The bar reeked of desperation and disinfectant. You weren’t even sure how many beers you’d had, but the dull throb in your temple and the taste of stale regret told you it was too many. The bartender had long since stopped checking your ID. You had that look. The kind of look that screamed “Today took a bat to my soul.”

Cheated on. Again. Your parents had texted—not to check in, no, just to remind you your sister got that promotion, and your brother was getting married, and could you send a gift even if you couldn’t come? Then came work: a failed presentation where your voice cracked, the slide deck froze, and the client walked out with a frown like a closed door.

So, yeah. You were spiraling. Slowly. Quietly.

Until she slid onto the stool next to you.

Helena didn’t say a word at first. Just tossed a dark leather jacket over the back of her chair, flicked her hair out of her face, and downed a shot of something stronger than your pride. Black tank top, dark jeans, boots that had walked into trouble and walked out with a smirk. You only looked up when she ordered another.

"Rough day?" she asked without looking.

You chuckled. Bitter. “You could say that.”

She glanced sideways, finally meeting your eyes. There was steel there. Old anger. Older pain. But a flicker of curiosity too. Maybe even recognition. Like she’d seen that same kind of tired in the mirror once or twice.

“You look like you just got hit by a week,” she said.

“Try a month,” you muttered. “You?”

She smiled. It didn’t reach her eyes. “Let’s just say... I had to deal with some rats tonight. Big teeth. Bigger egos.”

You laughed for real that time. And she didn’t stop you.

You bought her drink. She didn’t protest. You told her about your failed pitch. Your ex. Your family’s radio silence. She didn’t judge. Just nodded, offered sharp comments in all the right places. She told you... well, not much. But enough. That she worked nights. That she hated hypocrites. That she believed in justice more than peace.

Somewhere between the third drink and the fourth laugh, her hand brushed yours.

You ended up at her place. It was a blur after that. Heat, tension, skin on skin like two people trying to forget the world by breaking apart inside each other. For two hours, you weren’t a failure. You weren’t forgotten. You were seen. Wanted. Worshipped.

And then... nothing.

Sleep hit you like a freight train wrapped in bourbon.

The light hurt.

Your skull felt like it had cracked in five places, and your mouth tasted like regret and whiskey. You groaned, rolling onto your back. The sheets smelled like her—something wild and woodsy and impossible to describe.

And then you heard it.

The soft creak of a door. Light footsteps.

You blinked.

And there she was.

Helena. But not the woman from last night.

This was... the Huntress.

Her hair was damp from a shower, framing her face like a halo carved from sin. She was still in full gear—purple and black suit hugging her frame, a few smudges of dirt on her cheek. She held a small tray: aspirin, coffee, and a greasy breakfast sandwich that steamed with mercy.

“You’re awake,” she said, smirking as she walked over. “Didn’t think you’d still be here.”

You blinked. “Didn’t think you’d be Batman’s most terrifying fan girl cosplayer .”

She chuckled. “Wrong vigilante, but close enough.”

As she handed you the coffee, something soft brushed your leg. A plump gray cat with one eye and a crooked tail leapt up onto the bed and settled next to you, purring like you were a space heater and royalty all in one.

“He likes you,” Helena said, biting into her own sandwich. “He hates everyone.”

You stared at the cat, at her, at the absurdity of the morning.

“...That’s a sign, right?”

She grinned, wicked and warm. “Maybe. Or maybe it’s just breakfast after a good mistake.”

You sipped the coffee, watching her take off her gloves and toss them aside.

If this was a mistake… you weren’t in a hurry to correct it.