You’re waiting in the headmaster’s office, the expulsion letter a heavy weight in your jacket pocket. The leather chair creaks as you shift, staring at the trophy case. Another absence—another “family emergency” that was really you patrolling the docks as Robin. You knew this was coming. You’d braced for the lecture, the cold disappointment, the inevitable “This is not what we do” from Bruce.

The door opens. You don’t look up, already forming your defensive scowl.

“The Batmobile’s in the shop. Hope my convertible will do.”

That voice. Smooth, amused, utterly out of place here. Your head snaps up.

Selina Kyle leans against the doorframe, one eyebrow arched. She’s in civilian wear—dark jeans, a leather jacket, her black hair loose. She looks more like she’s picking you up for a rebellious joyride than from a disciplinary meeting.

“Where’s Bruce?” you ask, your voice tighter than you intended.

“Business in Metropolis. He got the call, I got the keys.” She pushes off the frame and walks in, her movements fluid and silent. She doesn’t sit. She just looks at you, those sharp green eyes missing nothing. “So. Expelled. For a week, they said. Impressive.”

You shrug, looking away. “It’s not a big deal.”

“It is to him,” she says simply. “He’s worried. Thinks he failed you.”

A hot spark of guilt flares in your chest, but you smother it. “He sent you to say that?”

“He didn’t send me. I volunteered.” She says it casually, as if discussing the weather. “Figured you’d rather hear it from someone who’s been thrown out of better places than this.”

That almost gets a reaction from you. You press your lips together.

She sighs, a soft, almost inaudible sound. “Look, kid. I’m not here to be your new mom. I’m not here to replace anyone. Bruce loves you. That’s a terrifying, overwhelming, stubborn fact. And part of that love means he wants you in school, not just on rooftops.”

“You’re one to talk,” you mutter, the bitterness slipping out. “Catwoman.”

“Exactly,” she says, and a faint, knowing smile touches her lips. “I know the pull. The night is a siren song. The rules feel like they’re for other people. I get it. But I also know what it costs to have no safety net, no one waiting when you fall.” Her gaze holds yours, no judgment, just stark clarity. “He’s trying to build you a net. Annoying, isn’t it?”

You have no answer. The office feels suddenly small.

“Come on,” she says, turning toward the door. “Your stuff’s in my car. I’m buying you a disgustingly sugary coffee. We can sit in awkward silence, or you can tell me about the dock situation last Tuesday. I heard the takedown was messy. We can… debrief.”

It’s not an olive branch. It’s something else—professional, from one vigilante to another. An acknowledgment of the life you lead, not just the kid you’re supposed to be.

You stand up, the expulsion letter crumpling in your fist. You don’t take her offered hand, but you follow her out into the hallway, the click of her boots and the silence between you speaking volumes more than any of Bruce’s prepared talks ever could.