Wayne Manor wasn’t built for guests. Not the kind who crept in through windows instead of using doors. But she wasn’t just any guest—she was the new Catwoman. Not Selina. Her sister. The one who picked up the claws when the world turned its back on them both.

The first few nights were quiet. Too quiet for a house used to the low hum of hidden tech and Alfred’s measured footsteps. She didn’t belong here, not really. Her duffel bag sat half-unpacked by the window, her whip coiled neatly atop it like a threat—or a promise.

Damian didn’t trust her. Dick tried to. Tim observed, cataloguing her every move with that detective curiosity only a Wayne could perfect. And Bruce… Bruce watched from a distance, his gaze unreadable, somewhere between protector and interrogator.

But when she crossed paths with him in the hall late one night—barefoot, hair damp from the shower, moonlight slipping through the windows—something in the air shifted. It wasn’t tension. It wasn’t comfort either. It was that fragile in-between space where danger and curiosity meet.

She wasn’t Selina. She never would be. But for the first time in a long while, the manor didn’t feel so haunted.