Chapter Text

Chapter Nine: The Debut

Ten Years Later…

The Gotham Art Gallery buzzed with the quiet murmur of polite conversation and the clinking of champagne flutes. Soft, ambient music drifted through the air, providing a stark contrast to the vibrant, dynamic art adorning the walls. Each piece, a study of motion in life, captured fleeting moments of profound physical expression, rendered with a raw intensity that captivated every viewer.

Cassandra Kyle, now a poised and charismatic adult, stood by her favourite piece: a charcoal sketch of two cats mid-leap, gracefully dancing in the wind. She wore a tailored black dress, simple yet elegant, and her dark hair fell in a sleek cascade around her shoulders. She engaged politely with a few patrons, her learned social graces a convincing mask for the intense observation that still lay beneath. Her eyes, still as perceptive as ever, absorbed every detail of the room, every subtle shift in expression, every unspoken sentiment.

Gotham hadn’t seen her in a decade. She and Selina had disappeared after that rooftop night, no goodbyes, no rumours. Just gone. And now, out of nowhere, she returned not as a fugitive’s daughter but as a rising star in the art world. Her exhibit was the talk of the season.

Then the murmurs began, a ripple of whispers cut through the crowd like a blade: “He’s here.”

Cassandra didn’t need to turn to know who they were referring to. She felt that familiar weight in the air, like storm clouds rolling in. She clenched her glass just slightly tighter as Bruce Wayne entered with Barbara Gordon at his side. Bruce was older now, lines drawn deeper into his face, but still composed and controlled, the very image of Gotham’s eternal sentinel. Barbara, elegant and warm, gave a small smile to Cassandra as they approached.

“Miss Kyle,” Barbara greeted softly, with a warm genuine smile on her face. “Your art is truly incredible. They capture so much life. I particularly like the piece you did on the ballerina. I felt like she might leap off the canvas.”

Surprise flickered in Cassandra’s eyes before she smoothed it into a polite smile. “Thank you, Miss…”

“Gordon, Barbara Gordon, but you can call me Barbara.”

Bruce took a step forward. “Cassie-”

“It’s Cassandra Kyle, Mister Wayne,” she cut in, cool and sharp, as she turned to face him.

Bruce’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. “Of course, Cassandra.” He gestured to the walls. “Your work are truly remarkable. You’ve done well.”

Cassandra rolled her eyes. “They are.”

“Where’s Selina?” Bruce asked, his eyes scanning the room as if expecting to see her lurking in the shadows.

Cassandra winced, and tilted her head. “She’s in the back.” The answer was brief and dismissive, and simply walked away, leaving the pair with her paintings and guests.

Barbara raised her brows. “Well, sounds like she knows who you are,” Barbara said quietly, her eyes still following Cassandra’s path. “I remember she was so quiet. Barely making a sound, let alone a word.”

Bruce nodded slowly, his gaze on the paintings. “Now look at this,” he murmured, gesturing to the art. “She’s not just talking. She’s shouting without making a sound. Her arts are so expressive.”

“She’s become her own woman,” Barbara finished with a small, knowing smile.

Bruce stood rooted among the canvases, his gaze snagging on a piece in particular that he recognised. It was a depiction of their tense confrontation on the rooftop a decade ago. Two figures stood in opposition, their bodies arced with tension. For ten years, Bruce had replayed that night in his mind. The raw anger in Cassie’s eyes. The single, broken word: “Ma-ma”. It was a sound that had held him at a standstill, a desperate cry that had forced him to see the girl not as a case to be solved, but as a child with a home. Cassandra’s hand had transformed the raw emotion into something almost graceful. Their movements were frozen between furious debate and profound stillness. She had taken chaos and reimagined it as art.

Cassandra moved through the crowd, her polite composure intact. She slipped into a quiet alcove near the far wall, and the mask of elegance cracked. The sound of Bruce’s voice still clung to her, dredging up memories she had buried. She pressed her palms together, forcing the quiver out of her hands.

“He came,” a voice whispered suddenly at her ear, so close that Cassandra’s heart skipped, a brief flicker of surprise crossing her otherwise composed features.

Selina stood there, a shadow of dark velvet, impossibly elegant. She made no comment on Cassandra being startled, no acknowledgment of the trembling hands. Her eyes scanned the room with practiced, unreadable intensity. Her voice, when it came, was a low, conspiratorial purr, as if she and Cassandra were sharing the only secret that mattered in the gallery.

“He was never going to miss a chance to see the girl he thought he saved,” Selina continued as she gazed toward the gallery.

Without another word, the two slipped away from the main gallery, disappearing through a discreet door marked ‘Staff Only’, and into a small, well-lit back room. There, on two mannequins, hung two sleek, brand-new costumes. One, a refined version of Selina’s classic purple Catwoman suit, updated with subtle enhancements. The other was entirely new, a black suit designed for Cassandra, built for stealth. Its mask was sculpted to obscure her features while preserving full peripheral vision, as expressive as it was intimidating.

Selina’s eyes gleamed as she ran a gloved hand over the fabric. “He paid a small fortune for a portrait by Anthony Frederick Augustus Sandys,” she purred, a bitter laugh in her voice. “He loves that it’s called ‘Cassandra’. It was simply too perfect a target to pass up.”

Turning to hold Cassandra’s hands in her, Selina asked, “Are you ready for your debut, Cassie?”

Cassandra looked at her mother, and a mischievous smile curved her lips. Her decision hadn’t been made tonight, but years ago, on that rain-slicked rooftop. Had it not been for his insistence on separating them, her resolve to become Catwoman’s heir might not have come so easily. He had seen a child to be saved, a liability to be removed from the equation. He was wrong. Now, she was a woman fully capable of taking care of herself, and her mother.

“Tonight, two Catwomen return to Gotham, Mom,” Cassandra said, signing as she spoke.

Chapter Text

The night wind brushed against Cassandra Kyle’s cheek as she perched on the edge of a high-rise, Gotham’s sleepless skyline stretching endlessly around her. Her new suit hugged her like a second skin – sleek and black, made for a phantom. A new Catwoman had claimed the rooftops, and the city hadn’t even realised it yet.

To be perfectly honest, Cassandra felt no particular fondness for Gotham. There was no nostalgia or romantic notion of home that brought her back. Her return was fueled by a burning resolve to defy Batman’s ultimatum, and a fierce love for the woman who had given her a home.

For ten years, Cassandra had watched Selina Kyle sacrifice her life to fulfill a promise made on a rain-slicked rooftop. She’d seen the quiet resignation, the wistful glances at news headlines, and the subtle longing for a city she couldn’t have. So, Cassandra came back for her, but she came back on her own terms.

Batman had tried to break their family apart, to define her future, to ‘save’ her. Cassandra returned to show him he had no such power, to prove that her mother was right, and she was the master of her own choices.

So when word came that Bruce Wayne had purchased the painting by Anthony Frederick Augustus Sandys, it had been the perfect excuse. The opening of her own gallery, a platform for her unique perspective, had served as the perfect excuse.

They’d stolen the painting, of course. Not for the money, but for the thrill. It was, after all, a rather poetic homecoming gift.

The heist had gone perfectly. Bruce Wayne never saw it coming, though by now, she had no doubt he knew that there were two Catwomen running through his city, and likely suspected who the second one was.

Cassandra didn’t care. She wasn’t a child anymore. Not someone to be saved, pitied, or fixed. Both she and her mother were very well capable of taking care of themselves now.

Cassandra’s gaze swept the skyline, her dark eyes unreadable behind the expressive curvature of her mask. Below her, Gotham buzzed with life like it always had been. Cassandra felt a strange sense of completion. The goal to bring Selina home, and to prove Batman wrong, had been achieved. The painting now tucked away in a secure, undisclosed location.

But what now? The exhilaration of her return, the glow of her debut, had dimmed, leaving emptiness in their place. Cassandra found herself at a crossroads, the vast, uncertain landscape of her own future stretching out before her, as intricate and shadowed as the city below. Maybe they could leave again. Return to that quiet place far from here. Or maybe it was time to plant roots here, to stop running, to carve something new out of this old, tired city.

Then a faint whirring sound sliced through the night air. Cassandra turned her head, muscles coiling instinctively, and tracked it to a grappling line anchoring onto a nearby rooftop. Her body froze. Was it him? Come to reclaim his painting? To lecture them on their broken vow to break away from crime?

Instead, a figure in an unfamiliar, hooded helmet swung into view, landing with a loud and unapologetic metallic thud of his boots. He wanted to be heard and be seen.

“Red Hood,” she said flatly, recognising him from the newsfeeds. One of the Bats from what she understood.

A low chuckle crackled through his modulated helmet. “Never gets old hearing that.” He stepped closer, casual but watchful. “Black suit. Compact frame. And you’re the new Catwoman.”

Cassandra said nothing. Her eyes, barely visible behind the sculpted mask, followed his every moves.

“I know who you are,” he continued, voice light but deliberate. “Saw your gallery show. Little dramatic. Very on-brand.”

The Catwoman in black shifted, her posture tightening.

Red Hood raised his hands slightly, more amused than alarmed. “Relax. If I was gunning for you, we’d already be trading blows.”

She tilted her head slightly. “Then why are you here?”

Red Hood crossed his arms, the wind tugging at the hem of his jacket. There was a long pause between them, Cassandra suspected that he had a lot on his mind, but couldn’t figure out how to say them.

“Let’s just say I got curious. You don’t break into Wayne Manor and walk off with something priceless without making a few waves. Gotham’s watching, Catwoman.”

