[ Chinese Restaurant, Gotham City ]
Thea and Catwoman grew more animated the longer they talked. As they compared their wildly different lives, they realized they shared more in common than they expected.
When the topic shifted to love—and more specifically, Catwoman's on-again, off-again entanglement with Gotham's broodiest bachelor—Thea didn't hesitate to offer advice. Bold, unfiltered, and perfectly Thea. "You've known him for years," she said with a grin. "You know his habits, his hang-ups, and he clearly trusts you. So what's there to be afraid of? Go after him. Honestly, it's easier for a girl to pursue a guy than the other way around—unless he's hiding in a cave."
It was strange, Thea thought, how Gotham seemed to attract wealth but repel stability. Maybe Gotham city is really cursed, but every couple that looked like they might make it eventually fell apart. Batman and Catwoman—perpetual almost-lovers. Commissioner Gordon and his runaway wife. Even the Riddler and that poor soul who once thought she could tame him. All shattered before they even had a chance to settle. Only the Joker and Harley seemed immune, held together by pure lunacy and the kind of chaos that not even city's curse dared to disrupt.
Thea raised a brow, her tone skeptical. "So… have you two ever actually gone on a proper date?"
Catwoman ducked her head, a little embarrassed. "Once. We had a date in Star City."
Thea's expression froze. Oh, that was their idea of a date. Right—the same one that had almost turned her city's police a laughing matter. Typical. Gothamites didn't do candlelight dinners. They did street brawls and emotional repression.
Still curious, Thea tried again. "Do you guys exchange gifts? Something nice, maybe thoughtful?"
"Oh, yeah," Catwoman answered, her eyes lighting up. "My gloves and whip—he gave them to me."
Thea blinked. She hadn't expected that. A whip and gloves as romantic gestures. She swallowed a shiver.
Right. I take it back—Batman isn't the slow one here. You're both out of your minds.
Just as Thea was gearing up to give Catwoman a proper crash course in "The 108 Things Men and Women Should Know About Relationships," a sudden burst of urgency broke the rhythm.
"Hurry up, hurry up…" A young man in restaurant staff uniform led several burly men into the kitchen. Each one carried a pistol, and none of them looked like someone trying to pay off a dinner bill by washing dishes. Thea raised an eyebrow and glanced at Catwoman, her expression clearly asking—What the hell is going on?
Catwoman didn't even blink. She calmly took another bite of fish, then replied in an unfazed tone, "They're probably here to collect protection money. Nothing to be surprised about. You'll get used to it."
Gunshots rang out from the kitchen—sharp, loud bangs—but none of the diners so much as flinched. They chewed, drank, and chatted with the composure of seasoned Gothamites. It seemed this kind of ambiance came with the cuisine.
With their conversation about love lives abruptly derailed, Thea and Catwoman shifted to safer territory—like skateboards. Catwoman, tactful as ever, only asked about its overall design. She didn't probe into its tech specs, which Thea appreciated.
To be fair, Thea's skateboard wasn't exactly protected by a wall of patents. She hadn't studied the original Green Goblin board; she'd just eyeballed the design from the movie and improvised with Felicity. If the original was genius, theirs was reverse-engineered mischief. And honestly? If she could pull it off with a few months of work, so could Bruce. He could probably build ten in his sleep, but she and Felicity had still poured real effort into it.
So when Catwoman asked, Thea didn't hold back—but she also didn't overexplain. If you asked, she'd tell. If not, that was fine too.
Just as Thea was sketching out a stabilizer layout and explaining some practical design points, another group of burly men stormed into the kitchen—this time brandishing AKs.
Thea looked at Catwoman again, one brow arched in confusion. What kind of restaurant was this? Did washing dishes here require passing a gunfight interview first? Maybe these newcomers were hometown buddies of the previous group—perhaps they'd heard there was easy money to be made and rushed over, thinking the boss was both rich and an idiot.
Even Catwoman looked a little surprised this time. She instinctively leaned forward, craning her neck as if she could peer through the kitchen wall. Thea gave her a sidelong glance. Seriously? You're Catwoman, not Giraffe Woman—there's a solid wall and at least dozen meters between you and the kitchen's door.
