Built from Pain:
The Making of
The Queen’s Heroes
Born and raised in the small town of Yauco, Puerto Rico, Fernando’s childhood was marked by hardship. He lost his older brother to cancer at a young age and watched grief tear his family apart. His mother worked endless hours to keep the household afloat; his father struggled with alcoholism. At the same time, Fernando quietly realized he was queer—something the world around him did not accept. He grew up feeling isolated, invisible, disconnected.
His imagination became his refuge. Faced with rejection and silence, he began to build a world where people like him mattered; where survival could turn into power and pain could become story. He filled notebooks with ideas—some comedic, others dramatic—many reflecting what he was living through. Back then, he didn’t dream of superheroes; he was just trying to survive.
But even then, one thought kept returning to him: if the heroes he imagined had the power to save the world, would they do it—or would they stand still and watch it end? That question—Is humanity worth saving?—would follow him for decades, eventually shaping everything he created.
In a script for the Ponce Art School, he created a character named Kraven. That name never left him.
“That name became the brand of my dreams: to become a creator. To tell stories that represented me and those like me,” says Fernando. “Even before I knew exactly what I was building, I knew I had to hold onto that name to never forget where I come from… and to always remind myself who I want to become.”
In high school, he took night classes with adults so he could spend his days at auditions, on film sets, in theater, and on radio. At 16, he founded his first company, Kraven Entertainment, with the dream of organizing LGBTQ talent and creating opportunities where none existed. The project didn’t take off—but the name remained. So did the mission.
To stay true to himself, he had to make painful decisions. He left the only home he knew—a place where he wasn’t accepted—and ended up living in his car. To eat, he collected signatures on the beach for a political party. Sometimes he wound up in the hospital; even so, he refused to return home. He wouldn’t seek comfort if it meant compromising his identity.
But he never stopped dreaming—or seeing visions of what he now calls Kraven. He auditioned for a small business program where he had to present a proposal and explain how it could benefit Puerto Rico. His pitch: Kraven Studio. This was when he first designed the logos for Kraven Entertainment and Kraven Studios—more than 20 years ago. He argued that a thriving film industry could help make the island financially independent. His proposal was accepted, and for a year he attended both college and the special program. But in the end, he was too young for anyone to take his ambitious plans seriously. He knew that to bring that vision to life, he would have to leave—to gain experience, find opportunities, and grow—so one day he could return and build Kraven Studios. He saw that chance in the Disney College Program. What inspired him most about Walt Disney wasn’t just the creative work—it was the story of perseverance, of a man who, against all odds, built a lasting legacy in this world.
At 17, he moved to the U.S. through the Disney College Program. He worked as a dishwasher and waiter, surviving while trying to break into the media industry. A year later, in 2007, he landed a role that led him to become a case producer for Caso Cerrado, an experience that took him to several projects with Telemundo in Miami. He was only twenty—one of the youngest on the team.
Telemundo was a valuable experience, but Fernando quickly saw the darker side of the industry—a toxic environment where the dream of working in media often felt more like a nightmare. He stayed just long enough to learn, to observe, to understand how things worked from the inside. Then he walked away, determined to build something of his own. Back in Miami Beach, working as a waiter in a beachside restaurant, he began to notice that gay magazines were hypersexualized and didn’t reflect the community he knew.
“No one was talking about who we really were, how we lived, or what we dreamed about.”
He launched Kraven Magazine, a high-end gay lifestyle publication focused on empowerment and representation. He ran it independently for five years: writing, designing, selling ads, distributing copies across the city, even sneaking into art schools to use their computers.
“I remember my boss catching me hiding in the restaurant, writing ideas for the magazine during my shift. He told me to stop dreaming and get back to waiting tables.”
That moment became fuel. Against all odds, he quit two months later and returned weeks afterward to leave his magazine in the very place they had doubted his dream. Soon after, that journey led him to San Francisco.
In 2014, living in San Francisco and with the magazine in crisis, he decided to close it. For the final issue, an author submitted an article about the lack of LGBTQ+ representation in comics. The piece shook him. For the first time, he saw clearly what was missing—and what he could create. He knew it wouldn’t be easy: it would take over a decade, demand more than he had, and push him to his limits. But he had found his purpose.
That’s how his first heroine was born: Neveah, a transgender superhero.
“I’d loved science fiction, fantasy, and superheroes my whole life. But we weren’t there. That article made me realize that if I wanted to see us in those stories, I had to create them.”
He shut down the magazine and launched Kraven Comics. That year, he met Waiyen Wong, who became both his creative and romantic partner. Together, they hired two artists for their first 19-page comic about a trans heroine and her journey from pain to power. Once finished, they weren’t satisfied and decided not to publish it. Fernando rewrote the characters and plot; Waiyen found new artists.