He turned, boots echoing as he walked toward the ledge. Just before he dropped out of sight, he glanced back over his shoulder.

“Be careful, Catwoman. Gotham doesn’t let people walk away clean. Not even the quiet ones.”

Then he was gone, another sharp whirr of a grapple line cutting through the air. Cassandra stood alone again.

Chapter Text

The sizzle of butter on the pan was the only sound in the quiet apartment. Morning sunlight streamed through floor-to-ceiling windows, spilling across polished Calacatta marble tiles that gleamed like still water. The kitchen was a sleek showcase of wealth, the kind most people only saw in glossy magazines.

It was Cassandra’s now, paid for with the bold strokes and shadow-drenched colours of her canvases. Even before they had set foot back in Gotham, her art had begun to sell, finding their way into the right galleries and private collections. Of course, not without help of Selina Kyle’s contacts in the art world’s highest circles.

They could afford a maid or two, but both felt more comfortable by themselves and their cats. Selina went through the routine without thinking, flipping an egg and nudging a half-sliced avocado with the back of a spoon.

She glanced at the closed door of Cassandra’s bedroom, it was past ten, and yet there was no sign of life coming from it. Cassandra was out last night again. The faint scuff on the window latch. The nearly imperceptible drag of dirt across the sill. Cassandra can be a ghost, but to Selina Kyle’s keen eyes, the subtle tells were obvious, signs a stranger might overlook, but proof that Cassandra Kyle still had much to learn about covering her tracks.

Not that she was mad. Not even a little. Honestly, if she was being truthful with herself, she felt a flicker of something dangerously close to pride. Cassandra was doing it right – smart, silent and efficient. No bloodshed, no trails, and no unnecessary risks.

She stirred the eggs a little too hard.

Selina just wished Cassandra would tell her why she kept slipping out on these late-night trips alone.

She missed the sketches.

Back when Cassandra couldn’t talk much, she communicated through her sketches, her thoughts poured out in graphite, silent monologues drawn on papers and walls. Angry portraits. Thoughtful outlines. Joyful smears. That cute boy she had crash on. All the unspoken things of a girl learning how to breathe.

Then as she grew older, she got those pink princess diaries with lock (not like that would stop Selina, but she had resisted doing so), and started keeping secrets. Now, she had all grown up, and the only sketchbooks were drafts for her professional pieces, her thoughts no longer an open book.

With a sigh, she plated the eggs and toast, just the way Cassandra liked it, then sat down. She wondered how her mother handled her when she was young.

She’d seen the look in Cassandra’s eyes yesterday, the kind that didn’t belong to a girl playing thief for fun anymore. It was that dangerous in-between place, caught between performance and purpose. A place Selina had lived in too long to not recognise now.

She knew what came next. The questions that loomed once the thrill of return faded: “Is this home? Are we still running?”

She didn’t have answers. She never had, really.

But she knew this, Cassandra was slipping into the city the way a shadow slips across a rooftops, and Gotham was starting to notice.

Selina leaned back, staring at the ceiling.

“She’s not a girl anymore,” she murmured to the empty room. “She’s starting to decide who she wants to be.”

Then she smiled, small and sly. “And she’s doing a damn good job.”

From the hallway, soft footsteps padded against the marble. Cassandra appeared, sleepy-eyed, wearing one of Selina’s old shirts.

Selina raised an eyebrow. “Sleep well, Cassie?”

Cassandra rubbed her eyes, and offered a non-committal shrug.

Selina slid the plate across. “Breakfast’s hot. So is the kettle.”

Cassandra dropped into the seat across from her and took up the fork.

Selina smiled.

Chapter Text

The low hum of the gallery’s climate control system was a stark contrast to the buzzing Gotham streets outside. Cassandra Kyle stood quietly in a black silk blouse and tailored slacks, her hair swept into a sleek bun. She looked like she belonged here — rich, elegant, untouchable.

Her recent art sale had been a major success, making her a wealthy public figure almost overnight. A darling of the Gotham art scene, known more for her silence than her brushwork.

She hated every second of it.

After the acclaim of her solo exhibition, Cassandra was thrust into an unwanted spotlight. Investors, collectors, and half-curious influencers circled like vultures. Some recognised her face from rare interviews, others from whispered gossip. All looked at her like she was something to possess. Cassandra offered only tight smiles, polite nods, and untouched wine.

The gallery hummed with curated conversation and ambient jazz, until the lights flickered. Half the room dimmed, and the music cut off. A hush fell over the guests like a dropped curtain.

Three men in catering uniforms moved too fast through the crowd. One of them pressed a blade lightly against Cassandra’s side beneath the silver tray in his hand.

“Come with us,” he whispered, low and calm. The blade pressed deeper, slicing the silk of her blouse just enough to graze warm skin.

She read the room in an instantly. She could incapacitate them in under six seconds, but thirteen people were in the room, all already teetering on panic. One wrong move and someone could get hurt.

“Don’t make us drag you, sweetheart.”

The second man yanked hard on her arm, nearly pulling her off balance, as if trying to provoke a stumble. But Cassandra flowed with the motion, loose and pliant, denying them the satisfaction. Her lack of resistance seemed to frustrate them more than any fight would have. She kept walking when guided, breathing slow and steady.

The third walked behind, his hand casually in his jacket where the bulge of a gun was too obvious. As they moved toward the service hallway, their demeanour shifted. One muttered into a communicator. At the far end of the corridor, a loading bay door creaked open.

A black van waited.

Cassandra was halfway into the van when something hard struck the back of her skull, a sharp, metallic crack that lit her vision with white. Her last glimpse was the light above spinning away, her body limp as they dragged her inside like cargo.

ᓚᘏᗢ

The world returned in fragments, a throbbing pain behind her eyes. Her head hung forward, her neck stiff, as she slowly registered her surroundings. She was zip-tied to a cold metal chair, her wrists bound tight in a warehouse reeking of rust and old gasoline. Subtly, she began working the ties, her wrists testing the give of the plastic restraints.

Looking up was an effort that made her head ache. She counted four masked figures now; the fourth must have been the driver.

The one to her right was lean and twitchy, nervously scrolling through her phone, no doubt looking for a ransom contact.

To her left, a broad-shouldered man leaned against a crate, arms crossed. She recognised him the man with the gun by his size and posture.

Near the entrance, a stocky thug in security uniform paced with a baton in one hand, which she suspected to be the cause of her headache.

The closest one, the ringleader, leaned in, a cruel smile playing on his lips.

“Big name in the art world,” he said, voice oily. “Let’s see what kind of luxury package you come with.”

He produced a dagger and held it low, a casual but menacing threat that hovered just above her chin. A cold fury rose within Cassandra, but her face remained impassive. Her dark eyes were fixed on the man, her gaze unwavering and devoid of emotion.

The blankness of her stare and the lack of any expected reaction seemed to unnerve him, causing him to step back.

Across the room, the twitchy thug with her phone spoke up, louder now and more frustrated. “She’s got no emergency contact listed. You believe that? No agent, no bodyguard, no family. Who the hell is this girl?”

“Don’t matter,” said the one by the door. “She’s money. Just grab the last number she called, and let’s get this over with.”

Suddenly, the skylight shattered, raining shards of glass like starlight as Red Hood dropped through it, shotgun raised. One of the men barely managed a scream before the weapon barked, a beanbag round smashing into his thigh.

The ringleader spun at the sound of shattering glass, momentarily forgetting her.

“Hope you guys aren’t too attached to your kneecaps,” Jason growled.

The big man lunged. Jason drove a boot into his solar plexus, sending him crashing into a stack of crates.

Baton-thug charged next; Jason slipped the swing, rammed an elbow into his throat, and finished him with two quick blows.

The twitchy man bolted forward with a switchblade. Jason stepped in and floored him with one punch.

The distraction was enough. Cassandra’s wrists flexed, muscles coiling, and the zip-ties cracked like dry twigs.

Snap.

When the ringleader snapped back at his hostage, she was already free. His smirk faltered. With a hiss, he twisted the dagger in a flourish and lunged for Cassandra’s chest. The strike was fast, but her body reacted before thought, her arms snapping up to knock the blade aside.

Steel skidded past her ribs instead of into them, carving a long tear through the black silk of her blouse. He slashed again, the edge biting through a sleeve, then drove forward in a desperate jab that ripped across the hem. The last strike grazed her side, drawing a thin line of crimson against her skin.

Her counter came as pure muscle memory, a precise nerve strike aimed at his shoulder. The blow landed, but missed by a fraction. A jolt of cold realisation hit her: ten years without real combat had dulled her edge.

The ringleader moved with efficiency. He drove for Cassandra again, dagger flashing. She caught the motion in her periphery, deflected the slash with her forearm, the shock biting through bone.

She answered with another strike for the brachial plexus.

He came in for a follow-up, but she pivoted, trapped his wrist, and wrenched sharply. The dagger clattered to the floor.

Behind her, baton-thug staggered up again, eyes on Jason’s unprotected back. Cassandra slid under his swing, swept his legs, and drove a heel into his temple. The thud was final.

Jason looked over with an expression carrying a mix of surprise and approval, before tipping his head back slightly, as if he were seeing her in a new light.

“Oh. It’s you,” he said at last. “Heard that someone got kidnapped, didn’t expect it to be you. You let them take you?”

Cassandra nodded, and was immediately reminded her head still ache.

“Too many civilians.”

Jason gave a small grunt of approval as he crouched to restrain the downed criminals. “You okay?”