In response, Selina lit a ladies' cigarette with all the grace of an aristocrat and spread her hands in a helpless gesture, as if to say: Well, this is Gotham. Sorry to disappoint you, Star City.
Thea nodded solemnly in return, expressing nothing but admiration for the city's... vibrant lifestyle.
With the kitchen turned into a war zone, their weapon chat had clearly reached a dead end. So Thea moved on to something more pressing—her current number one concern: how the hell does one fight in high heels?
That one hit Catwoman like a surprise tickle. She almost burst out laughing on the spot. Finally—a topic she could dominate. For once, she wasn't the eager student absorbing wisdom; she was the expert, the instructor. In all her past team-ups and rivalries, she'd often been the receiver of tips and critiques.
But now? Oh, this was her moment.
"Finally," she seemed to say with her grin, "you're the clueless rookie."
Pleased beyond measure, Selina launched into an in-depth explanation of her techniques—echoes of what Lady Shiva had once taught but laced with the raw edge of street-earned wisdom—Thea listened closely, nodding at each practical pointer. Yet, as she listened, she couldn't help but privately muse over something else entirely.
There was something... off about Selina. Thea didn't know whether it stemmed from some childhood trauma or simply the unavoidable psychological quirks that came from growing up in Gotham, but Catwoman clearly had a sensory fixation—on height. Her self-confidence was seemingly tethered to the heels of her shoes. The moment she slipped into high heels, her aura became commanding, magnetic; in flats, it fell apart. Standing at 1.7 meters tall, Selina wore heels daily to project a towering 1.8—perhaps symbolic armor more than fashion choice.
But what puzzled Thea most was how no one had chased after her all these years. Selina was, objectively, the most beautiful woman Thea had ever met—her face exquisite, her figure the kind that made even a fellow woman pause and reflect. As a child, Selina had spent her days feeding stray cats, stealing half a bucket of milk to split with the kittens—and it showed. Her body was a sculpted testament to grit and grace. Even Thea, who wasn't usually shaken by another woman's looks, was lowkey impressed. Yet, for all her allure, Selina remained oddly untouched.
Just as the conversation shifted back to practicalities, heavy footsteps pounded the floor. Thea glanced up, and her eyebrows shot up. Three gangsters wielding machine guns strode past their table, followed by a fourth carrying a rocket launcher.
This time, Thea didn't need to glance at Catwoman for clarification. Selina had already registered the shift—her posture tensed, her eyes narrowing. Three separate groups barging in within minutes, and now someone had brought a rocket launcher. Even Gotham had limits. Rocket launchers weren't a part of standard gang etiquette.
The two women didn't say it aloud, but the same thought ran through their minds: This meal... probably isn't getting paid for.
There's a saying—that women have a sixth sense. And moments later, that premonition came true.
A deafening explosion ripped through the back of the restaurant, shaking the walls. For a beat, there was utter silence. Then chaos detonated like a second wave.
Screams echoed from the kitchen.
"Ahhh—run, run!"
Bloodied men burst from the smoke and flames. Some hurled down their weapons in blind panic. One bald brute, especially unforgettable, didn't even bother with the door—he wrapped a coat around his head, located a crack in the side wall, and smashed straight through it like some deranged modern-day practitioner of Iron Head Kung Fu.
Thea just blinked. "Seriously?" she muttered. "Is that guy made of concrete?"
Catwoman gave her a look, equally perplexed. Around them, the restaurant dissolved into pandemonium. The fleeing gang members moved like they were being chased by hell itself, and even without understanding the muddled Chinese-accented English, Thea could catch the most important word screamed repeatedly:
"Run!"
She hated this kind of chaos. She hadn't brought any of her equipment—assuming, rather naively, that the area near Gotham University would be relatively secure. She regretted it now—but too late.
Catwoman wasn't dressed for battle either, just a casual outfit and a hidden dagger in her boot. Still, even with the crowd dissolving into frightened masses, she wasn't about to start flipping through 72 different martial arts moves in the middle of a restaurant. This was not the time.
Seeing enough to make up her mind, Catwoman grabbed Thea's wrist. And they did the only logical thing.
They ran. Together.
To Be Continued...
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