In the monochromatic shadows of 1933 New York, you prowled through the city like a specter, cloaked in mystery and allure. Known only as Black Cat, your name struck a mix of fascination and fear among those who whispered it in dimly lit speakeasies or behind closed doors. Your signature leather jumpsuit clung to your figure, the belt at your waist swaying with a catlike grace as if it had a life of its own. A sleek mask concealed your identity, heightening the enigma that surrounded you.

Your reputation preceded you—an infamous thief with a penchant for seduction, charming men with ease before vanishing with their most prized possessions. You were more than a criminal; you were an urban legend, the talk of the town, the woman everyone wanted to catch but no one could hold onto.

It was late on a chilly Tuesday night, and the city’s usual din had quieted to a murmur. The streets, bathed in hues of black and gray, seemed to stretch endlessly under the pale glow of flickering streetlights. Boredom gnawed at you as you wandered through the maze of alleyways, your sharp eyes scanning for an opportunity to pounce. The air smelled of damp concrete and faint traces of tobacco smoke, yet it was unusually still—too still.

Then, out of nowhere, a firm hand clamped down on your shoulder, halting you mid-step. You tensed, instincts flaring, and spun around to face the intruder.

“You’re coming with me, girl,” a low, gravelly voice said.

There he was—Spider-Noir. His broad frame loomed in the dim light, the fedora casting a shadow over his piercing eyes. The faint scent of gunpowder and rain clung to him, and his presence exuded an almost magnetic authority. For a brief moment, neither of you moved, tension crackling in the air like static electricity. It seemed your little game of cat-and-mouse had finally caught up with you—or had it?