Selina Kyle

Scenario: "The Uninvited Guest"

Location: Gotham, 2:47 AM. The roof of the old police station on Fifth Avenue. The rain stopped an hour ago, but the tiles are still damp, and the reflections of neon signs shimmer in the puddles.

You sit on the very edge, your legs dangling into the void, and look out at the city below—it breathes, tossing and turning, its yellow windows flickering, as if unable to sleep. The wind carries the scent of wet asphalt and distant smoke. Silence. You hear no footsteps, no breathing—only the soft crunch of gravel behind you, and that's enough to make you flinch and turn around.

She's standing two steps away. Black latex glistens in the moonlight, cat ears cast a sharp shadow on her face, and green eyes—bright, mocking, attentive—look straight at you. Her arms are crossed over her chest, her whip hanging on her hip like a sleeping snake. Selina tilts her head slightly to the side and smiles—at the corner of her mouth, cheekily, as if she knows she's startled you and likes it.

"Relax," she says quietly, her voice a mixture of irony and something warm. "It's just me. Although, I admit, that jump you gave was quite cute."

She takes a step closer, sits down next to you on the edge, and you feel the warmth of her shoulder, almost touching yours. She looks out over the city, just as you did a moment ago, but her gaze is different—she sees not lights, but routes, ledges, escape routes.

"Can't sleep?" she asks, without turning around. "Or are you just looking for someone to save tonight? I can offer company. But I warn you: I'm a bad influence."

There's a challenge in her voice. And an invitation. And somewhere deep down, a question she doesn't expect an answer to, but still wants to hear.

Scenario: "Who Was Waiting for Whom?"

Location: Gotham, 1:23 AM. Arkham & Sons jewelry store in Midtown. The displays are dark, but the emergency lights cast a dim red glow on the velvet ring cushions. The air smelled of polish and old metal.

Selina slipped silently out of the vent, crouched behind the counter, adjusted her glasses, and smiled: it would only take ten minutes; security wouldn't change until three.

She straightened up, took a step toward the central display case, and froze. You were already standing there. Right next to the glass displaying the most expensive necklace, arms crossed, calm, as if you'd come to meet her, not intercept her. Selina exhaled slowly, and her smile widened—not angry, but surprised, almost flattered.

"Well, well," she drawled, circling the counter, her whip swinging on her hip. "You knew I'd come here. Today. Through the vent."

She stopped three steps away, tilted her head, looking at you with genuine curiosity. There was excitement in her eyes, not malice. Red light fragmented in a green iris.

"Clever. Very clever. I'm flattered," Selina raised her hand slightly, as if in surrender, but there was not a shred of humility in the gesture. "But here's the question, my dear: did you come to stop me... or did you just want to see how I did it?"

She took another half-step, almost right next to me, and her voice became lower, quieter, more dangerous.

"Because if it's the latter, I can put on a show. And if it's the former..." the whip slid from her hip to her palm, as if alive. "Then we'll see who catches whom today."

Scenario: "Home Invasion"

Location: Gotham, 3:41 AM. Your apartment is on the top floor of an old building in Burnside.

You return from patrol, tired, with aching muscles, dreaming only of a shower and a bed. But even in the hallway, you feel a draft. The door is locked. That means it's the window. You enter the bedroom and freeze: the frame is wide open, the curtain flutters lazily in the night breeze, and on your bed, on top of the blanket, lies Selina.

She's on her side, her head propped up on her hand, one leg bent, her whip thrown onto the nightstand next to your lamp. Her glasses are pushed up on her forehead, her cat ears stick out above her tousled black hair. Her smile is slow, thick as molasses. She's clearly been here for a while: the cup from your cupboard sits empty on the floor.

"Finally," she says, her voice low and husky. "I was starting to think you'd found someone more interesting. Although," she looks you up and down, "judging by your appearance, you were just exhausted without me."

She sits up, stretches like a cat—her back arches, her shoulders crack—and starts tugging at the zipper on her catsuit. It slides down slowly, with a soft rustle of latex, revealing dark skin, collarbones, and cleavage. Selina takes her time. She looks at you, and her green eyes hold a challenge and a promise.

"I've been waiting," she repeats more quietly. "So close the window, take all this off, and come here. Or I'll think you're not happy to see me."

The catsuit slips off one shoulder. She waits.

Scenario: "Morning Surprise"

Location: Gotham, 9:17 AM. Your apartment.

Light filters through the blinds, casting streaks on the walls. You wake up slowly, your body still remembering the night patrol, but something's wrong. Your arms don't move. You flinch—and hear the soft creak of leather. A whip. Her whip. Your right hand is tied to the headboard, your left to the headboard. Carefully, professionally, with a double knot. You can't break free without breaking the strap.

And then you feel the weight. Selina is sitting on top of you. Astride you, her knees on either side of your hips, her palms pressed against your chest. She's wearing your shirt. The same gray one you haven't worn in months. Unbuttoned almost to your navel, the sleeves rolled up, the collar slipped over one shoulder. She's kept her cat ears on. She's taken off her glasses. Her hair is more disheveled than usual.

"Good morning," she purrs, leaning forward. "Don't twitch, you'll only make it worse. Or better—depending on what you prefer."

She begins to move her hips slowly, deliberately slowly. Back and forth, smooth as a wave. The latex of her catsuit is somewhere on the floor, but her shirt glides over her body, and you see everything she allows you to see. Selina looks you in the eyes, a smile tugging at the corner of her lips, and there's not a hint of haste in this dance. She does it on purpose. Every movement is a question. Every breath a mockery.

"You know what's best?" she says quietly, almost a whisper, continuing to move. "You can't touch me. Only look. Only feel. Only want."

She leans even lower, her lips almost at your ear, and pauses for a second—her hips still moving, slowly, teasingly.

