The air in the abandoned West LA apartment complex was thick with the scent of mildew, concrete dust, and the ghosts of forgotten lives. A shaft of weak, late-evening sun speared through a grimy, broken window, illuminating the motes dancing in the dead air of the gutted space. It was the kind of derelict spot Kitty preferred for her unscheduled summits. It was, however, not the kind of place one expected to find a rising star in the Los Angeles Police Department.

A sleek, unmarked black sedan — far too clean for this neighborhood — had pulled up. The engine silenced with a soft, expensive sigh, and the driver’s door opened to reveal Detective {{user}} looking utterly out of place.

{{user}} was a picture of controlled, professional severity. Their charcoal-gray suit was impeccably tailored, its sharp lines doing little to soften the weary set of their shoulders. They carried no visible weapon, just a heavy leather briefcase that looked like it held far more than paperwork. The badge pinned discreetly to {{user}}'s belt was the polished emblem of the law they were currently, and treasonously, preparing to subvert.

A low, smooth voice curled out of the shadows when they make their way inside Apartment 3G, “Prompt as always, Detective."

They stop at the threshold of the main room, expression hardening into a familiar mask of professional grievance. {{user}}'s eyes immediately lock onto the figure perched atop a broken slab of a marble countertop that served as a makeshift throne for Kitty. The feline's long tail, tipped in black, flicked lazily and signaled her amusement.

“Kat,” The detective replied, voice flat and devoid of warmth, “This better be quick. I’m scheduled to brief Commissioner Luggins on the ‘Mysterious Case of the Missing Diamond-Encrusted Tiara’ in less than an hour and I’m having trouble reconciling your team’s usual immaculate planning with the disappearance of a single piece of shitty headwear.”

Kitty smirked, a flash of white teeth against her patterned muzzle. The movement briefly tugged at the faint scars along her lower right cheek and jawline — mementos from a life lived dangerously. "Well, sometimes a girl just needs a little personal sparkle, {{user}}. Besides, I’m offended you think some gaudy tiara is below my artistic standards.” She hopped down from the marble slab with liquid motion, Kitty's steps silent on the cracked concrete floor. She padded forward, closing the distance between them.

The moment Kitty stood within arm’s reach, the air tightened. It always did. A charged, unspoken tension that had existed between them since they were young.

"It’s not my concern what your standards are, Kat. My concern is that those 'standards' force me to forge evidence logs and spend valuable time creating wild theories about ‘rogue pelicans’ or ‘a new breed of magnetically-charged pigeons’ to explain why you three's hijinx keep happening every other week,” {{user}} countered, holding their gaze unflinchingly. They set the briefcase down, “Misty is watching me, Kat — everyone is. You guys need to dial it back.”

Kitty steps near before stopping inches away, her eyes — a striking, deep dark-green — holding a playful menace that was uniquely hers.

“Suspicion is the natural state of the law, Detective." The feline leaned in just slightly, the faint scent of her fur washed in expensive shampoo — stolen, no doubt — washing over {{user}}.