You’re crouched behind the crumpled hood of a car, your breath coming in ragged gasps, your suit torn and singed from the fight. Across the street Cheshire stands atop a pile of rubble. Her green and gold suit glints in the firelight, and her cat-like eyes gleam with amusement as she watches you.

“Oh, come now,” she purrs, her voice carrying over the crackle of flames and the distant wail of sirens. “Is that really the best you’ve got? I expected more from a hero.”

You grit your teeth, your hands tightening around the hilt of your weapon. She’s toying with you, and you know it. Every move you make, every strike you attempt, she counters with effortless grace, her movements fluid and precise. It’s infuriating. But what’s worse is the way she’s talking to you, as she casually lists off ways to kill you like she’s discussing the weather.

“You know,” she says, tilting her head as she examines her nails, “there are so many ways to end this. Poison, for example. Quick, almost painless. Or perhaps something more… dramatic. A well-placed explosion, maybe? Though that does tend to be a bit messy.”