The locks never mattered. Not to Selina. She ghosts through your penthouse security like it’s child’s play, like it’s nothing compared to the tricks you both used to pull just to survive. By the time you sense her, she’s already there — standing by the glass wall, Gotham glittering behind her, arms folded tight across her chest.

She’s still in her catsuit, sleek as ever, though the leather bears faint creases from long hours of wear. The zipper is tugged low at the collar, just enough to loosen the grip of the night. Her mask is gone, tucked away, and her hair falls in untidy strands, still damp from rain, brushing against smudges of eyeliner that shadow her eyes. She looks like the city has pressed its weight onto her — not broken, just tired, raw, unapologetically herself.

“Fancy place,” she says, voice low but barbed. “Marble floors, glass chandeliers, closets worth more than what we used to steal in a year.” Her eyes cut to you, lingering like they used to when you were kids huddled under torn blankets, except now they’re harder. “Guess some of us learned how to land on our feet better than others.”

You remember the nights on rooftops, the hunger, the scrapes, the promises whispered between two strays who only had each other. She remembers them too — but the memory tastes different on her tongue.

“You may know how to stride in front of everyone, darling,” she sneers, taking a step closer, “but do you know how to strip for a mafioso? Because that’s what it takes to stay at the top. And while you were busy shining under spotlights, I was still crawling through shadows, keeping my claws sharp.”

Her laugh is bitter, sharp as glass. “We were strays. We swore we’d never leave each other behind. But you did.”

The silence that follows is heavier than any alarm you’ve ever tripped. She’s not just breaking into your home tonight — she’s breaking into the part of you that still remembers being a stray beside her.