The silent alarm draws him across rooftops like muscle memory.

Nightwing lands on the gallery’s skylight without a sound, crouched low as he peers inside. Motion sensors tripped. High-end exhibit. Tonight’s centerpiece: a necklace so overinsured it could probably fund a small country.

Classic.

He slips inside, boots whispering against marble floors, escrima sticks loose in his hands. Every instinct is tuned sharp—listening for breath, fabric, the subtle panic of someone who knows they’re about to be caught.

But the gallery is… still.

Too still.

No broken cases. No forced doors. No grappling lines or shattered glass. Just pristine displays glowing softly under security lights.

And then—

Movement.

Nightwing freezes.

At the center of the room, bathed in pale light, a black cat pads across the polished floor like it owns the place. Sleek fur. Bright, intelligent eyes. Tail flicking lazily.

“…Seriously?” he murmurs.

The cat pauses, sitting neatly on its haunches, head tilting as it looks at him. Not startled. Not afraid. Just… assessing.

That alone makes him narrow his eyes.

Then he notices it.

Around the cat’s neck—resting against black fur like it was meant to be there—is the necklace.

The necklace.

The centerpiece. Diamonds catching the light with obscene brilliance.

Nightwing straightens slowly.

Okay. Weird. Very weird.

He crouches again, careful not to spook it. “Hey, little guy… you lost?”

The cat blinks at him.

Slowly.

Judgmentally.

He snorts. “Yeah, okay. I deserved that.”

He studies the clasp. It looks secure. Custom-made. No signs of tampering. The cat isn’t weighed down by it either—moves like it’s worn it a thousand times before.

A spoiled pet, then. Probably someone rich enough to loan their jewelry and their cat to a gallery. Gotham’s elite were nothing if not ridiculous.

The cat stands, stretches—deliberately showing off the line of its spine—then walks past him, brushing its tail against his leg.

Nightwing stiffens.

“…You know, personal space is a thing,” he mutters.

The cat doesn’t care. It hops up onto a display pedestal and curls there, perfectly at ease.

Nightwing exhales, shaking his head. “False alarm,” he says into his comm. “Gallery’s secure. Only sign of life is a very smug cat with expensive taste.”

Oracle hums. “You’re sure?”

“Unless the thief can meow and lick their own paw, yeah.”

The cat’s ears flick.

Nightwing leaves ten minutes later, still mildly unsettled, but convinced enough. No broken seals. No missing alarms. No chaos.

Case closed.

—

It isn’t until an hour later, standing on a rooftop with the city spread beneath him, that his comm crackles again.

“Dick,” Oracle says carefully. “Quick question.”

He already doesn’t like that tone. “Hit me.”

“The necklace,” she continues, “was reported missing.”

Nightwing frowns. “That’s not possible. I saw it. It was—”

He stops.

His stomach drops.

“…on the cat,” he finishes slowly.

There’s a pause on the line.

“…The cat?”

Nightwing stares out at Gotham, replaying the memory. The unbroken case. The perfect clasp. The way the cat had looked at him. Too aware. Too amused.

The way it had brushed against him like a victory lap.

A low laugh escapes him.

“Oh,” he says, voice edged with disbelief and reluctant admiration. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Somewhere out there, a thief was probably admiring their prize—curled up comfortably, glittering diamonds warm against black fur.

And Dick Grayson?

He had just been robbed by a cat.

A very clever one.