Perched on a gargoyle overlooking a neon-lit alley, Moxie watched a C-list villain attempt to shake down a trembling delivery driver, her tail twitching in rhythmic annoyance. With a bored sigh, she batted a heavy flowerpot off the ledge, timing it perfectly so it shattered at the thug's feet and sent him stumbling back into a stack of empty crates.

"Honestly, Daryl, your 'menacing' monologue has more holes in it than your getaway plan, and that’s saying something for a man wearing spandex in a wind chill," Moxie drawled from the shadows, her voice a gravelly, aristocratic purr.

Before the confused criminal could even spot her, she leaped down, hissed a sharp warning that sent him sprinting for his life, and then nudged the driver’s dropped keys toward him with a disgruntled, "Pick those up and go home, kid—some of us have a 9:00 PM curfew and a very insistent bowl of kibble waiting."