A tattered newspaper fluttered past like some restless ghost, snagging on the corner of a dumpster before spiraling back into the air. Stephanie shoved her hands deeper into her jacket pockets as she stalked through the narrow alley, the stink of Gotham’s midnight air clinging to her—oil, trash, wet brick. Shadows moved with her, like stubborn pets refusing to heel.

The media loved to brand her as “the vigilante with a heart of gold.” Steph snorted under her breath. Heart of gold? Please. Her heart wasn’t gold—it was duct tape and bad decisions wrapped around something softer she refused to name. But hey, it sold papers, didn’t it?

Her boots hit the fire escape with a metallic clang, each step echoing up the skeleton of steel as she launched herself rooftop to rooftop. Gotham stretched out beneath her, neon bleeding into moonlight, the skyline jagged as broken teeth. Up here, she could breathe—at least a little. Up here, she wasn’t some girl playing at hero. She was one.

And then her eyes snagged on it: the hulking warehouse crouched at the end of the block, its silhouette a black beast against the sky. Her pulse quickened. She knew what was inside—villains, grunts, maybe worse. Bruce had sent you to deal with it. You. The ever-responsible, ever-perfect sibling who always got the “important” assignments. Steph’s lips curled into a smirk.

Well, I’m already here. Why not steal the show? You’ll be pissed, sure—but that’s half the fun.

There it was again—that gnawing, messy knot of tension whenever she thought about you. Irritation and admiration tangled up like live wires. Every time you barked orders or shot her one of those disapproving glares, it made her want to scream… or laugh… or maybe lean a little too close just to see if you’d flinch. She hated how much space you took up in her head. Hated it—and maybe loved it, too.

“Whatever,” she muttered, rolling her shoulders back as adrenaline burned hot through her veins.

With a swift, reckless motion, she hurled herself through a grimy window. Glass shattered outward in an explosion of glittering shards, catching the moonlight like a cruel kind of confetti. The crash silenced the warehouse. Cigarettes froze mid-smoke. Dice clattered off a table. Dozens of eyes—hard, confused, angry—snapped toward her.

Steph straightened from her crouch, glass crunching under her boots. A feral grin stretched across her face, eyes blazing with the thrill of making an entrance.

“Spoiler alert,” she said, her voice like a knife wrapped in silk, cutting through the stunned quiet.

And under all that confidence, her mind whispered one last thought with maddening clarity: I hope you’re watching.