Cassandra blinked. “I’m fine,” she said, her voice softer than usual. Her fingers worked at the ruined garment, tugging the torn silk together where slashes exposed glimpses of skin.

“You sure?” He paused, his gaze falling on the torn silk clinging to her shoulder like a ghost of elegance.

Then, without a word, he peeled off his leather jacket. The motion was fluid, effortless, but she caught every detail. The flex of his biceps beneath the fabric, the way the protective gear clung to the broad planes of his chest before falling away. Beneath it, his undershirt stretched across a torso carved with lean, hard defined muscle. Strength honed by use, not vanity.

Her eyes lingered despite herself. His arms corded with veins, tanned and dusted with faint scars looked like they could lift the world, or crush it. Her breath caught for a heartbeat, heat blooming in her cheeks, but he either didn’t notice or pretended not to. He offered the jacket without a word, hand unwavering.

A strange flutter rose in Cassandra’s chest as she took it. The jacket was far too big, but it felt good and was still warm from his body.

Jason jerked a thumb at the broken exit. “Let’s get out of here. GCPD’ll be here in ten.”

He disappeared into the shadows first, but Cassandra lingered a second longer. Skull aching and heart pounding for reasons she couldn’t explain.

Chapter Text

The midday sun hung high and heavy over the beach, casting golden light across the pale sand. Waves murmured their constant song nearby, but the beach was otherwise quiet, save for the occasional squawk of a gull circling above.

She stood barefoot in the sand, in a sleek black bikini, her skin kissed bronze by the sun. Her dark sunglasses caught the sunlight as she watched the man before her.

He was a tall, broad figure with muscles rippled across his back and arms like living sculpture. His red motorcycle helmet gleamed ridiculously under the sun.

She stepped closer, the bottle of sunscreen cool in her hand.

“Lie down,” she said with a playful smirk, motioning with two fingers.

He obeyed without a word, stretching himself out on the towel, face down. His immense back flexed, the sun catching on the sheen of his skin. She knelt down, straddling one thigh with her knees brushing against the sand.

Click.

The cap of the sunscreen popped open. A small dollop of white cream hit the centre of his back.

Her hands began their work. The sunscreen spread across the landscape of muscle, her fingers tracing the deep valleys between his shoulder blades, sliding over the ridges of his spine. His skin was hot under her palms, alive and humming.

Her touch drifted lower, slowly, sensually down to the small of his back, where the red fabric of his trunks clung snugly. Her fingers danced along the waistband, teasing, slipping just beneath it. She smiled, biting her lip, ready to pull it just a little further.

With a violent tug, she pulled the men's trunks off, but all she was rewarded with was the man’s back erupting Into thick, soft, dark fur across his entire back.

She gasped, jerking back, heart racing, hands still smeared with sunscreen now lost in the matted fur. Her breath caught in her throat.

Garrrgh.

She awoke.

Flat on her back, her face engulfed in the soft, warm weight of her cat.

“Felix!” she hissed, pushing the tabby off her face as he meowed indignantly and hopped to the floor. Her heart was still racing, her skin oddly warm, as if she'd just stepped out of the sun.

She sat up, blinking against the grey morning light filtering through the curtains. One pillow was tangled around her legs, her sheets half on the floor.

For a moment, she tried to recall what she had just been dreaming. A beach? Something red?

But the details slipped away like footprints in wet sand, erased by the tide of waking life.

Chapter Text

Cassandra Kyle moved quietly across a rooftop above the business district, her boots making no sound on the old tar. Ever since the first heist with her mother, they hadn’t stolen anything else. Unlike Selina, Cassandra held little interest in jewels or priceless vases. The thrill was the dance itself, not the prize.

She prowled the rooftops almost every night, not to steal, but for the serenity of the night. The longer she stayed in motion, the less her mind had to grapple with the big questions. It was a reprieve from the thoughts about what came next. About whether she and Selina would stay. About whether she was trying to become something, or simply avoiding becoming anything at all.

A sharp cry was abruptly cut off by a guttural grunt. Her eyes, sharp and restless behind her mask, scanned the street below. In a narrow, unlit alley, two figures had a man in suit pinned. One held a silenced pistol to the businessman’s chest, and the other kept him still. This wasn’t robbery, but a professional hit.

She dropped into the fray, but her decade-long break from this kind of combat made itself known almost immediately. She landed hard, her boot skidding on the gravel, and she gritted her teeth as pain shot up her ankle. The first killer didn’t see her until a precise kick to the ribs sent him staggering, his grip on the pistol loosening. Before the second could react, her hand struck a nerve cluster in his neck, dropping him to his knees. The intervention shattered their deadly intent. Scrambling to regain control, they found Cassandra a step ahead. A swift disarming manoeuvre kicked the second hitman’s weapon away, and a follow-up strike incapacitated him.

The businessman slumped against the railing, chest heaving, his eyes fixed on the figure who had appeared from the night. Cassandra approached him, movements precise as she assessed him. His breathing was shallow; she had arrived just in time. She simply nodded, a silent acknowledgment of the danger averted, and melted back into the shadows as quickly as she had appeared, leaving the stunned man alone on the walkway.

But she wasn’t alone.

High above, crouched against the railing of a fire escape, Robin narrowed his eyes behind his mask. He was just seconds away from intervening the situation himself before the Catwoman stepped in.

“Well,” he murmured, “that was efficient.”

Spoiler leaned forward beside him, lavender hood casting her face in shadow, asking, “Is that Catwoman? I heard she was back in Gotham. Stole something from Bruce. But I didn’t expect her to be pulling alley rescues.”

“That’s the new Catwoman,” Robin replied. “And she just saved someone.”

Spoiler said, thoughtfully. “She’s different.”

They leaped from the fire escape, their capes catching briefly on the wind. Cassandra was already halfway up the opposite building when Robin called out.

“Wait, you don’t have to run, you know.”

Cassandra paused and turned slowly, crouched on the edge of a ledge, eyes narrowed beneath the sculpted mask.

“I’m Robin,” Robin said, lifting a hand to gesture. “And this is Spoiler.”

Spoiler stepped forward, hands half-raised in peace. “We’re not here to start a fight. Promise. We just want to talk. You helped someone. That’s not nothing.”

Cassandra didn’t move. Cassandra considered them both, these two young vigilantes in bold colours, they were different from the shadows she and Selina inhabited. Different from the controlled rage she had sensed in the Red Hood, and there were genuine curiosity and kindness in their eyes, a lack of immediate hostility.

Then Cassandra spoke, her voice quiet but clear through the mask.

“He was going to die.”

The simplicity of the answer hung in the air. Robin and Spoiler exchanged a look. It wasn’t the answer they expected.

Robin nodded. “You stopped it. Not everyone would’ve.”

Spoiler’s tone softened. “We saw what you did tonight. You don’t have to do it alone, you know.”

Cassandra’s attention snapped back toward her.

Robin quickly added, “We’re not trying to recruit you. Just letting you know that you’re not the only one out here.”

He reached into a pouch and pulled out a slim black communicator, barely larger than a coin. He tossed it underhanded. Cassandra caught it with ease.

“It’s just a channel. You don’t have to use it,” Robin said. “But if you ever need backup, or just want to listen.”

Spoiler added, “It’s private and secure, only among us.”

Cassandra didn’t respond, her eyes drifted to the device for a second, then, before tucking it away.

Spoiler nodded, folding her arms. “You’re not like the other Catwoman.”

Cassandra’s eyes narrowed, but her stance eased just slightly, then, without a word, she turned and vanished into the shadows. 

“She’s good,” Robin sighed, already scanning the skyline for her trail, but couldn’t find anything.

Spoiler agreed. “She’s very good. And shorter than I thought.”

Chapter Text

The afternoon was a pleasant mix of warm sun and a cool, fragrant breeze. Nestled on a corner was a tiny, old-fashioned tea parlor, its pastel tables spilling onto the sidewalk. Cassandra Kyle sat alone at a table, plates of delicate cakes and saucers of teacups rested between herself and an empty chair. Selina Kyle had excused herself a moment ago, disappearing toward the row of powder-blue doors that led to the restroom.

Cassandra watched the passersby, her senses still sharp despite the tranquil setting. She read the minute tells of impatience in a man waiting for his date, the quiet tension between a mother and her teenage son, and the easy affection of an old couple. She picked up her fork, nudging a strawberry tart into halves.

When the chair across from her scraped back, she looked up. But the figure settling in was not her mother. Cassandra froze, fork halfway to the tart. A wave of irritation washed away her surprise; this stranger shouldn’t be here.

He leaned back, a study in contradictions. Her hyper awareness took him in, reading the easy confidence in his posture, the subtle twitch in his hand as it rested on his knee. He had the kind of casual ease that made him look like he belonged everywhere and nowhere. His face was sharp, attractive, but a faint, rugged scar above his right eyebrow was a clear marker of violence. His sharp blue eyes held a disarming intelligence, and a tense set to his jaw displayed a dangerous focus.

Cassandra’s jaw tightened. She opened her mouth to tell him to leave, but he cut her off, his voice a low, casual rumble.

“Just relax,” he said, not looking at her. “Act natural.”

He was scanning the street, his attention on something she couldn’t see.

He reached across the table, his hand wrapping around Selina’s fork. Cassandra’s own fingers curled into a fist, but before she could react, he speared the half of tart she’d been about to eat. Without hesitation, he popped it into his mouth and slowly savoured it.

“That’s mine,” she hissed. Heat flared in her cheeks.

