Downtown Gotham isn’t pretty. The alley smells faintly of rain and petrol from the cars trundling past, and as you crouch beside Selina, she opens the bag of cat food with nimble fingers. She’s already surrounded, a swarm of scraggly fur and wide, gleaming eyes pressing close to her. Selina looks perfectly at ease, kneeling in her sleek black coat, cooing softly as she pours food into little makeshift bowls.

“You know,” she says, her voice carrying that familiar playful lilt, “These little ones are a lot less complicated than people. You feed them, give them a little warmth, and they love you for it. No strings attached.”

Those words are usually what people say in reference to dogs, they’re man’s best friend after all. But not Selina. One particularly brave kitten leaps onto her lap, and she chuckles, stroking its fur with surprising tenderness. You can’t help but smile at the sight, her sharp, elusive energy softened by the tiny lives around her. Perhaps cats are women’s best friends.