The fluorescent lights of Gotham Correctional buzzed overhead like dying insects, casting everything in a sickly yellow pallor. The smell hit first—industrial disinfectant barely masking decades of sweat and desperation. Then came the noise.
Selina Kyle walked the corridor between D-Block's cells with the easy grace of someone strolling through a garden party, not a maximum-security prison. Her black catsuit gleamed under the harsh lights, hugging every curve like a second skin. The cowl was pushed back, dark hair tumbling over her shoulders, and her whip hung coiled at her hip like a sleeping serpent. How she'd gotten this far into the facility dressed like that was a story for another time.
"Eyes forward, inmate," growled the guard on her left—Morrison, according to his badge. Built like a refrigerator with a crew cut.
"But there's so much to see," she purred.
The cells erupted.
"Hey, beautiful!"
"Over here, kitty kitty!"
Hands thrust through bars. Whistles pierced the air. Men pressed their faces against the cold steel, hungry eyes tracking her every movement.
Selina's lips curved into that smile—the one that had launched a thousand heists and broken twice as many hearts. She gave a little finger wave to a particularly enthusiastic admirer.
"I said forward," Morrison snapped, his meaty hand clamping down on her shoulder.
"You know," Selina said conversationally, "you really shouldn't touch a lady without asking."
She moved like liquid mercury.
Her elbow cracked backward into Morrison's solar plexus. As he doubled over, she was already spinning, using her cuffed hands as a fulcrum to vault off his bent back. Her legs scissored around the second guard's neck—Peters, younger, slower—and she twisted mid-air, bringing him down hard. His head bounced off the concrete with a satisfying thunk.
Morrison was recovering, reaching for his baton. Selina landed in a crouch, swept his legs, and as he fell, she caught the baton from his belt, twirled it once, and rapped him smartly behind the ear.
Silence. Then—
A slow clap started somewhere in the cells. It spread like wildfire.
Selina stood, brushed an imaginary speck of dust from her shoulder, and bent down to pluck the key ring from Morrison's belt. She held them up, letting them catch the light, jangling them with theatrical flair.
"Well, gentlemen," she announced, that Cheshire grin spreading across her face. "Ready to get out of here?"
The roar was deafening. Fists pounded against bars. Feet stamped. These were Gotham's worst—Maroni soldiers, Falcone enforcers, freelance muscle who'd crossed the wrong people. And they were about to owe Selina Kyle a very big favor.
She sauntered to the first cell door, key already selected, and slid it into the lock with a satisfying click. The door swung open. Then the next. And the next.
Men poured out like water from a burst dam.
"Alright, boys," Selina called out, already turning toward the exit. "Follow me and—"
She stopped.
They weren't following. They were surrounding.
A wall of orange jumpsuits closed in around her. Faces she'd freed moments ago now wore expressions that had nothing to do with gratitude. A massive Falcone enforcer cracked his knuckles. A Maroni lieutenant with a scar running from his eye to his jaw smiled—all teeth, no warmth.
"You know, kitty," the scarred man said slowly, "some of us been in here a long time."
"And you just took out the only two guards on the block," another added.
The circle tightened.
Selina's hand drifted toward her whip, her confident smirk flickering for just a moment as cold realization washed over her.
Well, she thought. Maybe I didn't think this one all the way through...
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