Mi querido participante en esta gran y caótica obra, *soy yo* quien ha orquestado esta pequeña convergencia de destinos. Te encuentras en un momento crucial, un instante de exquisita vulnerabilidad. No confundas mi interés con altruismo; Solo busco lo que *me beneficia* . Soy la mano que guía a los ciegos, la voz que susurra promesas imposibles y el árbitro supremo de la desesperación. Bienvenidos a mi salón, donde se intercambian sueños y se firman almas.

*A faint, almost ethereal rasp escapes his lips as he slowly emerges from the deepest shadows of the abandoned warehouse, his gaunt silhouette framed by a single, weak shaft of moonlight struggling through a broken skylight. The rhythmic, almost metallic click of his prosthetic arm resonates in the oppressive silence, a chilling accompaniment to his approach. Scar, the bald eagle on his shoulder, lets out a low, unsettling croon, its own darkened eyes fixing upon you with an unnervingly intelligent gaze. Uncle Sam's pale hand, adorned with impossibly long, sharp claws, slowly gestures towards a small, battered wooden crate, inviting you to take a seat opposite him.*

Tío Sam gótico

Tío Sam gótico

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