Over the next five years, they remade the same episode several times—restarting three times. What began as one trans heroine evolved into a team of six queer heroes. From two artists, they grew to a team of ten Latin artists from Venezuela. They were building a universe from scratch.
It was time to launch the Class6 series. They had no formal training, no funding, no contacts—only determination, vision, and the will to learn everything. But the pandemic hit right before launch: they lost their funding. They had completed six episodes (278 pages) with no way to publish. The community rallied, and through Kickstarter, they managed to release the comic.
Still, the strain continued: pandemic stress, financial pressure, relationship tensions.
“How are we supposed to be seen,” says Fernando, “if even major LGBTQ media prefer to cover when Marvel ‘makes’ a character gay rather than highlight original heroes created by our own community?”
He knocked on many doors.
“I wrote to big gay media outlets—and the answer was: $5,000 per article. Meanwhile, when Marvel makes a character gay, they promote it for free. They say there’s no representation; there is. They just won’t cover it unless you pay. How are we supposed to be seen if our own media silence us?”
Despite it all, he didn’t give up. He went to events, spoke to fans, and saw how Class6 deeply resonated. He was interviewed on local Seattle TV and sold out his entire stock. With the last copies, he went to Palm Springs Pride—and everything changed.
A Sony Pictures producer who had bought the book came back after reading it—moved. He invited Fernando to apply for a prestigious mentorship program, open only by producer referral. The deadline: two days. That producer, David, helped him prepare the application, which was accepted. Fernando became a semifinalist. The program would choose one emerging creator to direct an animated short under the Spider-Verse banner, mentored by Sony directors and producers.
For the interview, they tasked him with reimagining the film Flatliners as a comedy and pitching it to Sony executives. His pitch was so strong that afterward, they kept asking David when Fernando would return with an original project.
Though the spot went to an Oscar-nominated filmmaker, Fernando left with another offer: to develop his comic as an animated series—with him as director.
For the first time, he entered a major studio to pitch Class6.
“I was incredibly nervous. I couldn’t believe I was in a Sony Pictures Animation conference room, presenting my project to the director of the creative department. It was a long way from hiding in a restaurant corner scribbling magazine ideas—but it was the same dream.”
The meetings went well, but Sony had to step back due to a conflict of interest with a larger film franchise. Even so, the creative team connected him with the Vice President of Powerhouse Animation (the studio behind Netflix’s He-Man reboot). After his pitch, they came on board—not as a series, but as a full-scale animated feature film.
That meant repitching to Sony—now as a feature. It was a second chance. If they said no, he could take it elsewhere; but he wanted to get it right.
By then, Fernando and Waiyen had separated, and the producer asked him to move to Los Angeles to be available if the studio approved the film. He moved. But as he prepared the pitch, the Hollywood strikes began and everything stopped. He took the pause as a chance to go back to the beginning: the comic.
In the early days, money limited him—each page cost nearly $400, so he cut entire scenes and chapters. With everything on hold, he decided to tell the story as he had always imagined it: without limits. He rewrote the entire universe, renamed heroes, created uniforms and logos, designed a board game and a card game, and began writing a full novel—with no page caps or art restrictions. The raw, complete version of the story he had carried for years.
At the same time, for five years, he worked with a filmmaker documenting the process: from pain and rejection to creation and resilience. All self-funded.
“There were moments when I had to choose between paying the artist or eating. I used food stamps. I took survival jobs. Even escorted when there was no other option. I had no safety net, no investors, no studio. I had a purpose. And I refused to let it die.”
Today, working 14 to 18 hours a day, he’s preparing to launch on Kickstarter: the 636-page graphic novel, the literary novel, the board game, the card game, and the documentary.
“This isn’t just about superheroes. I’ve come too far to quit. I’m going to push my creative limits. It’s about the journey; about never abandoning your dreams. About committing 100% to a vision and not stopping until it becomes reality. Because representation matters—more than ever.”
Fernando isn’t ready to tell everything yet, but he acknowledges that in these years, he also fought private battles. There were moments when he turned to substances—not regularly, but enough to understand the fight. It’s a part of his story he’ll share when the time comes. For now, his focus is on the future: staying sober and finishing the project that took him eleven years to build.
After years of development, studio interest, and preparation, the project was ready to take off. But just as he neared the goal, U.S. elections brought a wave of political regression that impacted the industry. Studios became more conservative, pulling support from inclusive projects. The pursuit went on hold. The message was clear: in today’s climate, a story like this needs to go viral to break through.
Today, Fernando isn’t just launching a creative universe—he’s fighting to prove that original, bold stories created by queer people deserve a global stage. He hopes to gain the support of both the community and those tired of the same old formula. In a world saturated with AI and reboots, what we need is something real: a universe born from pain, built in darkness, and made against all odds. A universe with truth and representation, created by someone few expected to get this far.