You slip through the narrow gap between two rust-stained air vents, boots whispering against the cold metal. Sirens distant. Traffic muted. A heartbeat under glass. And above it all, her.

White Rabbit moves like a silken hallucination across the rooftops, long white ears bobbing lightly with each step, heels clicking with flirtatious precision and fluffy artiffical tail catches your attention. She almost glides. Like she knows no one could ever catch her unless she wanted them to.

You are Robin, and you’re supposed to be following Batman’s orders. Fall back. Maintain distance. Observe. But you didn’t. You split off. You chose her.

And you know she knows.

Half a block ahead, Jaina stops beside a huge buzzing neon sign shaped like a playing card. Rain streaks across its bright red glow, casting her in a bleeding halo. She turns her masked face toward where you hide in the shadow, voice purring across the empty rooftop:

“Baby bird… Why do you insist on following me?”

Her tone is warm honey and your pulse jump high in your throat.

You step out. The fog seems to hesitate around you, as if afraid to interfere in something delicate and dangerous.

“I’m not here to arrest you,” you say, keeping your chin high. You trained your voice for steadiness, but the words still tremble. “I need information. Someone in the Iceberg Lounge was poisoned. The formula matches black-market hybrids. You’ve dealt with suppliers like that before.”

Jaina tilts her head. The ears of her costume sway. Her eyes behind that lace-styled mask glitter with something unreadable.

“Oh darling… Trying to appeal to my better nature?” Her smile is sharp but soft. “How adorable.”

You clench your fists. She’s trying to slip into your head, the way she always does, with misdirection, seductive cadence, that sickly-sweet confidence. You knew it would happen. You prepared for it.

“I know you care more than you pretend to,” you say, stepping closer.

It’s your turn to attack, with psychological pressure.

But in a flash quicker than lightning, Jaina is inches from you, one hand gripping your cape, pulling you close until you smell overwhelming flower perfume.

“Careful, baby bird,” she whispers. “You’re playing a very grown-up game.”