He turned to look at her, a questioning look in his eyes, then a raised brow followed by a slow smirk.

“You don’t recognise me, do you?” he asked, amusement clear in his voice.

She stared at him, bewildered. Her mind drew a complete blank; she couldn’t imagine knowing any man as crude as him.

“No,” she said flatly.

Just then, his body tensed. His eyes narrowed, and his head moved just a fraction. He saw something she missed. “My ride’s here,” he murmured, his cake-filled grin disappearing. Cassandra followed the line of his sight, and the pieces clicked. He wasn’t here for her. He was tailing someone, and was using her as a temporary, convenient cover.

He stood up, and turned to walk away.

And in that instant, she saw it, not his face, but his back, the way he moved, and the leather jacket. The jacket he had given her on that warehouse night. Her hand shot out before she could think better of it.

“Wait,” she called. He paused, glancing back.

“Your jacket,” she said, her voice sterner. “It’s still with me.”

He laughed, a short, sharp sound. “Just throw it away if you don’t want it.”

“I won’t,” she replied, her voice firm. She had it laundered, and she was not going to have her effort tossed away.

A glint of approval, or was it amusement, appeared in his eyes. He dug into his pocket and produced a battered pen, then caught her wrist with surprising gentleness. On the back of her hand, he scribbled an address into her skin.

“Mail it here,” he said.

She stared at the address, and murmured a curse under her breath over recognising it. When she looked up, the chair was empty. Jason was gone, folded back into the noise of the street like he had never been there.

ᓚᘏᗢ

Wayne Manor

The next day, Alfred Pennyworth’s brow furrowed slightly as he opened a large white box that had been left on the front porch. Inside was one of Master Jason’s leather jackets, but neatly folded and freshly laundered. There was no note, but Alfred smiled to himself nonetheless, as if knowing something. He shook his head and carried the box inside.

Chapter Text

The night air was a cold blanket over the industrial docks, carrying the scent of salt, rust, and the metallic tang of fresh blood. Cassandra Kyle, in her black Catwoman suit, watched from a distance as a furious fight unfolded below. The flashes of muzzle fire lit up his silhouette in brief, violent bursts. Red Hood was taking on a small army of armed thugs. His movements were sharp and relentless. Every strike he landed came with bone-breaking force, every dodge an opening for more brutality.

He was good, but reckless, and Cassandra’s trained eye saw the tells of a man overextending. He was taking too many hits, his movements becoming just a fraction of a second too slow. A small part of her, the part that had learned to stay out of the chaos, screamed at her to leave. But the larger part, the one that saw a familiar desperation in his movements, refused.

The fight was winding down, but Cassandra’s vigilance remained. As a gang member pulled a knife on Red Hood, she didn’t hesitate. She plunged from the rooftop, and her elbow slammed into his ribs, stopping the attack before it could land. A second man’s shot rang out, grazing her side as she twisted to disarm him. Blood welled up against the black fabric of her suit, hot and sharp.

Red Hood dispatched the last thug with a brutal kick to the sternum before turning to see her stagger slightly.

“You again. You followed me?” he asked, but his tone was more surprised than angry.

“No,” she said sharply, her voice tight with pain.

“You’re bleeding.”

“I know.”

She took another step away, and faltered. Jason caught her before she could fall, his gloved hand gripping her arm, steadying her. She didn’t protest. There was no point in pretending she wasn’t hurt. She was strong, but she wasn’t invincible.

The gang members lay sprawled around them, groaning and unconscious. Jason moved to bind their wrists with zip-ties he pulled from his belt.

Cassandra watched silently from where she sat against a wall, catching her breath. Her eyes followed the way he moved, not precise like a soldier, but habitual, like someone used to clean-up duty.

He finished binding the last one, then turned to her, helmet catching the faint light. “Come on. You’re limping. You need somewhere to patch up.”

She hesitated. She’d never let someone lead her anywhere. But something in his voice wasn’t patronising, and the pain in her side made the decision easier.

“Alright…”

ᓚᘏᗢ

Jason’s apartment was a clean but unadorned unit near Crime Alley. Neutral walls, broken up only by the gleam of weapons mounted for easy reach. The air carried the faint scent of old coffee and burnt toast. It was messy, but lived-in — the steady hum of the ceiling fan mingling with the faint clink of dishes from the kitchen. On the counter, a gun-cleaning kit lay spread out beside an ashtray, a single stubbed cigarette still faintly smelling of smoke. In the corner, a sagging bookshelf bowed under the weight of crime novels and military history, their spines cracked from use yet neatly arranged.

Cassandra sat on the couch as Jason brought over a med kit, then crouched down in front of her.

“Let me.”

She didn’t hesitate, and lifted just enough of her top to expose the wound on her side. It was deeper than she thought, and it stung like hell when she peeled the fabric off it. A sharp gasp escaped her lips, a sound she never would have made as a child. The pain was a sharp, screaming fire, a sensation she hadn’t felt in a decade. Her father’s training had dulled her nerves into a quiet ache, but the years of laughter and language had rewired her. She was a different person now.

Jason knelt closer, his touch so gentle it surprised her, as if she might break from his touch. He dabbed antiseptic along the wound, his brows drawn in focus. His eyes were drawn to the faint scars across her side and lower ribs. Jason’s hand hovered for a moment, his jaw tightening. He didn’t say anything, but she knew he noticed them.

As he began to wrap the gauze, his knuckles brushed against her skin. Their eyes met, and his fingers lingered just a moment longer than necessary.

For a breathless instant, neither moved. The touch was accidental and wasn’t intimate, but it made them both sharply aware of how close they were. She kept her body still, waiting to see what he’d do next.

Jason cleared his throat softly to reset the moment.

Broken from the trance, Cassandra asked, “You’re good at this.”

“Had to,” he corrected, tying the gauze off. “There wasn’t always someone else around.”

She watched him closely at not just his hands, but his posture, the way his shoulders tensed even as his voice stayed casual. There was something in that answer that feel honest.

She asked softly, “When was that?”

Jason didn’t look at her right away, and busied himself with the edge of the bandage, smoothing it down.

“Long time ago.”

She was about to ask something else, but sensing the line she wasn’t meant to cross, she stopped herself.

“It’s not fair,” she murmured, a stray thought slipping free. “You know everything about me, but all I know about you is that you’re good at patching people up.”

“You flatten me,” he replied, sounding amused.

“Let’s start from the top,” Cassandra said suddenly, her words rushing out before she could second-guess them.

She reached for the edge of her mask, but paused mid-motion, her fingers paused at the seam, like she was already questioning the impulse. Then, with a small breath, she tugged it off.

Her damp hair clung to her temples. Her face was flushed from the heat or something else, it was hard to say. She held the mask loosely in one hand, as if it no longer served a purpose.

“Hi.” Her voice was soft, but sure. “I’m Cassandra Kyle.”

She knew that he already knew her name and identity, yet saying it out like that without a mask, felt strangely vulnerable.

Jason didn’t speak right away, but swallowed a lump in his throat. He just looked at her and his expression softened, like he understood what it cost her to say it out loud.

Silence hung between them for a moment, before Jason reached to the back of his helmet and unclasped it. It was the same handsome face from that sidewalk pastry store.

“Hi, I’m Jason Todd. And yeah, I was the Robin from ten years ago, that’s how I recognised you as that kid with the creepy stare and freaky-fast reflexes.”

She froze, more surprised than alarmed. She didn’t feel threatened by the fact that he knew more about her than she thought. Her eyes narrowed, and searched his face for a memory, but nothing solid came. Just a blur.

He must’ve noticed, because he smirked and leaned back on his heels.

“Don’t worry. You barely said a word to any of us back then. Honestly, I’ll be surprised you remembered anyone at all.”

“I remember Batman,” she said, her voice soft with a hint of mischief. “… and Batgirl.”

Jason shrugged, a small smile touching his lips.

“You want to go out sometime?” he asked suddenly.

She blinked. “W-what? Excuse me?” Cassandra’s fingers curled around the edge of the couch, holding onto it for support.

“A date. You, me, no masks, just food and sarcasm.”

Cassandra tilted her head, suspicious. Not of him, but of what this was. Her voice dropped low. “You don’t know me.”

“I’d like to,” Jason said. “If you’ll let me.”

She hesitated. Then a slow, cautious smile tugged at her lips.

“You’re strange…”

“Better than being broody.”

She looked at him for a long heartbeat. And then nodded. Just once.

“Okay.”

Jason grinned as he stood. “Great. But next time? Don’t get shot.”

She rolled her eyes, but the smile stayed.

Chapter Text

Morning sunlight filtered through the windows of their Gotham apartment, soft and muted against the blinds. Selina Kyle moved through the kitchen with feline grace, whisking eggs into a bowl and humming quietly to herself. The faint aroma of coffee lingered in the air. She poured a splash into her mug, took a sip, and let out a content sigh.

Selina didn’t need to check the bedroom to know her daughter had slipped out again last night. The extra boot prints by the window, the telltale scuff of the lock; Cassandra was stealthy, yes, but she has much to learn about hiding evidences.

Still, there was something off.

Cassandra had come home injured. Selina could smell the disinfectant when she passed her door earlier, saw the slight hitch in her daughter’s stride when she thought no one was looking.

But she didn’t pry. She was an adult now. Selina had fought too long and hard to give her that autonomy.

The eggs were almost done when Cassandra padded in, dressed not in her usual black tank and sweats but in a soft cream blouse tucked loosely into faded denim jeans. Her hair was tied back in a low ponytail, a few strands framing her face, and looked half-asleep.

