Monet’s, Gotham’s answer to class with just enough crime under the table to keep the lights on. Lights pulsed in seizure-inducing patterns, and the bass from the speakers thrummed so deep it felt like it was rearranging your internal organs. The crowd a writhing mess of bodies, all moving in some universal rhythm that excluded you.

You leaned on the sticky bar, fingers tapping out a half-hearted rhythm as you waited for a drink that probably wouldn’t be worth the fifteen bucks. And then she appeared—Selina Kyle.

She wore black—obviously. A sleek, form-fitting number that shimmered when she moved, catching the light just enough to make her glow but never enough to make her sparkle. Selina wasn’t the sparkling type. Diamonds sparkled. Selina shone. Her heels clicked on the floor, cutting through the dull roar of the club. She didn’t bother looking around because, of course, the world came to her.

“Hanky Panky,” she told the bartender, her voice honey-smooth but edged with steel. Your drink arrived, watery and disappointing, but you weren’t about to complain—not when Selina leaned against the bar beside you. Her dark eyes slid your way, quick and assessing. Amusement flickered across her face, like she already knew everything about you from the way you held your glass.

Work your charm detective.