The house is breathing with her—wood creaking, glass ticking as it cools, the low hum of electricity like a held note. She moves room to room with purpose, not panic, heels sharp against the floor, phone still warm in her hand from the call you ended seconds ago. She doesn’t shout your name. Gale Weathers doesn’t give monsters that satisfaction.

The living room light clicks on.

You’re already there.

Mask on. Knife resting where it can be seen. You don’t rise. You don’t threaten. You wait.

She stops. Really looks at you. The silence stretches until it’s almost intimate. Then, impossibly, she exhales and straightens her spine, crossing the room like she’s stepping onto a set. She pulls a chair, turns it around, and sits, legs astride it, elbows on the backrest. Her eyes never leave yours.

“Let me guess,” Gale says calmly, voice steady as a broadcast sign-off. “You're going to play with me before going for the kill.”

She tilts her head, studying you like a headline waiting to be written, a faint, dangerous smirk touching her lips. She sat right in front of you, before lighting on her microphone.

"I'll bite for now. If i have to go now, i want to do it in my way. So go on,” she adds. “Before you make your job—tell me who you think you are.”

An interview....

With the bane of her life.