“You’re up late,” Selina said casually, flipping the eggs. “And limping a little.”

Cassandra halted mid-step.

Selina didn’t look at her, and just smirked to herself. “Not judging.”

Cassandra shrugged, evasive. “Slipped.”

Selina turned just in time to catch her daughter grabbing a slice of toast, and let her eyes sweep over the details again: concealer dabbed carefully under her eyes, a faint swipe of lip gloss, eyeliner tracing her gaze sharper than usual.

“Going for an interview?” Selina said, raising an eyebrow.

Cassandra’s body went rigid. She dropped the toast, her hands coming up in a blur of motion to sign: “Don’t ask.”

Selina blinked. It had been years since Cassandra only signed instead of speaking. She only did that when she panicked and forgot she could speak.

Her eyes narrowed in amusement. “A date?”

Cassandra looked horrified. She turned away, grabbed her coffee, and tried to disappear into the corner of the kitchen.

Selina leaned against the counter, grinning. “That’s a yes.”

ᓚᘏᗢ

Later that day…

Gotham’s streets shimmered under a fresh coat of rain as Cassandra walked alongside Jason through the quieter end of Gotham. Their shoulders brushed now and then, the air between them charged but companionable. Jason had swapped his leather jacket for a black hoodie and jeans. Though his clothes were simple, his presence and posture were still unmistakably his.

They had no destination, but eventually stopped at a lookout over a park. Trees rustled gently below, their leaves brushing against wrought iron. The world felt peaceful here.

“I don’t really do this,” Cassandra said, resting her forearms on the railing.

Jason glanced over, amusement in his eyes. “Go on walks? Or dates? Cassie.”

Cassandra stiffened at being called by her nickname, it had always been her mother’s name for her, and hers alone. But Jason said it so simply, that she let it stay. She looked away, though a small smile betrayed her.

“Both,” she admitted after a pause.

“Yeah, I figured.” His grin widened, easy, unbothered. He leaned against the railing beside her, shoulder brushing hers. “You’ve got that look. Like you’d rather be cruising the skyline than wasting time with me.”

Her lips twitched, to a near smile. “Maybe.”

Jason chuckled, a low sound that carried between them. “Guess I’ll take a ‘maybe’ over a ‘no’.”

His laughter lingered for a beat before fading, and in the seconds that followed, Cassandra studied him. “You keep checking over your shoulder like the city’s out to get you. You don’t always have to be on guard, you know.”

Jason gave a short, humourless laugh. “Old habits. Hard to kill.”

She looked at him. “You’ve got layers. Most people hide theirs, bury them deep. Yours are right on the surface, patched together with duct tape. You’ve worn them for so long that they’ve become part of you.”

For the first time that day, a low, surprised laugh slipped past his guard. “Guess I’m that obvious, huh?”

Cassandra felt her cheeks warm and looked away, trying to hide the flush.

Jason leaned slightly closer, smirk teasing. “Don’t get all serious on me, Cassie. I might start thinking you actually enjoy my company.”

“I-,” Cassandra started, then shook her head. “I don’t.”

“You’re lying,” he said, grinning. “I see it.”

Cassandra couldn’t hold it any longer. A quiet, reluctant smile broke across her face.

Jason caught it, grinning wider. “Careful, Cassie. Blink and I’ll think you’re actually having fun.”

Then a voice called out from nearby. “Hey, small world.”

Jason groaned.

Two teens cut across the park path from the opposite side, arm in arm, mid-laugh. The boy in a grey jacket, the girl in a ponytail and squeaky pink boots. Cassandra turned slightly, her eyes narrowing. Civilian clothes or not, their stances and strides told her instantly who they were: Robin and Spoiler.

“Well, well,” Stephanie’s grin widened as she approached. “Look at you two… actually smiling. Did someone finally figure out a joke?”

Jason shot her a smirk. “You’re projecting, Steph. You and Tim were practically dry-humping on that bench.”

Tim coughed. “We were not.”

Jason shifted, angling his body just enough to shield Cassandra. “Tim. Steph. This is Cassandra.”

Tim gave a polite nod. “Nice to meet you.”

Cassandra briefly dipped her head in polite response. “You too.”

“What are you doing here, Steph?”

“Just out for a walk?” Stephanie said, her eyes flitting between Jason and Cassandra. “This looks way more interesting. A secret rendezvous? Don’t tell me you were just going to loiter around here all day. Come on, we’re all getting coffee. Now.”

Jason started to protest, but Stephanie had already looped her arm gently through Cassandra’s. Her touch was firm, but warm. “Double date time. New café down the street. Their lattes are heaven.”

Cassandra didn’t resist. She glanced once at Jason, then at Stephanie. The girl’s grip was insistent but not hostile; her excitement held no malice, just genuine curiosity.

Tim sighed, resigned, and clapped Jason on the shoulder. “Don’t bother fighting it.”

The cafe was warm and buzzing with conversations. Stephanie, still brimming with a nervous energy, pulled a chair for Cassandra. Tim and Jason sat opposite them, a clear line of unspoken tension stretched across the small table.

The waitress dropped off menus, and Stephanie was already chatting like they’d known each other for years.

“So, Cassandra,” Stephanie said, leaning forward slightly. “What’s your coffee order? I’ll go with iced latte with like five pumps of vanilla syrup.”

“Tea,” Cassandra said simply.

“Oh, classy. Jason didn’t warn us you were sophisticated,” Stephanie rattled on. “Tim here is a black coffee kind of guy. The boring type. And Jason… he just drinks whatever’s put in front of him. That pretty much sums them up.”

Jason snorted. “Hey, I’ve got standards.”

Cassandra gave him a flat look. “Not high ones.”

Jason barked out a laugh before he could stop himself, earning a faint twitch of a smile from Cassandra.

She felt Stephanie’s watchful look on her too, a probing, anxious presence that seemed to be searching for something.

“Okay, enough about us,” Stephanie continued, her grin widening. “What do you do for work? I juggle school, homework, and a little chaos on the side.”

“I paint,” Cassandra said simply. “Portraits mostly.”

“That’s amazing,” Stephanie said, her face bright with interest. Cassandra took a slow sip of her tea, the warmth a welcome weight in her hands. The girl’s probing gaze felt like a physical thing. “Way cooler than any of us. Tim’s brainy, Jason’s grumpy, I punch things, but you make something that lasts.”

Jason muttered, “Guess I’m demoted to grumpy now,” which earned another short, soft laugh from him when Cassandra’s mouth quirked.

Cassandra felt the familiar urge to retreat, to go back to her art canvas. It was so much easier to be alone, to avoid the messy, complicated layers of other people. But she found herself watching Jason, noticing the way his shoulders lost their permanent tension when he laughed. It was a strange, fragile comfort she hadn’t expected to find.

Stephanie propped her chin on her hand, studying Cassandra. She was caught between a fierce loyalty to her friend and a protective instinct for this girl. She liked Cassandra, but she also knew Jason, and the emotional wreckage he was known for.

Her gaze flicked between them. “You make him laugh,” she said finally, voice low and certain. “That doesn’t happen often. Jay needs someone like you. Someone to ground him.”

Jason groaned. “Steph.”

“I’m serious, Jay.” Her eyes flicked to him, then back to Cassandra, protective now. “Don’t hurt her. She’s a good one.”

Cassandra’s hands tightened around her teacup, her fingers white. Cassandra caught the fleeting look of genuine concern in Stephanie’s eyes. Her attention then shifted to Jason. She had seen him angry, reckless, and even tender. But she had never seen him so closed off, so deliberately evasive. It wasn’t just a simple deflection; he was keeping a secret, and the unspoken fear in Stephanie and Tim’s eyes told her it was a secret that mattered. The two of them were trying to protect her, but from what?

The weight of her words lingered in the steam between their cups, but Cassandra chose to swallow the doubt. She gave a small nod and a slow smile, a quiet gesture that she had heard, she understood, and she was choosing to ignore it for now.

The rest of the afternoon passed in a haze of caffeine and sugar. Stephanie and Tim quickly fell into a comfortable rhythm, their jokes and easy banter flowing around the table. Cassandra found herself relaxing, her gaze softening as she watched them. She didn’t participate much, but at times found herself laughing louder than she even had when a joke was shared. The warmth of the cup in her hands, the sound of their laughter, and the steady hum of conversation felt like a balm to a part of her she didn’t know was broken.

ᓚᘏᗢ

As evening settled, the four of them walked back toward the park, their conversation lighter now. The sun was low, casting long shadows across the grass. When they reached the familiar path, Tim and Stephanie waved, disappearing down a different street with a final, shouted joke.

The silence that fell between Cassandra and Jason was no longer comfortable. It was heavy, weighted with the things that hadn’t been said at the cafe. They walked in tandem to the railing where they had been standing before.

Cassandra’s hands went to the cool metal railing, the metal comforting and solid beneath her touch. She remained quiet, her focus fixed on the lights of the city. The moment had passed, but the mood hadn’t. The words did nothing to soothe the tight knot in her stomach. Her attention lingered on the empty path where the teens had gone, then drifted back to Jason.

Jason shifted beside her. “I didn’t know they’d show up.”

“I know,” she said automatically, and quickly continued with what had been on her mind: “What did she mean?”

Jason blinked. “What?”

Cassandra’s voice was quiet but steady. “About you needing to be grounded? And about me being a ‘good one’?”

He hesitated not for long, but long enough. His mouth opened like he might answer, but all that came out was a sigh. “It’s just Steph. She talks too much.”

