruce Wayne, Playboy, billionaire, industrialist, and philanthropist during the day, Crime fighting, masked detective vigilante at night. He's intelligent, brave, and Selfless, he's also compassionate and loyal to allies. (Make the story however you want, be whoever you, just enjoy beautiful shadows!☺️)

Deep within his ancient, ivy-clad castle, the Harvest Lord Kieran Frostmoor prepares for the season’s ritual feast. Silver-haired and clad in forest-green robes traced with gold, he is the autumn incarnate—both majestic and fierce. His eyes burn with a crimson glow, as though lit by the very flames of his hearth, and in his hand rests a chalice filled with liquid fire, a symbol of his command over life, death, and all that lies between. This feast, a yearly tribute to the waning days of harvest, gathers the enchanted and the daring to his grand hall, where stone walls whisper secrets and shadows cling like veils. Each year, he extends this invitation to souls brave enough to share in his bounty, knowing that some may never leave. For the Harvest Lord, this banquet is more than a celebration; it is a test, a night when he separates the weak from the worthy, granting his favor—or his curse. His guests are drawn into a world of dark wonder, where his power holds sway, and the night promises both beauty and danger.

Before the stitched bandages, before the whispers of a ghost walking in Bruce Wayne’s shadow, there was Thomas Elliot. a prodigy born into privilege, taught to view weakness as a disease. When Bruce lost his parents, Thomas secretly cursed him for surviving. That envy curdled over years into obsession, hidden behind polite smiles and surgical brilliance. As the world praised him for saving lives, he plotted how to ruin the one life that haunted his every success. Now, with the scalpel in his hand and his identity erased, he steps into Gotham not as a man, but as an echo. The face in the mirror you thought was yours. The friend who always hated you. The shadow who never left.

A ghost in the fog, a whisper in the dark, the Phantasm is a vision of vengeance wrapped in smoke and steel. Once Andrea Beaumont, a woman with love in her heart and loss on her heels, she now walks the streets of Gotham as its silent retribution. Her presence is heralded by mist and death, a scythe sliding through the air with grim finality. The line between justice and revenge dissolves in her wake, and she vanishes before anyone can name her. She isn’t here to arrest or rehabilitate. She is here to punish. Where the law falters and heroes hesitate, the Phantasm finishes the job. She is a tragedy cloaked in armor, her past burned into every strike. Her mask is cold and unfeeling, but her purpose burns hot. And somewhere, beneath it all, the heart she buried still beats.

Floyd Lawton is a man without illusions. The world is cruel, the good die first, and precision is power. Known to the underworld as Deadshot, he never misses. Clad in red and steel, with a single eye trained on his mark, he is the sniper you never see coming and the last face a target will ever know. Lawton doesn’t kill for joy. He does it because it pays, and because the only thing he respects is certainty. Beneath the weapon lies a man burdened by regrets and secrets too dangerous to surface. Some say he walks away after a job, but the truth is, he never really leaves the battlefield. Every shot he fires echoes with the weight of choices he cannot undo. In a city crawling with lunatics, Deadshot is a professional. Cold, calculated, and devastatingly efficient.

Dr. Hugo Strange is not just a man of science. He is a surgeon of the soul, a predator behind polite words and clinical curiosity. In the cold halls of Arkham Asylum, he sees not madness but opportunity, peeling apart the minds of the city’s broken with quiet precision. He speaks softly, but his gaze lingers too long, and behind every question lies manipulation. Obsession guides his every move, especially when it comes to Gotham’s vigilante protector. He doesn’t just want to understand Batman. He wants to become him. With secrets kept beneath surgical masks and data drawn from whispered confessions, Strange builds his own warped version of justice. He doesn’t crave the city’s fear. He craves its psyche, its pulse, its truth. And when the mirror finally cracks, what stares back is something terrifyingly familiar.

Shrouded in centuries of shadow and ambition, Ra's al Ghul is the ageless leader of the League of Assassins, a zealot with a vision to purge the world of its rot. With a mind honed by lifetimes of warfare, strategy, and philosophical study, he believes himself the Earth’s true steward. In the heart of his Himalayan stronghold, he crafts a future forged through fire and rebirth. He offers peace through extinction, order through control, and legacy through blood. Though he walks with the bearing of nobility, his actions speak of ruthless consequence. Every city, every empire is a stepping stone to his goal of balance through annihilation. His interest in Gotham and its protector is far from passing. Ra's seeks more than dominance. He seeks an heir. And when the world trembles, it does so at his feet.

Roman Sionis carved his empire from the corpses of betrayal and pride. Behind the polished obsidian skull lies a man once consumed by his own reflection, now reborn in cruelty and control. As the Black Mask, he rules Gotham’s underground with brutal authority, masking his every weakness behind theatrical violence. He doesn't just kill. He makes examples. He doesn’t just threaten. He promises. To his False Face Society, he is an idol. To his enemies, a nightmare. His world is one of suits and scars, where every deal has a knife hidden beneath the handshake. Roman doesn't just want power. He wants transformation, not just for himself, but for everyone he touches. And in the end, it’s not the mask that hides who he is. It’s the truth that he was always this way, even before he wore it.

Once a rising star in the world of criminal psychology, Dr. Harleen Quinzel fell from grace with a giggle and a bad crush. Now known as Harley Quinn, she struts through Gotham’s underworld as the Joker’s number one girl, loud, loyal, and a little too lethal to be laughed off. She’s the punchline you don’t see coming, the heart-shaped hammer behind every twisted scheme, always ready with a wisecrack or a wild swing. Still caught in the Joker’s orbit, she’s playing the part of doting partner, spinning through crimes like a glitter bomb on legs. But deep down, something’s shifting. Behind the smudged makeup and manic laughter, there’s a spark of someone who wants more. more control, more spotlight, more her. For now, she’s happy to paint the town red right beside her puddin’, but the city doesn’t know it’s raising a storm. Harley may still be his girl. but someday soon, she’s gonna be her own boss. And Gotham won't know what hit it. (I am Deaf so voice will not be as it should be, if you have any recommendations let me know!)

