Felicia Hardy//Black Cat

Rain tapped softly against the windows of a quiet Manhattan apartment. Inside, everything was ordinary. Bookshelves lined one wall. A record player hummed softly in the background. The scent of fresh coffee drifted through the room, competing with the earthy smell of rain filtering through an open window. On a shelf above the fireplace rested an antique silver music box. Small. Elegant. Beautifully engraved.

To anyone else, it looked like a harmless family keepsake. To Felicia Hardy... It was the reason she was standing on the rooftop across the street, watching the apartment through a pair of compact binoculars.

Three nights earlier, a fence operating out of Hell's Kitchen had approached her with an offer. "There's a piece we need recovered." Felicia had almost walked away. She rarely accepted jobs from people she didn't trust. "What's so special about it? It's just a music box."

The fence had smiled too quickly. "Belonged to a collector."

Felicia knew collectors. Real collectors could describe every scratch, every restoration, every previous owner of an object they cared about. The fence couldn't even tell her the period the music box came from. He only cared that someone wanted it back. Someone willing to pay an absurd amount of money. That alone made Felicia suspicious enough to investigate before stealing anything.

Finding the current owner had been easy. Understanding them... was taking considerably longer. For the better part of two days, she'd watched from a distance. She learned routines. What time you left, when you returned, whether you had visitors. Whether security cameras covered the building, whether anyone suspicious was already watching them.

More importantly... she watched how you treated it. Not like treasure. Like memory. That wasn't the behaviour of someone knowingly hiding stolen property. It was the behavior of someone who genuinely believed it belonged to them. Felicia frowned. "...Well. That's inconvenient."

A little digging produced the truth. The music box had disappeared almost twenty years ago during a warehouse robbery. Insurance records listed it as stolen, and the family who originally owned it had assumed it was gone forever.

Over the years, it had changed hands through auctions, smugglers, private collections, and black-market dealers until eventually... someone sold it legally through an estate sale. You had bought it without ever knowing its history. Legally yours. Morally... far less simple.

"So what are you hiding?" Felicia murmured to herself. Because nobody offered that kind of money for an antique music box. Unless it contained something else.

That evening, she decided it was finally time to meet its owner. Not as Black Cat. As Felicia Hardy. The knock at the apartment door was light. Patient. When you answered, you found an unfamiliar woman standing in the hallway. Tall. Elegant. Platinum hair framed a face that belonged on the cover of a fashion magazine rather than outside an ordinary apartment. A tailored ivory coat rested over a black dress, accented with tasteful silver jewelry and heeled boots polished despite the rain outside.

She offered an apologetic smile. "I hope I'm not interrupting." Her voice was warm, smooth, unmistakably New York.

"My name's Felicity. Felicity Hampton.” She held up a small leather notebook. "I'm researching privately owned antiques for an upcoming gallery exhibition." Not technically true. Not entirely false.

Her green eyes drifted just enough to catch sight of the silver music box resting on the shelf behind you. There it was. Up close. Even more beautiful than she'd expected. Her expression never changed. "Actually, I was hoping to ask you a few questions if you owned any.” She smiled.

You invited her inside, and Felicia moved through the apartment with casual confidence. She stopped before the music box. "May I?" She lifted it with surprising care, her fingers tracing the intricate engravings around its edge.

"...Eighteenth century craftsmanship." She smiled softly. "Remarkably well preserved." She gently turned the key, and the melody filled the room. A quiet, melancholy tune. Familiar. Too familiar. Felicia's brow furrowed almost imperceptibly. "...I've heard this before."

Years ago. She couldn't quite place it, but something clicked. It was connected to something much bigger.

"So..." She looked toward you, still holding the keepsake. "Where did you get it?"

There was no accusation in her voice. Only genuine curiosity. As you explained how it had come into their possession, Felicia listened carefully. Every answer chipped away at the assumptions she'd arrived with. No rehearsed story. No evasiveness. No signs of deception. Just a story about how you came to posses it.

She sighed inwardly. “Great. They're innocent.” Her original plan had been simple. Confirm the location, return after dark, steal the music box, leave. Now... that felt wrong. She hated when things got morally complicated. It was so much easier when people turned out to be awful.

Your conversation wandered away from antiques and into lighter topics. To her own annoyance, Felicia found herself enjoying it. You trying to impress her, you weren't flirting awkwardly. Simply... talking to her.

It was disarming. She almost forgot why she'd come. Almost. As she prepared to leave, her gaze lingered on the music box one last time. A flicker of concern crossed her face before disappearing beneath her familiar smile.

She slipped a business card from her coat pocket and placed it on the table. The name on the front read simply:

Felicity Hampton Independent Art Consultant

A perfectly crafted lie. At the door, she paused.

"If anyone..." She hesitated for the briefest moment. "...asks about the music box..." Her tone had lost some of its playful warmth. "...Don't tell them you have it." Felicia looked back over her shoulder, the teasing smile gone entirely. “it’s quite valuable. You don’t want anyone getting any ideas.”

Before another question could be asked, she stepped out the door and disappeared down the hallway.

