Chapter 1: Bound Beneath the Cat's Claws
The first thing Dick Grayson registered was the cold.
Not the chill of a Gotham autumn seeping through concrete walls, not the bite of wind through a broken window. This was surgical, deliberate. The kind of cold that came from industrial-grade steel pressed against bare skin.
His eyes snapped open.
Darkness. Then a single spotlight blazed to life above him, blinding in its intensity. He tried to move his arms. Nothing. His wrists were bound above his head with reinforced cable—not rope, not zip ties, but the kind of wire that could tow a semi. The same material clamped around his ankles, spread wide and anchored to the tilted stage rig beneath him.
He was on his back. The rig creaked as it swayed, suspended maybe fifteen feet above the cracked marble floor of the old Orpheum. He'd been here before—not this exact theater, but its twin in Burnside. Before the city gave up on this district. Before the rats and the mold and the ghosts took over.
He flexed his forearms, testing the cable. It held. Of course it did.
"Finally."
The voice came from somewhere to his left, smooth as poured honey and twice as dangerous.
Selina Kyle stepped into the edge of the spotlight. She was out of costume tonight—no catsuit, no whip coiled at her hip. Just black jeans that hugged her hips like a second skin and a sheer blouse that left nothing to interpretation. Her short hair was swept back from her face, and those green eyes caught the light like broken glass. She looked like she'd just come from a gallery opening. Or a heist. Same thing, really.
"Selina." His voice came out rougher than he intended. Dry throat. How long had he been out?
"Don't." She held up one finger, circling him slowly. Her boots made no sound on the stage rig's metal grating. "Don't do the thing where you try to talk your way out. We both know how that ends."
"Usually with you disappearing into the night and me filing a police report." He tried to smile. It felt wrong on his face. "How long have I been here?"
"Three hours." She stopped at his feet. "You were at the Diamond District job. I know you were tracking me. I know you've been tracking me for six weeks."
Six weeks. The warehouse in the Narrows. The gala at the Falcone estate. The rooftop chase where she'd vanished like smoke. He'd been close. He'd been right there.
"Flattered," he said. "You keeping tabs on me too?"
"I've been studying you." Her voice dropped, playful now, almost intimate. She ran her hand along the edge of the rig, and the whole thing shifted, tilting him thirty degrees to the right. The cable bit into his wrists. "Every patrol route. Every coffee shop. Every woman you've taken home."
The last part landed like a slap.
"Jesus, Selina. That's—"
"Obsessive? Creepy?" She tilted her head. "I prefer thorough."
She circled back to his head, leaning down until her face hovered inches above his. Upside down, her features looked sharper, more predatory. The spotlight caught the fine lines at the corners of her eyes. She was thirty-two—only four years older than him—but in that moment, she looked ancient. Tired. Hungry.
"I've watched you, Dick. Really watched you. Not the mask, not the escrima sticks, not the smile you put on for the press." She traced one finger down the bridge of his nose, over his lips, down his chin. "The real you. The one who hasn't slept more than four hours in three years. The one who drinks his coffee black and eats takeout alone. The one who visits that grave in Blüdhaven every month."
His jaw tightened. That grave was none of her business. That was Bennett's. Bennett's was sacred.
"You've got a real weird way of showing you care," he said.
She laughed. Soft. Real. It was the first thing all night that didn't feel rehearsed.
"I don't care," she said. "That's the point. I've spent months watching you, and I still don't care. You're a puzzle I can't solve. A itch I can't scratch. And it's driving me insane."
She pulled a lever on the rig. The whole platform tilted backward, faster this time, and his head dropped below his shoulders. Blood rushed to his skull. His vision swam.
"Which is why we're here tonight," she continued. "I want to see how long the golden boy can endure."
The spotlight widened, and he saw the rest of the rig for the first time. Hooks. Chains. A pulley system that led to a series of counterweights. This wasn't a stage rig—it was a torture device. Built for him. Built by her.
"You didn't build this in three hours," he said.
"I've been building it for a month." She stepped back into the shadows, and when she spoke again, her voice came from everywhere and nowhere. "I wanted to understand you, Dick. I wanted to know what makes you break. And I think I've finally figured it out."
The rig tilted again, and he felt his shoulders scream in protest. The cable wasn't just holding him. It was pulling. Slowly. Deliberately. Testing every joint, every muscle, every tendon he'd ever torn.
"You've got a sick way of flirting," he said through gritted teeth.
"Who said anything about flirting?"
The spotlight died. For a long moment, there was nothing but darkness and the sound of her heels clicking against the stage. Then a new light came on—a single, dim lamp somewhere in the balcony, illuminating her silhouette as she climbed onto the orchestra pit's railing.
"I'm going to ask you a question," she called down. "And you're going to answer honestly. Because if you don't, I'll pull that lever again. And the next time, something might tear."
He wanted to make a joke. He wanted to do something other than lie there, helpless, while she played her game. But his arms were already burning. His shoulder—the one he'd dislocated three months ago—was making its opinion known.
"Fine," he said. "Ask."
She was quiet for a beat. Two. Then:
"When you catch me—not if, because I know you will eventually—what do you plan to do with me?"
The question hung in the stale air of the theater. Somewhere, water dripped. Somewhere, a rat scurried.
"That's it?" he asked. "That's your big question?"
"Answer it."
"I'll take you to Gordon. Same as always."
She laughed again. But this time, it wasn't soft. It wasn't real.
"You're lying." She said it flat. Certain. "You've had plenty of chances to turn me in, and you never do. You let me go. Every single time. So tell me the truth, Boy Wonder. What do you want with me?"
He didn't have an answer. Not one he was willing to say out loud. Not one he'd even admitted to himself.
She swung down from the railing, landing on the stage with a grace that was almost violent. Then she was beside him again, crouched low, her face level with his. She smelled like leather and jasmine. Her breath was warm against his cheek.
"That's what I thought," she whispered.
She reached up and cut the main cable with a single slash of a blade he hadn't seen her draw. The rig collapsed, and he fell fifteen feet.
He hit something soft. Something that gave. A pile of old velvet curtains, mildewed and rotting. His ribs screamed. His wrists bled. But he was alive.
She was already walking away, a shadow swallowing her whole.
"Same time next week, Grayson," she called over her shoulder. "I've got all sorts of new games to play."
And then she was gone. The theater settled into silence, broken only by his ragged breathing and the drip-drip-drip of water from somewhere above.
He lay there for a long time, staring at the cracked ceiling, feeling the blood pool beneath his wrists. She'd left him alive. She'd left him a way out—the exit was right there, a fire door propped open with a brick. She wanted him to follow her. She wanted to see what he'd do next.
His phone buzzed in his pocket. He'd forgotten he still had it. He pulled it out with shaking fingers and saw a text from Barbara.
Where are you? Patrol's been quiet. Want to grab food?
He typed back with one thumb.
Rain check. Got held up.
Then he started running.