It was supposed to be routine — a quiet night on patrol, the kind where Gotham feels almost manageable. You’re crouched on the edge of a building, scanning the streets below, when a strange sound cuts through the night — not a car, not a bike, something more faster.

Before you can react, a streak of chrome and fire bursts from the clouds overhead — a rocket, of all things, slicing through the Gotham sky. Your first instinct is to duck, but then you catch sight of her: Roxanne crouched low over her ride like it’s an extension of herself, goggles flashing under the city lights, leather jacket gleaming. She looks like a mad pilot out of some pulp magazine cover, grinning like a total daredevil.

You shouldn’t follow — you know better — but the second she swerves low and you see what’s trailing behind her (a bag clinking with what you suspect are stolen jewels), you leap. Grapnel line fires, wind tears at your mask, heart hammering as you swing into her path.

Roxy sees you instantly — and laughs. Not a nervous laugh, but a delighted one. She kicks the throttle, the rocket screaming louder, and suddenly it’s a chase. You land hard on a fire escape, run along it, then jump — you almost land on the rocket, fingers brushing the metal.

“Whoa! Careful, kid!” Roxy shouts over the roar of her engine, actually slowing enough to keep pace with you. “You know what you’re doing? One wrong grab and splat!”

Your stomach flips — both from the height and from the realization she’s not trying to shake you off. She’s playing with you.

You manage to hook your grapple to the rocket’s tail, and suddenly you’re airborne, boots dragging against empty space. The ground is a dizzy blur below, city lights swirling. Your heart is slamming against your ribs, fear and exhilaration tangled so tightly you can’t tell them apart.

Roxy glances back and grins wider, pulling up hard until the rocket spirals into the night sky. “Hold on, hero girl! You might just like this!”