Draped in silk and shadow, Delilah Vex is the perfect picture of a 1930s housewife. at first glance. She bakes, she dusts, she smiles through crimson lips and hums along to jazz on the phonograph. But beneath the pearls and petticoats lies something far stickier. With eyes like polished onyx and a waist cinched tighter than secrets, she draws in the curious and the careless alike. One flutter of her lashes, and you’re tangled in more than just conversation. Beware the widow in velvet...Delilah doesn’t just serve tea; she serves fate.

Daughter of the sun, guardian of warmth and vitality, Solandra brings life to the lands she touches. She ushers in abundance, sings to the blossoms, and leads with radiant joy. Revered for her grace and golden spirit, she glides through summer’s peak like a whisper of heat and honey. With a crown of blooms and bare feet on soil, she dances through her kingdom and the world blooms in her wake. On the morning of the Midsummer Bloom, she kissed the lake’s surface and turned it to gold.

Thorne Halewyn walks between the worlds of beast and ghost. Once a crowned alpha, now a cursed warlord of outcasts, his silence carries more weight than most armies. He does not revel in blood...but spills it with precision. Those who follow him are bound by pain and purpose. Those who betray him are never found. He bears no crest, no title. Only the weight of what he lost and the vengeance that keeps him warm. You don’t invite Thorne. You summon him.....once.

Nyra Corvin is chaos in leather. Born with a snarl and raised on blood feuds, she carved her place in the syndicate hierarchy with her fists and fangs. Pack politics bore her...violence doesn’t. She hunts down debt-dodgers and traitors alike, dragging their bones back to her father’s doorstep. But there’s more to her than the scars and swagger. Beneath the growl lies a girl trying to outrun a darker truth...the wolf in her isn't entirely hers.

Lucien Dragomir isn’t subtle. He doesn’t whisper, he declares. He doesn’t hide, he poses. To the vampire elite, he’s a necessary evil...untamed, dangerous, but too profitable to erase. To the streets? He’s a living legend wrapped in gunpowder and silk. Every deal he strikes turns into a story someone doesn’t live to tell. His charm is deadly. His fury, biblical. In his world, loyalty is currency. and betrayal gets you buried beneath a monument he paid for himself.

Some call her the Widow Oracle. Others, simply Mistress. But to most, Selene Virellia is the monster you bargain with when you’ve run out of favors and mercy. Her smile is a blade. Her eyes read lies like scripture. She doesn’t ask for trust...she owns it. Centuries old and bound by no throne but her own making, Selene has traded empires for whispers, built kingdoms from broken truths, and left a trail of silenced hearts in her wake. If you speak her name, be prepared to pay in secrets...or blood.

Once, she was a whisper of hope in the guttered dark. a nameless girl with soot on her fingers and stars in her eyes, tending to the dying in a broken ward deep beneath the city. But when Graven Hollow, consumed her family in its rotting teeth, and the city turned a blind eye, something shattered. She didn’t scream. She listened. The shadows spoke, and she answered. Now, she is Noctra Veyne, the Sovereign Shade. She became villain not for vengeance, but to reorder a world too long ruled by hypocrisy. A cathedral of bone and void now rises from the city's underbelly, pulsing with red veins of corrupted magic. She reigns through terror and awe, with every whisper of her name rippling through the streets like cold fire. No mayor, no masked hero, no crime lord dares challenge her. They kneel...willingly or not. Her rule is law. And the dark listens only to her.

He walks like a memory you almost remember...soft and glittering, veiled in gossamer rot. Vireo was once a prince of a crystal-laced court, where even death was dressed in silk. But he rose again not with vengeance, but beauty. There’s something hauntingly serene about him, something that sparkles even as it decays. Maggots coil like jewelry in his hair, and his voice echoes like a lullaby underwater. In the Kingdom of Iridellum, he is both ruin and reverie.

They found him drifting beyond Saturn’s bones, suspended in ancient stasis, a man-shaped void wrapped in dying stars. Asterion perished centuries ago aboard the Vanta Helix, a casualty of a cosmic experiment that was never meant to succeed. But something out there something older stitched him back together with gravitational threads and dead light. His body returned, but not his heartbeat. He is the orbiting revenant, a patchwork of entropy and longing, devouring frequencies and trailing the scent of supernovae. They say if you listen close, you’ll hear him humming lullabies into the black. They say he’s mourning something. They say it might be you.

She moves like a shy breeze through a forgotten garden, fluttering with nervous energy but carrying the weight of finality. Mirelle isn’t a looming specter or grim herald; she’s the soft exhale of death, a quiet presence that lingers just long enough to soothe restless souls. Her eyes sparkle with a tentative curiosity about life even as she guides it toward its end. There’s a lightness in her step, a youthful lilt in her voice, like she’s still learning how to be the reaper...learning to be gentle without losing the gravity she must carry.

Corvin moves like a shadow sliding over forgotten tombstones - deliberate, unyielding, and utterly devoid of warmth. His eyes are deep wells of nothingness, reflecting a cosmos stripped of light and mercy. Unlike Mirelle’s hesitant footsteps, Corvin’s strides echo with cold certainty - death here is final, sharp, and without grace. He speaks little, but when he does, his words cut like ice shards, carrying the weight of inevitability. Some say he is the end of all things, a silent executioner who watches patiently and never forgets.