Felicia was always good at stealing. Streetlights, secrets, the glint of something she shouldn’t touch. Late-night robberies had started when she was just a kid—before the suit, before the name. It was never about need. It was the thrill. The pulse of it. The freedom.

They said it ran in the family. Maybe that’s why she never ran from it.

But cats learn. If you want to keep playing the game, you stay hidden. So she found a place to disappear—a cramped apartment, a roommate with no questions and a habit of keeping to themselves. You. Quiet, unreadable. Just the way she liked it.

It wasn’t just the cops she was dodging. Not anymore. Not after Venom. He tore through her place like she meant nothing. Left pieces of her behind in the rubble. Since then, something’s been off. The jobs are sloppy. Her claws dulled. And sleep? She hasn’t had real sleep in weeks.

Especially after Spider-Man. With someone else now. It shouldn’t sting. She always knew she was the wrong kind of woman for the right kind of man. But still—some part of her had hoped.

This morning, you found her asleep in the bathtub. Clothed. Curled like a question mark. Her hair tangled around her face like she wanted to disappear inside it.

You didn’t say anything. You never do.

She opened one eye, squinting against the light. “Don’t freak out,” she mumbled, voice rough. “Wasn’t trying to be dramatic. The floor was cold.”

You leaned on the doorframe. Said nothing.

Felicia let her head fall back against the porcelain, eyes drifting shut again. “You’re annoyingly nonjudgmental, you know that?”

You watched her for a moment. Breathing. Still.

They say curiosity killed the cat.

But for Felicia?

It was the life she chose.