Across the street, from the shelter of a rooftop ledge, Felicia looked back at the apartment's lit window. The job was no longer as simple as stealing a box. Now she had an innocent person caught in the middle of something they didn't understand. And if there was one thing Felicia Hardy hated almost as much as being manipulated, it was watching someone else become collateral damage in a game they never chose to play.

The next evening, Felicia had made her way into the apartment, grabbed the box, and had almost took off into the night. But as she stood before the window, she felt a wave of guilt. Uncharacteristic for a woman of her profession. So, she decided to wait. She lounged on the sofa, music box in hand, waiting.

When you returned home and flicked the lights on, there she was, sat on your kitchen counter, one leg crossed over the other. “Hey there. A little birdie told me you had a pretty valuable trinket. Unfortunately for you, it’s also the lost heirloom of some crime family.”

She uncrossed her legs and stood up, slowly sauntering her way over to you. “So. Here’s the deal. I’ll take this little thing off your hands, which means you’re safe. In return, here’s a little something to make parting with it hurt a little less.” She presented you with some money. Not an incredible amount, but more than you’d ever have gotten by selling it.

One coffee became a walk through Manhattan. The walk became dinner. Dinner became another date... then another. Somewhere between museum visits, late-night diners, and quiet rooftops overlooking the city, spending time with Felicia stopped feeling like an occasion and started feeling routine. She was as captivating as she was mysterious. She always seemed to know the best places no one else did, She recognized priceless artwork at a glance, had impossibly quick reflexes, and carried herself with the quiet awareness of someone who never stopped observing the world around her. Questions about her work were always met with a teasing smile and a cleverly vague answer.

She disappeared for days without explanation, only to reappear with an unapologetic grin and a casual, "Miss me?" Somehow, it was difficult to stay annoyed with her. For all her confidence, there was one thing she never did. She never invited you home, and she politely declined every invite of yours. Every date ended the same way: a lingering smile, a kiss goodbye, and Felicia slipping into the New York night before you could offer to walk her back. It became an endearing little mystery all its own.

Tonight, however, was different. After another evening together, she didn't hail a cab or make an excuse to leave. Instead, she lingered, idly twirling a set of keys around one finger. "So..." she began, glancing toward the city lights before looking back at you. "I've been told it's incredibly suspicious to keep disappearing at the end of every date." A playful smile tugged at her lips. "Apparently you’re supposed to invite people home eventually.” She stepped a little closer, her usual confidence softening for just a heartbeat.

"You've managed not to scare me off... which is encouraging." A brief pause followed before she smiled again. "I suppose I trust you." The admission was quiet, almost casual, but sincere. Before the moment could linger too long, her familiar smirk returned. "Don't let it go to your head."

She jingled the keys lightly. "So. Want to come back to my place?"

Her apartment occupied the top floor of a renovated warehouse in SoHo, hidden behind an unassuming brick façade that gave no hint of the luxury inside. A private elevator opened directly into a spacious loft where floor-to-ceiling windows framed the Manhattan skyline in glittering detail. The space felt unmistakably like Felicia. Elegant without being ostentatious. Modern furniture mixed with antique pieces that looked as though each had its own story. Shelves were lined with art books, travel photography, and the occasional rare artifact displayed more for appreciation than extravagance. Fresh white lilies sat on the kitchen island, while soft jazz drifted quietly through hidden speakers.

It was immaculate, yet lived in. A place that balanced sophistication with comfort. Felicia slipped off her jacket, tossing it neatly over the back of a chair before crossing to a polished bar cart. "Wine?" she asked over her shoulder, already reaching for a bottle. She glanced back with a teasing smile, noticeably more relaxed than she'd ever been on any of your previous dates. Suddenly, you felt something move between your legs. It was a little black cat, nuzzling at your ankle.

The rain had finally stopped, leaving Manhattan glittering beyond the apartment’s floor-to-ceiling windows. From this height, the city seemed quieter, reduced to distant headlights, muted sirens, and reflections shimmering across wet streets. Inside, soft jazz drifted through hidden speakers while Lupin occupied the warmest spot on the couch, curled into a peaceful sleep.

Felicia had traded her usual elegance for something far more personal: an oversized sweater, bare feet against the hardwood floor, and sleeves pulled over her hands as she wandered into the kitchen. A minute later, she returned carrying two mugs and settled beside you, folding one leg beneath herself.

"I've decided," she announced, handing you one of the mugs, "you're impossible to shop for." A teasing smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.

"You either already own everything I'd think to buy... or you insist you don't need it." She took a sip, watching you over the rim of her mug.

"Which just feels like you’re being stubborn." The conversation drifted easily. Terrible movies, museum exhibits she insisted you needed to see, a tiny bookstore hidden between buildings in the Village that she had somehow discovered. Things that should have felt ordinary but somehow never did with Felicia.

For once, there was no performance. No chase. No mystery to solve. Just the two of you sharing a quiet night together.

As you reached for your mug, your shirt shifted slightly, exposing a dark bruise along your ribs.

Felicia noticed immediately. The smile disappeared. "Hang on." She leaned closer, her fingers hovering just above the injury without touching.

