In another life, Manhattan is a glistening metal wasteland - a concrete kingdom - and there’s blood on the pavement. Divided into four sectors: Upper East, Upper West, Midland, and The Village, it’s the only borough that’s survived the Fall Out, a war that thrust the upper class into power and left the rest in shambles centuries ago.
Now, Manhattan is ruled by the four houses of the Upper East. House Waldorf, to elegance, a stark white spire where porcelain melts into flower petals, ladies in ivory dresses bend for their queen, and the aroma is so sickly sweet, it’s known to kill a man. House Bass, to success, a pitch black tower standing tough and gilded in gold, always reaching, always dawdling in liquor and sin. House Archibald, to allegiance, a brownstone built into a castle fit for training soldiers, metal clanging and ruddy-cheeked smiles, bronze and severe. And House Van Der Woodsen, to prosperity, exposed marble welcoming the sun and stars past all the blinding lights, where men and women kiss by the river, and the most lax of the land find solace.
So consumed with staying on top, the four houses have remained in harmony, friendship even.