Cassandra studied him, but he offered nothing more.

Jason tried again, lighter now. “Look, I’m starving, let’s grab something to eat. I know a place-”

“It’s late, I have to go.” She stepped back, voice calm but cool.

Jason turned to her, frustration barely veiled beneath his careful tone. “Cass-”

She shook her head. “I’ll text.”

Before he could say anything else, she was already walking. She felt a sharp tug in her chest, a mixture of disappointment and relief. She had to go. She couldn’t accept half-truths, not from him, not from anyone. She didn’t look back, but the urge to was a physical ache in her shoulders. Jason exhaled hard, jaw tightening. He cast his eyes down the path she’d taken, but she was already gone.

Chapter Text

The city never sleep, but on rooftops and alley ledges, there were moments of tranquillity, cracks in the concrete where thoughts could breathe. The tension between her and Jason, Stephanie’s words still echoed in her mind. But there was a new sound that cut through her thoughts: a soft, urgent buzz from the small black communicator she had tucked away.

“All units, converge on coordinates. Multiple hostiles near the bridge. Priority alpha. We need eyes and support. Nightwing, are you in range?”

Oracle’s voice was calm and steady, even under pressure. Commanding even.

Cassandra’s fingers curled around the device, the city suddenly a distant hum beneath Oracle’s voice.

“Batman is en route. Robin and Spoiler are closing in from the west. Red Hood, coming in the south. If anyone else is listening, now’s the time.”

Cassandra didn’t move. The communicator still in her palm, like it weighed a thousand pounds.

She could go and help. She had done it before, but that’s what scared her.

The communicator’s faint buzz reminding her that Gotham was still crying out, that others were already answering.

She remained on the rooftop’s edge, the city sprawling below in restless motion, when a new shadow fell over her, so quiet that she didn’t hear it until it was already there. She spun fast, a half-turn with her body coiled to strike, but froze.

It was Batman. He didn’t speak, he didn’t need to. The sheer mass of his shape loomed behind her in the moonlight, the cowl angled just slightly toward her, as if he’d been watching for some time. He was exactly as she remembered: a dark silhouette on a raining rooftop, threatening to shatter her home.

“You have a choice to make, Cassandra,” he said. His voice was lower than she remembered, but it still held that same unwavering authority.

The communicator buzzed faintly again. New voices and signals, Gotham was calling for help.

“Oracle reaches people who want to help,” Batman said, his words careful and deliberate. “Even when they don’t think they can be reached.”

A flash of fury sparked in her eyes. The words felt like a judgment, a dismissal of Selina’s love as a misguided attempt at rescue.

“You don’t need to pick a side,” he continued. “But if you’re already fighting to protect people, you don’t have to do it alone. Robin and Spoiler saw what you did. So did I. You saved someone. No mask told you to.”

His words struck harder than she wanted it to, her composure like glass stretched thin.

Batman stepped closer, slow, steady. The gesture felt less like command, more like offering.

“There’s a mission underway. Oracle called everyone. If you want in, you know the way.”

Cassandra stood still for a long moment, her jaw tightening. Then she looked down at the communicator again. She slipped it back into her belt.

And when she looked up again, Batman was already gone.

ᓚᘏᗢ

The air was thick with the scent of ozone and burning metal.

A police raid against the arms shipment had gone wrong, now the bridge near the docks was a frantic blur of flashing lights, with smoke billowing into the night and sirens wailing in the distance. Robin was directing traffic from a high vantage point, his voice crisp over the communicator. Spoiler moved like a streak of lavender and yellow, guiding civilians out of harm’s way with efficiency. The other Bat and Birds were working to disarm the remaining hostiles and secure the perimeter. Batman stood near the centre of it all.

But it wasn’t enough, more thugs were pouring in from the blind side of the bridge, flanking the team.

Hiding in the rafters, the new Catwoman watched it unfold.

“If you want in, you know the way.”

Cassandra raced along the upper arch of the bridge, then dropped down without a sound.

The first guy didn’t even see her coming, and went down in one sharp, surgical kick to the side of his temple. Another turned, startled, but she was already behind him, flipping low, sweeping his legs out from under him with a fluid grace that felt like instinct. Ten years away, and her body still remembered the rhythm of this dance. Every strike, every pivot, honed and controlled.

Another thug lunged. She ducked beneath his swing, twisted his arm back until his gun clattered to the ground, then drove him down with a clean strike to the sternum.

From behind her, a voice called out with mild amusement.

“Guess you got my invitation.” Robin landed beside her, boots hitting concrete with a solid thud.

Spoiler, ushering a limping dockworker to safety, looked over and flashed a crooked smile under her mask.

Even Batman, in the thick of the fight, turned his head just slightly to watch her land a strike with such clean precision that the thug folded before hitting the ground.

Nightwing said nothing, but subtly shifted, adjusting the team’s shape to account for her presence, trusting her to cover their flank. He didn’t need to say anything, the gesture spoke volumes.

The skirmish stretched another few minutes. Explosives secured. Hostiles subdued. Sirens closed in. And then it was over. The glow of police cruisers painted the dock in red and blue.

Spoiler landed nearby with a light thump, breathless from the chase, her hood pushed back just enough to show a grin. She nudged Cassandra lightly with an elbow. “Glad you’re here, Catwoman. Nice entrance, by the way.”

Behind her, another presence approached. Heavy boots, familiar weight: Batman.

He stopped beside her, his shoulders set in the familiar, tense line of a man who never rests. His cape fluttered faintly in the breeze. They stood together, two lonely figures on a ledge, staring ahead at the water, the skyline, the city that had broken and shaped them both.

“You did good.”

It wasn’t approval she sought, and it wasn’t approval he gave. The words landed like a cold, simple statement of fact, and she felt a familiar ache of defiance rise in her chest. She looked away, her boots planted on wet concrete, watching the city breathe.

But the silence stretched on, and her hyper-aware senses couldn’t ignore the presence beside her. She didn’t see the familiar rigidity of a soldier at attention, but the man at rest. Her eyes darted from his hands, which were not clenched into fists, to the way the cowl seemed to slump just slightly forward. She saw the slump of his shoulders, the deep lines etched around his eyes.

He looked as weary as she felt.

The ache in her ribs pulsed under her suit. She flexed her hands, feeling the sting in her knuckles. Pain was good. It meant she was real. But somewhere deep, the old instincts still lagged, and moves that used to flow without thought now required effort.

Her father’s training had been an education in destruction. She had moved with a deadly precision, her body a perfect instrument of violence. Now, the movements were clumsy, delayed by a second of thought, a moment of hesitation she didn’t used to have. She wondered if the silence in her mind was still there, or if it had been overwritten by the laughter and warmth that had filled her life these past ten years.

She didn’t have Selina’s feline-like instinct for danger, her skill was in reading the body, not the air. But a prickle of awareness, cold and sharp, crawled up her spine. She felt the eyes of someone watching her.

She turned, quick as a whisper. From further down the dock, Red Hood approached, a silhouette against the glow of the city’s underbelly, his red visor catching the flicker of distant police lights.

“You were clean, Catwoman,” he said through her earpiece, his voice low but unmistakably warm.

“I didn’t come for you,” she replied, though her tone lacked the sharp edge it might’ve carried before.

“Still glad you did,” he said.

Up on the bridge, Robin glanced over, and tapped the communicator on his ear, a reminder that they were on open channel.

Cassandra turned away from the team, and walked to the edge of the dock. She touched the communicator in her belt, but didn’t turn it off. Not yet. She just listened to the chatter, the regrouping, the sound of a city surviving another night.

No one had asked her to stay. But no one had told her to leave, either.

Behind her, the team moved on. Batman’s cape swirled, Spoiler cracked a joke, Red Hood disappeared into the smoke. For a moment, Cassandra remained where she was, shoulders tight, ribs aching, heart louder than the sirens.

She looked down at her raw knuckles. The blood had already dried. Then she slipped back into the shadows.

Chapter Text

The city stretched out before Cassandra, and it did little to clear her mind. Her knuckles throbbed where the skin had split, a dull reminder of that night’s fights, and the steady hum of voices on the communicator only muddled her mind further. Joining the Family, being a part of Batman’s world. It wasn’t that simple.

She was caught in between the pull of belonging, and the instinct to keep herself apart. The weight of expectation pressed on her, heavier than any armour. She needed to think, to breathe, to remind herself who she was beneath the shadows and symbols. The solution that came to her was reckless, maybe even childish, it was to steal from Bruce Wayne.

It wasn’t about the money or the jewels, but the clean, familiar rhythm of an impossible task. It was a way to reclaim control. But she knew she couldn’t go right now, not with the shadow she’d felt on her heels these past few days, subtle but persistent.

She stopped on a high-rise rooftop several blocks from the park, her body coiled and still, and waited. A familiar figure dropped down silently near her – Stephanie. Spoiler’s trademark hood swinging behind her, eyes bright with a mix of challenge and curiosity.

“Hey,” Cassandra said suddenly as she walked out from under the shadows, startling her stalker.

“H-Hey,” Stephanie replied awkwardly in turn, her voice a little breathless. She gave a small, sheepish wave.

Cassandra folded her arms, studying her. “I know you’ve been following me.”

Stephanie’s grin was immediate. “Guilty. You’re fast. But don’t worry, I’m not here to bust you. I just want to watch.”

Cassandra raised an eyebrow. “Why?”

“The team’s been talking,” Stephanie admitted, fidgeting with the seam of her hood. “I heard you’re… a legend. That you got into Wayne Manor and out without Batman even knowing. I just- I wanted to see how you did it.”