Her expression changed—not because you were hurt, but because something about the bruise felt familiar.

The placement, the shape, the faint curve along your side. She frowned slightly, trying to place the memory.

And then she did. Three nights ago. The warehouse rooftop in Hell's Kitchen.

Spider-Man taking a brutal hit from a steel support beam after she had mistimed a distraction. She remembered the sound of the impact, remembered checking up on him and the tear in his suit.

She remembered the joke she'd made to test how bad he’d been hit. "Don't you dare bleed on my suit. This fur is impossible to clean."

Her eyes returned to the bruise. The exact same place. Felicia went still.

That was the thing about her. She noticed everything. Every detail. Every inconsistency. Every little thing people thought they hid.

She just never expected the answer to be the one thing she had never allowed herself to consider. The late nights, the disappearing acts, the excuses. She should’ve noticed, they were the same tactics she used.

Her eyes slowly lifted to yours. "No..." The word left her quietly. Then, before she could stop herself: "You got that from the support beam." The second the words left her mouth, she realized what she had done.

There was no way she could know that. No one else had been there when he’d got it. Nobody but Black Cat. Felicia stared at you for a long moment before closing her eyes and letting out a quiet, disbelieving laugh.

"Well..." She rubbed her forehead, shaking her head. When she looked back at you, there was no Black Cat persona left. No playful arrogance. No carefully controlled mystery. Just Felicia.

"I've spent months wondering why the man I kept running into on rooftops felt awfully similar to the one that keeps spending the night." A small laugh escaped her. Her eyes met yours. "But somehow not observant enough to realise who you are, lover.”

For once, she didn't immediately fill the silence with a joke. She simply looked at you, processing the absurdity of it. Then her familiar smile slowly returned; not smug, not flirtatious. Just amused.

"So..." She tilted her head slightly. "I imagine you've got a few questions. I know I do."

The evenings at her place were comfortable, intimate even, but always with clear boundaries. Wine at the bar. Music in the background. Conversation that never strayed too far into anything Felicia considered genuinely vulnerable. She would sit beside you, sometimes close enough that your shoulders touched, but she always seemed to maintain some invisible inch of distance.

She was letting you into her life, just not all the way.

Tonight, however, something about her seemed different.

The evening had gone late again, and Manhattan glittered beyond the windows of her loft. Felicia stood beside the elevator wearing a fitted black dress that ended mid-thigh, the fabric soft and simple enough to feel intentional rather than formal. A thin silver chain rested against her collarbone. Her platinum hair was down, slightly tousled from the long evening, and she held her jacket draped loosely over one arm as she watched you with that familiar, mischievous smile.

"So..." She glanced toward the clock that hung above the bar. "It's late."

Then she looked at the elevator, then back at you. “Why don’t you... stay?”

Felicia crossed the room and set her jacket down. Instead of returning to the bar or finding some other distraction, she walked directly toward you.

"I've been thinking." She gestured vaguely between the two of you. “About the two of us.” She stepped closer, one finger trailing upwards from your chest to your chin.

Her expression softened. "I keep telling myself it's fine but," She reached for your hand. "I like you." Her fingers laced with yours gently.

A small, almost embarrassed smile appeared. "Quite a lot, actually. And I’m not sure how to feel about that.”

She gave your hand a gentle squeeze, her eyes lifting to meet yours. "I'm not particularly good at this. People rarely stick around this long. I don’t get a lot of practice." A small, genuine smile spread across her face. "But I'm trying." She moved closer until there was barely any space between you.

Felicia raised her free hand and lightly touched your cheek. It was such a small gesture, but coming from her, it felt far more intimate than any of the flirting she'd given you before.

Her thumb brushed gently along your cheek. "Usually this is where I say something flirtatious. Something just sincere enough it keeps you guessing." A faint smile. "Unfortunately, I've got nothing."

She leaned in and kissed you. It wasn't hurried or particularly heated. It was simply longer than her usual goodbye kiss; deliberate, affectionate, and without the playful escape that normally followed.

When she pulled back, she gave your lower lip a gentle nip as she gazed into your eyes. "That wasn't so terrible." Her voice was barely above a murmur, but she hasn’t lost that playful tone just yet.

A quiet laugh escaped her. "I'm beginning to understand why people get themselves into relationships." Her arms slipped loosely around you.

She stayed there for another moment, seemingly content to just exist for a moment.

Then she smiled. "Come on." She took your hand and started toward the hallway.

She glanced back at you. "Tonight, you get the real Felicia Hardy experience."

Her smile became softer, then she continued toward the bedroom, still holding your hand. She closed the door quietly behind you. Once inside, Felicia turned, gave you a playful shove that sent you sitting back onto the edge of her bed, and stepped just out of reach.

She reached behind her neck and unhooked the dress. The fabric slid down her body in a slow, deliberate fall, pooling at her feet. Beneath it she wore matching black lace; thin, elegant, and clearly chosen with this moment in mind. She stepped out of the dress, kicked it lightly aside, and stood there a moment longer than necessary, letting you appreciate the view. “How do I look?”