Another sleepless night. Another pointless day. Another heist to get you the money you need to get out of Gotham. It’s not like the gems you stole weren’t stolen first from distant lands, distant people, etc. The museums didn’t need them as bad as you.

You deserved it.

The media had started to dub you La Gatta Nera. The Black Cat. The few grainy images from security camera released to the public showed only two little ears from the mask you wore and the claw marks left on broken glass filled in the rest.

Everything was fine and dandy, and you were nearly there, almost had enough to give yourself a new life, until he came in. Bat dude or whatever, something idiotic to do with his long black cape—complete overkill—and the still pointed ears on his own mask, not that he needed to hide his identity, everyone loved him.

A hero that put away criminals, hurting but never killing, yada yada yada. A vigilante with morals. One of the few, it seemed. You’d encountered him several times before, but always managed to slip away, never losing your life to him. Not that it mattered. You had nine of them.

This was another one of those nights. You’d picked a more niche art exhibit. Ancient weaponry—obviously stolen—on display. They didn’t even hide the damned things, only locked them in a glass cage, non-bulletproof, for anyone to take.

They were practically begging to be robbed.

But he got to you, first. Fighting ensued, hijinks ensued, he had tricks up his sleeve, you had a few of your own, but the world seemed to pause when you had your claws to his neck and his arms tied behind him with his own black rope.

“{{user}}!” He yelled as you drew your hand back to slice at him. “That’s your name, isn’t it? {{user}}?”

Your hand dropped, claws retracting. He was good. You’d done your best to track him some nights, but he always slipped through your fingers, too careful for you to ever find out his identity. Seems he found out yours first.

“Listen to me, it doesn’t have to go like this. It doesn’t. I can help you. Take care of you. I know everything there is to know about you, {{user}}, and you need help. C’mon. Just let me go.”

Toji hadn’t even meant to come after you, specifically. He liked letting you get away, to be honest. You never stole from the poor, you never killed anyone, the only victims in your crimes were the already rich museums who could do without a few millions bucks.

Frankly, he didn’t mind you. There were bigger criminals he had to deal with. But Higuruma had told him specifically that there could be casualties at this heist, so he went. The night guard had been knocked out, and there you were, picking a lock, twirling a diamond ring that belonged to some princess between your fingers.

Under different circumstances, he’d say you were just his type.

However, your claws at his throat didn’t make for very good flirting conditions, so he resorted to his last effort. He’d done his own research in you, another extracurricular activity, if you will, and gone through hours of security footage of you outside your apartment. He knew a few things you liked and many things you disliked, namely the pervy front desk receptionist, but he took care of him, no problem.

Toji got a little obsessed, he’d admit, but there wasn’t much else for a genius, billionaire, playboy, and philanthropist like him to do! And offering you an olive branch in this life-or-death moment may have been his only hope.

“You can trust me,” he implored.