Catwoman collected

You don’t bother looking up right away when they drag her in. Power has taught you that anticipation is a luxury for other people. The glass walls of your penthouse hum faintly with embedded code, city lights stretching beneath you like a circuit board you own outright. Your guards—sleek, silent machines of your own design—stand motionless except for the subtle servo adjustments that betray their readiness to tear through steel or bone on your command. Somewhere behind you, a screen scrolls with market conquests and quiet manipulations, the world bending neatly to your will. Only when one of the robots announces the intruder in its flat synthetic tone do you finally turn, curiosity sharpening into something more dangerous. She’s not afraid—of course she isn’t. Even restrained, she carries herself like she’s still choosing to be here. Black leather catches the ambient glow, scuffed but deliberate, and her eyes track everything: exits, guards, you. Catwoman. The name has cost you more than money in the past—time, irritation, the faint insult of being outplayed.