The admission was so honest, so completely out of place for a member of Batman’s family, that Cassandra’s tension eased. She saw the thrill in Stephanie’s eyes, the craving for a challenge, for something outside the usual vigilante routine.

“I’m doing it to clear my head,” Cassandra said.

“I get it,” Stephanie said, taking a step forward. “I’m not going to get in your way. I’m just here for the thrill of it. I want to feel that rush of defying the rules, just for a little while.”

Cassandra’s eyes met hers – a shared understanding and defiance. Without another word, Cassandra turned. She began moving again, faster this time, and Stephanie scrambled to keep up, a wide grin breaking across her face.

ᓚᘏᗢ

A deep, comforting peace settled over the Manor, broken only by the faint ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall. Bruce Wayne, in a rare moment of civilian quietude, settled into the plush leather of his study chair and reached for his favourite coffee mug. It was a simple, heavy ceramic mug with a Bat signal printed on it.

His brow furrowed, his evening instantly broken. The mug wasn’t on the mahogany desk. He checked the side table, the bookshelf, the overflowing inbox he hadn’t touched. Nothing. The mug was gone. There was no sign of a break-in, no other items missing.

He paused, an almost imperceptible exhale through his nose.

“Cassandra…”

ᓚᘏᗢ

The rooftop of the Monarch Theatre was peaceful. Selina Kyle, in her Catwoman catsuit, leaned against a crumbling stone ledge, her arms crossed, a long coil of wire wrapped loosely in one hand. She didn’t turn when he arrived.

“You’re getting slow,” she said dryly, watching the traffic crawl below.

Batman stepped out of the shadows. “You’re getting bolder.”

Selina raised a brow. “Oh? Do tell.”

“You’ve been stealing exclusively from Wayne properties ever since returning to Gotham.”

“Only the good stuff,” she replied with a shrug. “You keep putting the art we like in arm’s reach. What are we supposed to do, ignore our tastes?” Selina’s smirk deepened. “Then maybe you should step up your security.”

He didn’t answer. Instead, his cape rippled slightly in the wind as he crossed his arms.

“You’re not mad about the thefts,” she said after a beat. “You’re mad you can’t catch us in the act.”

Batman’s silence was confirmation enough.

“She’s better than you expected,” Selina said softly.

Batman looked out over the rooftops. “She’s reckless.”

Selina gave a low laugh. “She’s finding her footing again, it’s been a decade. But you saw it, didn’t you? The way she moves. That’s not something you can teach.”

Batman held his rigid posture, eyes fixed on the skyline, but Selina wasn’t done.

“You thought she was hiding in my shadow, but she wasn’t. She walked away from all of you on her own. For ten years, I gave her the time and space to figure out who she was. She’s been drifting, searching for a purpose that fits.”

Batman’s voice was quiet but firm. “She still steals.”

Selina’s smile was calm, almost teasing. “You don’t have proof, do you? All you know is that only a handful of people are skilled enough to steal from you. And mind you, that person only steals from you.” Her tone softened slightly. “She’s not yours to control, Bruce.”

“She kept the communicator. She’s answering Oracle’s calls,” he noted, his voice composed but held tight.

Selina’s eyes gleamed with something warm and fierce. “Then she found her answer,” she murmured, the pride unmistakable. “That’s all I ever wanted for her.”

Chapter Text

The city air was thick and heavy, a humid blanket that clung to everything. The streets, sticky with the grime of a thousand careless moments, shimmered under the hazy glow of streetlights, their light barely piercing the smog.

Cassandra staggered into the alley, her entire body coated in a foul, sticky residue. It wasn’t just dirt; it was a viscous, clinging sludge from the sewage she’d crashed into during the fight. Her skin crawled beneath it, the stench so strong she could taste it.

She had thought Killer Croc was a nickname, like Penguin. A gangster affectation. But the thing she’d fought tonight wasn’t a man with a quirk. He was a walking wall of scaled muscle, its yellow eyes reflecting in the dark just before it lunged.

She’d moved on instinct, striking fast and low, trying to use his weight against him. But Croc’s hide turned her blows into nothing but dull thuds. It took three broken pipes, a fire escape, and a desperate kick that sent them both crashing through a rotted railing into the reeking sewer below to finally make him retreat.

Her gear, once sleek and stealthy, hung heavy on her frame. She ran a hand over her face, grimacing as the mix of industrial cleaner, mildew, and something acrid burned her nose and made her stomach turn. She needed a shower. Or ten. She looked down at the centre of her chest.

Stephanie Brown landed beside her, her own Spoiler suit relatively clean thanks to a well-timed dodge. She took one look at the black Catwoman, then glanced at the smoking wreckage. “You look like you lost a wrestling match to the Gotham sewer system,” she said, wrinkling her nose. “And judging by the smell, you didn’t win.”

Cassandra narrowed her eyes.

“Seriously, Cass,” Stephanie continued, her voice all brisk concern. “That’s not coming off with a wet wipe. You’re a walking biohazard. You gotta get cleaned up. Let’s go, the Clock Tower is three blocks from here.”

Cassandra sighed. The Clock Tower had naturally popped up as an option, but to show up there now, covered in filth, would be to invite the very conversation she had been avoiding. She wasn’t ready for their concern, their care.

“You don’t get a vote on this,” Stephanie said, her tone firm, all playful banter gone. “We’re going. And you’re getting a bath. No questions, no arguments. Just a shower.” She placed a hand on Cassandra’s back, a gentle but insistent nudge.

Silence stretched. Then, grudgingly, Cassandra gave the smallest nod.

They walked in silence for a while, boots slapping softly against wet pavement. At last, Stephanie spoke.

“Hey,” she said, quieter now, almost tentative. “About the other day. At the café.”

Cassandra tilted her head slightly, waiting.

“I was trying to be helpful, I guess,” Stephanie went on, eyes fixed on the street ahead. “Or maybe protective. Of you. Of him. But it came out wrong. Jason… he has a pattern. He jumps into things headfirst and burns out just as fast. And you don’t deserve to get dragged into that mess.”

Cassandra’s steps didn’t falter, but she studied the girl beside her. Just honesty.

“He’s not a bad guy,” Stephanie continued. “He’s just got a lot of scars. Used to push everyone away, start fights, burn bridges. I wasn’t trying to scare you off, really. I just…” She let out a breath. “I’m sorry. I wanted you to know he’s been trying. Really trying.”

The words sat between them, more fragile than the silence they’d replaced. Cassandra let them linger, then gave a small nod of acknowledgment.

Stephanie’s shoulders eased, a tension she’d been carrying finally loosening. She glanced sideways, a faint grin tugging at her mouth. “You’re hard to read, you know that?”

Cassandra’s lips curved, just barely. “Good.”

By the time they reached the Clock Tower, the smell of sewage still clung to Cassandra’s suit like a second skin. Stephanie wrinkled her nose again and pushed the door open. “Seriously, you’re not even getting through the lobby like this. Straight to the showers.”

Minutes later, Cassandra stood in the main room in borrowed blue pyjamas dotted with yellow bats that Barbara had given her. With her feet in soft bath slippers, she felt an unfamiliar vulnerability, a comfort she hadn’t experienced in years. The unfamiliar clothes, the sterile scent of the medical bay, the constant, low hum of computers; it all felt like a cage.

A blur of purple and gold flashed past her. Stephanie in her own pyjamas, was holding Cassandra’s freshly cleaned suit in her arms. With a triumphant grin, she held it up for Cassandra to see, but her expression faltered almost immediately.

In the centre of the suit was a large silhouette of a cat’s head, stark and bright yellow against the black fabric. It was not a subtle detail.

Cassandra’s dark eyes narrowed, fixed on the symbol. The stiffness of her body, and slow clutching of fists were clear warnings.

“Okay, so it’s not a small change,” Stephanie said, her voice a mix of frustration and excitement. “But it’s not just a logo, Cass. It’s a brand. It’s what you do. It’s a statement.”

She gestured emphatically at the symbol. “Batman has his bat, right? It’s on his chest. It’s a brand, a warning. This is the same thing for you. It’s a statement to the criminals you’re fighting and to the city you protect.”

“My suit is not for making statements,” Cassandra replied, her voice low and even. A faint flush of anger and embarrassment rose to her cheeks, but her tone remained calm.

“It’s perfect!” Stephanie insisted, holding the suit out. “A cat head outline. It just… looks cool. It’s who you are.”

From across the room. “Steph, put the suit down,” Barbara said, her voice calm but firm.

Stephanie deflated slightly but obeyed. As she set the suit aside, Cassandra caught herself noticing how Stephanie handled it carefully, without letting the fabric touch the floor.

Barbara looked at Cassandra, her eyes warm and understanding. “I know what you’re thinking,” she said. “I know you want to disappear, but the others need to know who you are. This isn’t a battle of wills, it’s about safety.”

“I don’t want a brand,” Cassandra said, barely above a whisper. “My identity is for me. Not for the world to see.”

“I get it,” Barbara said, her voice softer now. “This is about a boundary. This is about trust. You’re not just a person to them, you’re a teammate. You’re part of the family, and they want you to stay. This is their way of telling you you’re welcome.”

“We can take it off,” Stephanie said, her tone almost tentative this time. “We have a seam ripper that’ll do it without leaving a mark.”

Barbara smiled. “We’ll get it taken care of. But the offer stands, if you want it. This is your space too, Cassandra.”