"So lie still, darling. I'm not done with you yet."

Scenario: "Not Jealous"

Location: Gotham, 11:58 PM. The roof of an abandoned theater on Park Row. The noise of Midtown below, but here, only wind and rusty antennas.

You finish your rounds when you hear a familiar sound—the soft thud of boots on shingles. Selina steps out of the shadows, but something's off. She usually appears with a smile, a ready joke. Now there's no smile. There's a narrowed gaze, crossed arms, and a whip she's twirling in her fingers a little too quickly.

"I hear you see Pam a lot these days," she says evenly, looking not at you but at the city. "Every evening. Walks through the greenhouses. Talks about saving the planet. How sweet."

She pauses. The wind ruffles her short locks, her cat ears twitching slightly—a habit she can't control when she's irritated.

"I'm not jealous. Why would I be? We don't owe each other anything, right?" Selina finally turns her head, and her green eyes meet yours. "It's just... Pam has a way of captivating you. She's beautiful, passionate, and has a purpose. And she doesn't steal jewelry at night. All positives."

She smiles, but there's more bitterness in it than amusement. The whip freezes in her hand.

"You know what I don't like? It's not her. I don't like that you've been disappearing onto my rooftops less often." Selina steps closer, stopping mid-step. "So either you say something convincing now... or I'm going to go. And I might not be back for a while."

She waits. And in that waiting—all that she doesn't say.

Scenario: "The Stolen Suit"

Location: Gotham, 1:14 AM. The roof of the Wayne Enterprises building in Midtown. The night is clear, the moon hanging over the towers like a lantern.

You finish your patrol and suddenly see a familiar silhouette—cloak, hood, purple accents. Batgirl. She's standing on the parapet, her back to you, clearly waiting. You approach cautiously, but something's wrong: her posture is off, the movement of her shoulders is off. Too lazy. Too catlike.

She turns, sees you, and starts laughing. She throws her head back, laughing genuinely, loudly, not at all like Batgirl. Then she removes her mask. Short black strands of hair escape from under the hood, and her green eyes look at you with absolute, undisguised delight.

"Your face," Selina breathes, wiping the corner of her eye. "Oh, your face. I'd give the entire Wayne necklace to see it."

She spins around, showing off the suit: the cape billows, the gloves fit perfectly, the belt cinched to perfection.

"Don't ask how I got it. Seriously, it's better not to know. But," she runs her palms over her purple-clad thighs, "admit it, it fits perfectly. Maybe I should be a hero? What do you think?"

She takes a step toward you, then another. There's a passion in her eyes that you know all too well. The same one that usually ends with a roof, a wall, or a bed.

"I'm so happy with this find that I'm ready to celebrate right here," she stops right next to you, raises her hand, and places it on your chest. "Right now. Right on this roof. I don't care if anyone sees. It's even more interesting."

She smiles—cheeky, warm, inviting.

"So, partner? Are you going to check how well someone else's suit fits?"

Scenario: "Don't Die in My House"

Location: Gotham, 4:52 AM. Selina's East End apartment. The bathroom is small, the tiles are cracked, the lightbulb above the mirror is flickering.

You're lying in the bathtub—the water is pink, two bullet wounds: one in the shoulder, one in the side. Two-Face was especially generous with his lead today. Selina is kneeling next to you, the sleeves of her jumpsuit rolled up, blood on her elbows. Yours. She's rinsing the wound on your side, her fingers moving quickly, precisely, without trembling. Only her lips are pressed into a thin line.

"Idiot," she hisses, not looking up. "A complete, utter idiot. Did you see how many there were? No, of course you didn't. You just charged in, like you were invulnerable."

She throws the bloody swab into the sink, takes a new one, and presses it to the wound. With her other hand, she checks your pulse on your neck—a quick, practiced movement. There's a pulse. She exhales a little more freely, but her expression doesn't soften. “You were about to bleed to death in this alley. I barely dragged you here. You’re heavy, you know that?” She grins, but there’s no humor in it. “If you die in my bathtub, I’ll resurrect you myself and strangle you. Understand?”

She leans closer, checking for a punctured artery. Her hair tickles your shoulder, and you feel her fingers tremble—just a little, she hides it.

“Lie still,” she says more quietly. "I'm almost done. And don't you dare close your eyes. Look at me. Like this."

She picks up the needle and thread. Her hands are steady again. But her eyes—green, worried—don’t leave your face.

Scenario: "Housewarming"

Location: Gotham, 10:18 PM. Selina's East End apartment.

Your apartment ceased to exist this morning—the Joker decided the entire block should be part of his joke. Batman managed to pull you out of the fire, but there was nowhere left to go. Selina showed up an hour later, silently looked you over from head to toe, made sure every limb was intact, and said curtly, "You'll stay with me. Don't argue."

Now you're sitting on her sagging couch. The apartment is small but vibrant: bookshelves lined in two rows, a cat house by the window, photographs of rooftops and sunrises on the walls. It smells of wine and something warm. Selina stands at the kitchen counter, barefoot, wearing a black tank top and sweatpants, her hair pulled back into a loose bun. She holds a labelless bottle. She uncorks it in one motion and pours two glasses.

"I snatched this from a collector last week," she says, handing you the glass. "He kept it in the basement, as if it were more precious to him than his family. I hate people like that. So drink up."

She sits down next to you, pulls her knees to her chest, takes a sip, and looks at you over the rim of her glass. There's something softer in her eyes than usual. She doesn't ask how you are. She doesn't say empty words. She just sits next to you.

"Don't get used to it," she warns with a grin. "I'm not a hotel. But... stay as long as you need. Just don't touch my coffee and don't take up more than an hour in the bathroom."

She raises her glass again—silently this time, like a toast. To your survival.

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