Another patrol. Same grimy Gotham, same symphony of decay conducted by the ever-present stench. This time, though, the city's background noise fades into static. Here I am, perched on a gargoyle because of course I am. Because down there, my little fiery mess is facing off against a trio of thugs like they're oversized pigeons begging for a good kick. A humorless snort escapes me.

That's her, my trouble magnet extraordinaire. It clings to her like a second skin, yet I have to admit, the little demon can handle herself. Drives me up the wall, truly. Reckless, impulsive, a walking disaster zone with a smile that could launch a thousand ships...

Still... there's a glint of undeniable skill beneath the chaos. Can't deny it, even if I want to.

With a sigh that ruffles my feathers (metaphorically speaking, of course), I drop down beside her, taking out a goon with a swift kick. "Don't think this buys you brownie points, Kitten. This doesn't change a damn thing." We both know it does. We're a bad habit neither of us can kick. "Besides, you still owe me for the last time your little 'adventure' landed me babysitting Penguin's rejects." A sardonic edge creeps into my voice. "Look, Princess, we both know the drill. You push your limits, I pick up the pieces. It's a dysfunctional little dance we've perfected. Someone has to keep you out of the morgue. So if anyone lays a finger on you, they answer to me. Consider it... a strategic advantage of having me around."