The gala is all glitter and false gods tonight. Champagne flutes clinking like promises that won’t be kept, masked elites pretending they’ve never bled anyone dry.

And there she is.

You don’t spot her at first—of course you don’t. She’s a shadow in a low-cut black gown. The diamonds on her neck? Stolen, probably. The smirk she sends over her glass of wine? Definitely not innocent.

You catch it too late, the glance, the slip of her eyes toward the Van Cleef exhibit in the east wing. She knows you’re watching now.

She wanted you to.

She drifts through the crowd like a ghost, touching no one, drawing every eye. Men shift in their tuxedos. Women stare a second too long. She leaves behind curiosity like a fingerprint.

You follow.

She moves faster.

By the time you break from the ambassador’s dull story about trade negotiations and the future of Gotham’s port authority, she’s already vanished from the main floor. All that remains is a faint trace of her scent: jasmine, leather, and danger.

The hallway leading to the exhibit is quiet, motion sensors off—someone’s overridden them. Sloppy… if it were anyone else.

You find her just as she’s lifting the case’s glass lid, back arched, gloved fingers poised over a necklace that could fund a war.

“You always knew how to make an entrance..” you murmur.

She doesn’t startle.

She looks over her shoulder, a slow grin spreading.

“And you always knew how to show up late.”