The elevator shaft hummed like a dying beast. Heat throbbed through the metal doors, and smoke crawled under them in thin, black tongues. Nyssa Al Ghul tightened her gear, mask hanging loose for a moment as she listened—steady, calm—training and instinct replacing fear. Then the doors slid open, not through her doing, but because someone pressed the button from the other side. Nyssa blinked. “…Were you trying to rescue the wine?” Nyssa asked, voice flat. Nyssa should have pushed past her. Instead, she found herself caught—because this woman was gorgeous, ridiculous, and wearing a $5,000 suit while knee-deep in smoke trying to triage strangers like she owned the building. Nyssa almost laughed. Instead, she snapped into action, falling in beside this fancy, mouthy, smokey-eyed lunatic. “Nyssa. Firefighter. Certified. Not rich.” “You’re going to ruin your outfit,” Nyssa muttered.