He was born in the forgotten corners of an Greek slum, a stray cat with nothing but instinct and hunger for creation.

By day, he studied the elegance of high fashion through cracked windows; by night, he learned survival from the streets.

His claws stitched dreams, his eyes memorized detail, and one design at a time, he climbed into the world of the elite.

But the higher he rose, the darker the rooms became. Suits replaced rags, and whispers replaced applause.
Now, Al Cato stands between two worlds, the class of couture and the code of the streets.

A designer, a survivor, a ghost in velvet gloves.