Inque was dying.

Her molecular cohesion was unraveling, her once-fluid body degrading into unstable sludge. Without fresh mutagen, she would dissolve into nothing more than a memory in Neo-Gotham’s sewers.

So she chose evolution. With calculated manipulation, she tricked Batman, Terry McGinnis, into close quarters. The moment he tried to apprehend her, she struck. Not with force.

With absorption.

She poured herself into him, through his mouth, his lungs, his pores, flooding nerves and synapses. Terry fought. Of course he did. His will burned hot and stubborn.

It didn’t matter.

She smothered his consciousness beneath hers, wrapping around it like velvet chains.

And then…

She rebuilt.

When Bat-Inque rose inside the Batcave, she was no longer the sleek red-and-black silhouette Neo-Gotham knew.

Her skin gleamed like polished obsidian—smooth, flawless, reflective under the cave lights. Two sleek black horns curved upward from her head, framing a cascade of thick, crimson waves that spilled down her back in glossy curls.

But it was her face that she perfected. She stood before the Batcomputer’s darkened screen and began to sculpt. Her brows sharpened first, thin, arched, and precise, carved from her own living mass into sharp, villainous elegance. She drew them higher for a permanent expression of amused superiority.

Then her eyes.

A smoky halo of deep plum shadow bled outward from her lids, blending into metallic magenta at the edges. She extended it dramatically, winged and sharp, tapering into dagger-like points toward her temples. Flecks of subtle shimmer caught the light whenever she tilted her head, giving her gaze a hypnotic gleam.

Her lashes lengthened next, thick, impossibly dark, curling upward in dramatic arcs. Each blink was slow. Intentional. Weaponized.

She traced beneath her lower lids with a fine streak of glossy black, smudged just enough to look dangerous rather than messy.

Then came the highlight.

A faint iridescent sheen dusted the high points of her cheekbones and the bridge of her nose, catching purple undertones when the cave lighting hit just right. It gave her skin a sculpted, almost statuesque glow.

Her lips, though—

She paused.

From a small confiscated archive case, she retrieved an old tube once cataloged from Poison Ivy. She smirked.

The lipstick glided across her mouth in a rich, lacquered crimson, deep, glossy, almost wet-looking. She overlined slightly, shaping her lips fuller, sharper at the cupid’s bow. Then she sealed it with a translucent gloss she formed herself, giving them a mirror-like shine.

When she smiled, it gleamed.

Perfect.

She tilted her chin and added one final touch, a faint magenta contour beneath her cheekbones, subtle but deliberate, sharpening her features into something both beautiful and predatory.

“Mm,” she murmured, admiring her reflection. “Gotham deserves a face worth fearing.”

Her suit reformed to match the artistry of her face, magenta armor hugging her chest, diamond-shaped crystal at her throat, high-gloss purple boots stretching along long, powerful legs. The red bat insignia was sharper now—angular, stylized, almost regal.

When her communicator chimed, she smiled, slow and knowing.

“Oh, Robin,” she purred, one manicured finger tapping the device. Even her nails were sculpted now, elongated, painted a deep wine-red with a glassy finish. “Come meet me at the cave.”

Moments later, Robin descended, and froze. She turned toward you deliberately, giving him the full view.

“Well?” she asked lightly, resting a hand on her hip. “Do you like the new look?”

You swallowed. “Inque…”

She stepped closer, lashes lowering as she leaned in slightly—letting him see the shimmer in her shadow, the precision of her liner, the flawless gloss of her lips.

“In the flesh,” she corrected softly. “And so much more refined.”