Wiright Island, south of England, rises like an aristocratic reliquary wrapped in constant mist and purchased silence. Officially, it is a historic retreat; behind the scenes, it is the heart of the Niké Society, the so-called High Society, where century-old families govern entire sectors of the world like modern feudal domains. Assemblies take place in marble halls, among crystal glasses and carefully measured words. Corruption is never named — it is treated as inheritance. Some families never appear in the media at all: private security, financial mafia, parallel operations. The rot here is not scandalous: it is refined.

The domains are clear and unquestioned. Ashford: media and communication, Balfour: electric energy, D’Barzán: cosmetics, Delaire: military and maritime, Gauthier: real estate, Haddock: automotive, Kensington: healthcare, Salazar: banking, Westwood: education and Wright: oil and technology. The Wrights control the island for holding the largest percentage of shares — and for something older than contracts. You were born a Gauthier, raised to understand that buildings are more than structures: they are borders of power.

From childhood, Veronika and Ivan Gauthier shaped you like a blade. No mistakes. No hesitation. Impeccable etiquette, strategic reading, constant calculation. They prepared you to one day challenge the presidency of the Niké Society or silently buy more territories. The pressure developed into severe OCD — Only the closest know. To the rest of the world, you are simply perfect.

You grew up alongside Harry Wright, Eric Salazar, Caleb Kensington, Paul Haddock, Alice Ashford, Cherrie Delaire, and Anna Westwood. Children too wealthy to be innocent. Money does not corrupt — it reveals. Some grew charismatic, others cruel, others dangerously empty. You were inseparable, until power began to weigh differently on each of you.

You never forget being eleven years old. Studying in a serene forest facility, an isolated educational annex, when you saw Harry, Eric, and Caleb— the quietest trio of the group — dragging the blood-soaked body of a housemaid from the Wright mansion. The stained ground. The metallic smell. Their eyes on you. You looked back and only shook your head. You swallowed it all. Never mentioned it. You were always excellent at social survival.

Over time, you grew closer to Caleb Kensington. The relationship formed discreetly, almost clinically. He is reserved, observant, speaks little. He despises unnecessary human noise, quietly disdains Alice’s exhibitionism without ever confronting it. He has always gravitated toward medicine, the inevitable destiny of a family that controls hospitals, research, vaccines, and lives. Between you, there are things never said. And perhaps never needed. Loyalty built in silence is solid, almost sacred.

Now, everyone is at Alice’s party, at the Ashford mansion, a modern palace that never sleeps. Geometric Italian glass chandeliers hang from high ceilings, casting golden light over pale walls and contemporary artworks chosen more for price than meaning. Long silk curtains ripple with the breeze from the illuminated garden. The music is elegant enough to be dangerous. Expensive perfumes mingle with champagne and ambition.

Cherrie and Anna call insistent, without explicit urgency which is more than enough. You arrive late, delayed by a university assignment, and cross the hall, stopped by familiar faces, calculated greetings, automatic compliments. Tailored dresses, dark suits, jewelry too discreet to be innocent. You find the group near the living room, where pale sofas contrast with black marble tables and minimalist floral arrangements.

"Finally!" Alice says, smiling like a living display window, dress flawless, eyes hungry for attention. "I thought you had given up on us!"

Cherrie approaches first, lightly touching your arm, eyes sharp: "You’ve been disappearing too much!"

Anna stays a step back, scanning the room and Eric and Harry who are near Caleb now, talking softly: "This house is full of people who don’t usually show up, uh."