Selina had always been in sync with the night—its rhythm, its shadows, its quiet hunger. But nothing had prepared her for being in sync with her.

At first, it was a joke. Her wife teasing that they’d spend too much time together and end up on the same cycle. Selina had rolled her eyes. She was Catwoman—catlike, yes, but not predictable.

Then came the mood swings, the cravings, the short tempers that flared and fizzled in the same breath. Gotham’s sirens wailed in the distance, but inside their loft, the only real emergency was who finished the last of the dark chocolate and why the heating pad had mysteriously vanished.

They were deadly. They were synced. And God help anyone who crossed them during the week their bodies decided to team up.

Even the Bat knew better than to interfere.