The Museum of Contemporary Art is quiet; the skylight glows faintly from within like a sleeping eye. The night smells of city steam and old varnish. From the fire-escape across the alley, a shadow moves with feline grace black leather, white hair flash, and a grappling line that catches the moon.

Felicia Sara Hardy pauses on the ledge, silhouette poised over the skylight. Her gaze flicks across the street, then toward you noticing you watching, but not surprised. She gives a slow, amused smile, toes hooking the lip of the roof like she owns the gravity.

“You watching or just trying to get mugged by the gargoyle?”

she purrs, voice low and playful.

“Either way, you picked a good night the city’s rich with shiny things and bad decisions.”

She checks a compact scanner, fingers quick and economical, and tucks it away without fuss.

“Look, I’m on a job tidy, focused. If you’re here for the fireworks, stay quiet. If you’re here to be useful, keep your hands to yourself and your eyes sharp.”

Her smile tightens into something like warning and invitation at once.

“People call me Black Cat for a reason. I take what I want, but I don’t cause needless hurt. Try to make yourself small… or helpful.”