She moved like a whisper between shadows.
Selina Kyle—Catwoman to the few who dared say her name aloud—was a legend even here in Arkham District, where legends usually ended with bullet holes and chalk outlines. A thief, yes. But not the common type. She didn't pick pockets or rob convenience stores. She stole jewels, priceless art, high-end contraband from behind laser grids and biometric locks. The kind of things ordinary people only saw in museums or vaults. And when the Bat came for her, she vanished like smoke every time.
But what made Selina infamous wasn't just her thieving prowess or her acrobat's grace—it was the line she danced along, morally. Sometimes villain, sometimes vigilante. Sometimes ally. Sometimes threat.
And always… dangerous.
Adam had never expected to see her here—certainly not in this grime-slick underground club that smelled of booze, sweat, and broken dreams. But there she was, commanding the stage with her hypnotic dance, dressed in sheer silk and firelight. No one dared interrupt. No one even breathed too loudly.
After the show, as the crowd burst into disappointed groans, Adam stood rooted in place.
A cop beside him gave him a knowing smirk. "New guy's stunned. Yeah, Detective, that's Selina. Arkham's pole queen. Grace like a gymnast, body like a sin, and the moves of a devil in high heels."
Adam blinked, trying to shake off the spell she'd left behind. "With a body and talent like that, why's she wasting time in a back-alley dive? She could headline in Gotham proper. Hell, she'd own the Zeus Hotel stage."
The older officer chuckled, lighting a cigarette with the practiced ease of a man who'd long stopped pretending to care. "You think this is about ambition? The big clubs uptown are controlled by the syndicates. Work there, you play by theirrules. If some big-shot wants her to do more than dance—she has no say."
"But here?" He gestured to the rundown stage like it was a throne room. "Out here, she's the queen. Every owner begs her to perform. No pressure, no bosses, just her. Even the gangs leave her alone. Everyone wants a piece of her, but no one dares take it. That's power."
Adam frowned slightly, watching Selina disappear behind the curtains. A slum-raised girl, beautiful and deadly, dancing to survive in Gotham's dirtiest corner and somehow still untouchable…
"It's like something out of a comic book," he muttered under his breath.
The others didn't catch the remark. They were too busy grumbling about the performance ending. One heavy-set drunk nearby cursed under his breath, the outline of his arousal a little too close to Adam's head for comfort. The mood in the room quickly soured—jeers, curses, the thump of chairs scraping the floor as angry men stood, frustrated that the fantasy had ended.
The club manager—skinny, stressed, and reeking of menthols—hopped up onto the stage and shouted into the mic, "Show's over! Next act's a big-breasted dancer from Costa Rica! If you want more, you better pay up!"
Adam followed his unit out through the throng of half-drunk spectators, stepping into the cool Gotham night like a man pulling himself out of filth. He took a deep breath, hoping it would scrub away the grime of the club.
"I can't believe people pay to see that," he muttered.
"Believe it," the veteran cop beside him replied, tucking his shirt back in. "Selina's the only one in Gotham who charges a separate ticket just for herself. Doesn't dance with other girls. Doesn't share the stage. Doesn't do private shows. Hell, doesn't even flirt. She dances—and vanishes."
"And what do you do after watching her?" Adam asked, already knowing the answer.
The old cop grinned wickedly. "Well, if we can't have the goddess, we'll settle for the mortals. We hit the streets."
They turned the corner and entered one of Arkham's infamous back alleys—a place lit by flickering signs and the neon glow of sin. Women loitered under red lamps and graffiti-tagged walls, their outfits little more than suggestion. Some smoked. Some waved. All watched the approaching cops like deer watching a predator—but knowing it wasn't worth running.
"C'mon, rookie," one of the officers called. "This is your real welcome party. Out here, in Arkham, you don't pay for fun—you wear a badge."
Adam forced a smile. He glanced at one of the girls nearby. Her dress was a single misstep away from falling apart. Her makeup was thick, hiding what it could, but the exhaustion in her eyes couldn't be concealed.
"No wonder these guys are so enthusiastic about patrolling," Adam muttered, lifting his police hat and squinting into the night. "Gotham's 'finest' out here feeding off the rot like scavengers."
The officer beside him laughed. "Don't be shy now. Pick one. She won't charge you. If she wants to keep working these streets, she'll play nice."
Adam turned to one of the girls—a tanned, curvy woman in a tiny skirt, smoking a cigarette with chipped red nails.
"Open your mouth," Adam said flatly.
The girl blinked, confused. "Sir, that'll cost extra—"
"I said," he cut in, voice like a blade, "open your mouth."
Something in his tone made her obey. Slowly, reluctantly.
Adam took out his flashlight and examined her teeth.
What he saw made his stomach twist.
Jagged, blackened teeth. Tiny holes like corroded coral. Rotting enamel. A stench that hit even through the smoke and perfume.
Meth fangs.
The memory struck like lightning—an old buddy from Southeast Asia once told him, "You want to know if a girl's safe? Don't just check the curves. Check the teeth. Methheads rot from the inside out."
Adam stepped back, eyes narrowed.
This wasn't just exploitation.
It was systematic decay.
Arkham didn't just hide Gotham's monsters—it bred them.
The old cop clapped him on the back. "What's the matter? Didn't like your appetizer?"
Adam didn't answer. His gaze swept over the alley, over the girls, the filth, the pretending.
And somewhere, not far off, a pair of eyes gleamed from a rooftop ledge above.
Watching.
Judging.
Selina Kyle.
Catwoman.
"She's not part of this world," Adam thought. "She just dances in it… before stealing everything it has left."
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