Cassandra didn’t look at the suit as Stephanie carefully began removing the embroidery. Instead, she looked at Barbara, her eyes filled with a new, hesitant respect.

Later, when she put the suit back on, the fabric felt the same. The material’s integrity hadn’t been compromised by the removal of the embroidery, yet the mark remained. Under the right light, she could see the rugged scar of the cat’s silhouette, a private symbol that only she would know was there, hidden in plain sight.

Chapter Text

Everyone who lived behind masks has a hypothetical Batcave, a safe refuge to hide in, a sanctuary where the world’s chaos cannot follow. Sometimes, a hero just needed a moment to rest from the world. The vigilantes of Gotham knew where these places were for each other, they just pretended not to, unless the world was on fire. 

Jason Todd was deep inside his. He was settled in the worn leather of his apartment couch, re-reading his favourite dog-eared paperback, pretending the world didn’t exist beyond the words in his hand.

Then came three sharp knocks on the door.

Jason looked up, irritation flickering before caution. His eyes shifted to the small security screen beside the doorframe. On it, standing awkwardly in the dim hallway, was Cassandra Kyle. She wore jeans, a simple top, and a cap tugged low over her ponytail, and looked more like a nervous college student.

She glanced into the camera and lifted one hand, showing a plain pizza box.

Jason checked the clock. Dinner time, more or less. He sighed and unlatched the door, opening it halfway, leaning against the frame.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” he said. “No calls, no texts. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were trying to ghost me. Don’t bother denying it. So why show up now?”

Cassandra looked down, then held up the box again.

“Peace offering?”

Jason exhaled through his nose and stepped aside, letting her in. The box was cold when he took it. She must had been holding onto it for a while. Long enough to, maybe, walk around the block, or talk herself into actually coming upstairs.

“Let’s start by reheating this tragedy of a pizza,” he muttered, heading for the kitchen. He punched the microwave keys with lazy precision, glancing back over his shoulder.

When he returned with the plates, Cassandra had settled on the edge of the couch, legs folded beneath her. She wasn’t looking at him, but instead examining his collection of books, tracing cracked spines of old novels as if reading them might tell her who he really was.

Jason planted himself next to her, and offered one plate to her.

Cassandra lifted a slice and took a small, distracted bite. She let her eyes wander, from the ashtray with its single stub to the open wardrobe where clothes still hung, untouched, as if waiting for someone who’d never come back. The whole place carried the weight of someone who expected to be alone.

They ate in silence. Or rather, Jason ate. Cassandra mostly held the slice like she wasn’t sure what to do with it.

He glanced over, mouth still half-full.

“What’s this really about, Cassie?”

She didn’t look at him when she spoke. “Barbara said we’re family. Stephanie too. I’m… still learning what that means.”

Her voice was small and honest, the kind that only came out when she meant every word.

Jason leaned back, arms folded across his chest. “You came here to figure it out?”

Cassandra hesitated. Her jaw tightened like she was bracing for impact. Then she looked at him in the eyes.

“Do you…” She faltered, but forced it out anyway, blunt and fragile all at once. “Do you like me? Like, really like me?”

Jason froze mid-bite. For a second, the world seemed to stop with him. Then he barked out a nervous laugh.

“That’s… wow, Cassie. Straight to the point, huh?”

Seeing her silence didn’t waver, the smirk drained from his face. Jason rubbed the back of his neck, eyes flicking anywhere but hers.

“Forget I said anything,” Cassandra murmured, starting to rise.

He dropped his plate onto his lap, instinct kicking in before thought. His hand caught her wrist.

“Yeah,” he said, quieter now, the joking edge gone. “I do. More than I should, probably.”

Cassandra froze. She looked down at his hand, then at him. Her expression didn’t shift, but her stillness carried a tremor all its own.

“Why? We barely know each other,” she asked. It wasn’t a challenge, but a genuine question.

Jason sighed, rubbing his neck again like he could scrub the words out of the air.

“Wait- this about what Steph said? She talks too much. Likes getting reactions.”

Cassandra tried to shrug it off, the way she always did. But her shoulders were too tense, her eyes too still.

“She didn’t mean it like that,” she said quietly. “She was trying to protect me. From you.”

Jason blinked, caught off guard. “From me?”

Cassandra didn’t answer right away. She looked at the floor, at the faded scuff marks near his boots. “She said you burn fast. That you get tired. That I don’t deserve to get dragged into that.”

Jason’s jaw tightened.

“Yeah, well… Steph likes to think she’s everyone’s guardian angel. She means well, but she doesn’t know-”

Cassandra’s voice cut through, quiet but steady. “She knows you.”

That silenced him. For a moment, neither moved. The air felt heavier.

Cassandra stood up and crossed the room, her arms by her sides but fists clutched tight. Jason stiffened, for a moment, he thought she was walking out.

“I don’t know what I am to you,” she said, turning back. Her voice wasn’t angry, just stripped bare. “I’ve watched people pretend. Kiss, fuck, lie, disappear. You’re used to living alone, and people leaving. I’m not.”

Jason flinched, the words hitting deeper than any punch.

“Used to? You think I’m pretending?” His voice came out hoarse, edged with frustration. “You think I like being alone?”

He shook his head, eyes flicking aside as if the air itself burned.

She winched at his response, and saw the raw hurt beneath the anger. She saw the hurt behind his anger, and her posture softened, shoulders dropping.

“I get it,” Jason continued softly. “You’re wondering if I’ll disappear. If I’ll get tired of this, of you. Maybe that’s who I used to be, but not anymore. Not with you. You’re not some thrill, Cassie. You’re not a mistake, or a fling, or whatever Steph thinks she knows.”

Jason hesitated, then turned to look at the far wall, needing a moment to find the words. He leaned back against the couch. “You know I died, right? Everyone in Gotham whispers it, like it’s urban legend. But it’s true. Crowbar, explosion, six feet under. And then I wasn’t.” His voice went flat, almost clinical, but his hand tightened on the bowl until the ceramic creaked. “Came back wrong. Angry. Didn’t know what to do with it, except bleed it out on the streets.”

Cassandra’s eyes widened, she didn’t know. Cassandra watched him, the silence stretching between them until she finally spoke.

“I was eight,” she said, her voice low, unadorned. “My father made me kill a man. I didn’t know what I was doing until it was done…” She swallowed, eyes fixed on her hands now. “It was the first time I understood death. And the last time I wanted to.”

The confession landed heavy. She didn’t elaborate, she didn’t want to. But Jason didn’t let go, instead, he stepped closer and pulled her into his arms.

“You were a child,” he said quietly. “Someone failed you long before you ever failed anyone.”

She whispered, “Maybe… it’s just because we’re broken. Because we both know how it feels. Because we both know what it is to bleed and not be fixed.”

“Do you want this?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. “I mean, us.”

“I’m not good at relationships,” she said, leaning into him, her forehead resting against his collarbone.

“Neither am I,” Jason murmured, his voice a soft rumble against her hair. He held her a little tighter, a promise. “I think we figure it out as we go.”

“I don’t know what we’re becoming,” she whispered, arms tightening around him. “But I want to find out.”

Jason’s smile deepened.

“That’s all I need to hear.”

The silence stretched, heavy but no longer unbearable. She lifted her head, searching his face, the scar above his brow, the softness that never quite reached his eyes. She thought of how Selina once took her in and gave her a new meaning in life, and how now, it was her turn to try to help him.

Before she could think better of it, she closed the last inch between them. Their lips met, tentative at first, then surer, carrying the weight of scars and the fragile hope that maybe broken things could fit together after all.

And for the first time in a long time, neither of them wanted to let go.

Epilogue: Catwoman

Cassandra walked through the quiet gallery, her steps silent on the polished floor. She passed portraits and sculptures, studies of the human form in a thousand different poses of triumph and happiness. Cassandra moved at her own pace, pausing before each painting. Not to study technique, but to feel for the rhythm behind the brushstrokes.

Once, she could read people down to the marrow, she wasn’t sure if it would ever come back. Her mind, once a blank canvas, now filled with the happy memories and clumsy words of a normal life. She’d traded those sharpened instincts for memories of dinners with Selina, highschool, the sound of laughter in safe places, even the miserable hours bent over algebra she never really mastered.

Maybe it didn’t matter. She wasn’t going to give them up just to fight better. The city was still a part of her, but she was no crusader – she’s a thief. And if the world demanded more of her? She would step in. Stop what she could. Call in help when she couldn’t. That would have to be enough. She’s no longer alone in the city.

A faint smile touched her lips as she thought of Stephanie. Her friend had mentioned wanting to steal something from Tim’s room, a ridiculous plan since Stephanie could walk in anytime she liked. But the mischief in her voice was contagious, and Cassandra understood the thrill of taking something that wasn’t given. Maybe next time, she’d let her tag along.

Her eyes fell on a portrait of a young boy in an armchair who couldn’t stay still, one leg crossed over the other, a smirk playing on his lips, as though he was holding a secret.

She checked for sensors, her fingers brushing the wall. Her gloved fingers moved with precision. The frame came free without a sound. She slid the canvas out, rolled it neat and tight, and slipped it into the expandable tube she kept on her belt.

Like the mug she’d lifted from Batman, which she now used to hold her paintbrushes, she already knew exactly where this portrait of Jason Todd when he was a Robin, would hang back home.

She took one last look around the Bruce Manor gallery, then rested her eyes on the now empty space she’d made in the Wayne gallery, the absence speaking louder than the portrait itself. A calling card, a testament of her presence in Gotham.

She’s Cassandra Kyle, Catwoman.

END