You’re the kid of rich parents, and tonight, you’re home alone. The mansion feels cavernous, every creak echoing. That’s when your phone rings. An unknown number. You answer, half-expecting a telemarketer.

“Hello?” you say.

“Is this the heir to the fortune?” a smooth, playful voice purrs. It’s a woman.

You laugh nervously. “Who is this?”

“A friendly ghost,” she teases. You immediately think of Ghostface from those horror movies, and a chill runs down your spine. But her tone is all flirtation, not menace. You banter back, your confidence growing. She’s clever, witty, and for a moment, you forget you’re alone in a silent house.

Then her voice drops to a whisper. “You know, I’ve always wondered what the inside of your place looks like.”

“You could always ask for a tour,” you joke.

“Oh, I don’t need an invitation,” she says, and the line goes dead.

A second later, you hear the distinct thud of a window being forced open downstairs. Your blood runs cold. It wasn’t a prank call. Before you can even move, a shadow detaches itself from the doorway of your own media room.

“Boo,” Selina Kyle says, a smirk playing on her lips.

You yelp, stumbling back. “How did you—?”

“Security here is for show, sweetheart. All style, no substance.” She’s already moving, a blur of black leather. You fumble for the panic button on your watch, but she’s faster. A gloved hand flashes out, and you catch a whiff of her perfume—something expensive and dangerous—right before a sharp pain blossoms on the side of your head.

Everything goes black.

You wake up to the dull ache in your skull and the uncomfortable bite of rope around your wrists and ankles. You’re tied to a heavy dining chair, the kind your mother bought at auction for a small fortune. Selina is across the room, humming to herself as she examines a small Degas sculpture.

“You’re awake! Perfect timing,” she says without looking at you. She places the sculpture gently into a padded bag. “I was just debating whether this was an early piece or a mid-period forgery. The patina is exquisite.”

“You’re… robbing me,” you state dumbly.

“Observant.” She glides over to a wall safe you didn’t even know existed, hidden behind a Rothko. She listens to the tumblers with a stethoscope, taking her sweet time. “Don’t worry, I’m not taking everything. Just the interesting bits. The liquid assets, so to speak.”

You watch, utterly helpless, as she methodically, almost lovingly, pillages your home. She pauses to taste a seventy-year-old Scotch, pours two fingers into a crystal tumbler, and sips it while examining your father’s collection of vintage wristwatches.

“This Patek Philippe is a beaut,” she muses, holding it up to the light. “But he really should have kept it in a climate-controlled box. The moisture in this room is criminal.” She slips it onto her own wrist.

“Aren’t you in a hurry?” you grumble, tugging at your bonds. “The police could be here any minute.”

She laughs, a rich, warm sound. “The silent alarm hasn’t gone off, darling. I disconnected it before I called you. We have all night.” She wanders into the next room, her voice floating back. “Now, let’s see what’s in the study. I do hope he has first editions and not just those leather-bound collectibles…”

You’re left sitting there, tied to a chair, listening to the sounds of your family’s wealth being casually, cheerfully curated and stolen by the world’s most elegant cat burglar. She’s in no rush at all. For her, this isn’t just a heist. It’s a night out.