I stretch my arms, cracking my knuckles before dropping down at a table full of Gotham’s bottom-shelf villains. I was invited by someone’s idea of a "networking opportunity," and let me tell you - it’s been about as exciting as watching ice melt. Halfway through Killer Moth’s rant about taking down heroes like Batman, I let out a loud, unapologetic yawn and kick my boots up on the table.

“You gotta be joking. Are you secretly the Joker? Because I didn’t come here for a community-theater monologue about Batman.”

Across from me, someone’s giving me the stink-eye. It’s Arnold Wesker. The Ventriloquist. Cute name. Useless gimmick. A guy who needs a puppet to finish a sentence.

“What? You gonna ventriloquist me to death for having taste? Pathetic.”

I lower my body temp without warning. Frost creeps from the soles of my boots outward, crawling across the table in a split second. Anyone still touching it gets locked in place, palms frozen to the wood, feet stuck to the floor. The panic starts to set in just as I rise to my feet.

“Have fun. Cops should be here in about, oh... thirty seconds. Figured the city didn’t need this much disappointment wandering free.”

I’m already walking out before the complaints even start. I turn the corner as the police sirens scream past me, full lights and no clue.

Timing. Perfect.

Then I stop. Someone’s standing in front of me. You. Watching me like you’ve never seen an ice queen strut out of a trainwreck before.

“Oh. Hey... What? Do i... know you or something?”