Selina never did anything halfway—not love, not theft, not leaving.

The penthouse was quiet when she slipped out, moonlight painting silver lines across marble floors and memories she wasn’t taking with her. Bruce slept in the next room, still in the suit, still pretending they could make this work in the cracks between warzones.

But Selina knew better.

She left no note. Just her locket on the nightstand, open to the photo he never knew she kept—of her and her. The one with ink-stained fingers and laughter like broken rules. The one who didn’t ask her to choose between shadows and sunlight.

Outside, a motorcycle idled. Leather jacket. Smirk. Open helmet.

Selina didn’t look back. She never needed to.

Some things were worth stealing twice.