DC: I Became A Godfather

CRASH.

The flimsy rooftop door exploded off its hinges, splintered wood raining across the concrete.

And from the smoke and shadows… she emerged.

Not a word. Just the clack of stilettos against the rooftop.

She moved like silk and shadow—her frame wrapped tight in black leather, sculpted to every sinuous line. Her boots were ridiculous—20 centimeters high, and yet somehow, she moved like a jungle cat on the hunt, graceful and fast. Her face remained hidden beneath a matching leather mask. All sleek. All void.

Not a single inch of skin was visible.

But her presence?

Undeniably female.

Her red lips curled, the only color in that sea of black.

"You really are dumb," she murmured, voice soft as smoke but cold enough to crack steel. "Running to the rooftop? What were you thinking—this is an island in the sky. No exits. No shadows to slip into. Unless you grew wings, you're not going anywhere."

She walked forward—not with the stance of a fighter, but with the strut of a model, the kind that stops time on a Paris runway.

Adam stared.

Half from pain. Half from adrenaline.

But mostly? He was calculating.

He didn't flinch. Just shifted weight onto his good foot.

"Going downstairs was a death sentence." His voice was calm, steady. Cold even. "Running with a torn foot, back turned to you? That's not escape. That's execution."

She didn't disagree. Just rolled her neck and let out a sigh of exaggerated boredom.

"So what? Running up here makes you stronger? Don't flatter yourself." Her fingers flexed, and suddenly sharp claws extended from her gloves—metallic and wicked, like talons kissed by razors.

"This ends the same way."

But Adam didn't back away.

He tilted his head slightly, eyes gleaming with something colder than fear.

"You're right. I'm not stronger." He shrugged. "But I'm not scared of some leather-bound cosplay queen who looks like she just escaped from a bondage-themed Cirque du Soleil."

Her step froze mid-stride.

"You talk a lot for a man with glass in his feet," she said flatly.

Adam smiled—just a sliver.

"You talk a lot for someone trying to kill me without telling me why."

Then he dropped the hammer.

"Selina Kyle."

She stopped dead.

No more steps.

Her claws retracted slowly as she stared through the leather eyeholes of her mask, her breath catching.

"...What did you say?"

That name hit her like a whip across the face.

Because in Gotham, Selina Kyle wasn't just a name. It was a legend. Underground queen. Pole-dancing siren. Gotham's most infamous cat burglar. Anti-hero. Gotham's future Catwoman. Batman's favorite headache.

And this man—this nobody—had just said it aloud like it was nothing.

"H-How do you know that name?" Her voice cracked, just barely. Her confidence faltered, mask or not. "No one… she didn't tell you. She couldn't have told you."

Adam took a slow step back, hand raised like a magician about to reveal the final card.

"You're not the only one who prepares for Gotham," he said. "This rooftop? This wasn't an accident. I didn't run up here out of panic—I led you here. Because this place has something I knew you couldn't resist."

Selina's eyes narrowed.

Her instincts twitched.

She scanned the rooftop.

And that's when she saw it.

Catnip.

Tons of it. Lining the rooftop in pots and crates.

Cat litter. Cans of fish. Even a dish of smoked cod.

It was a damn feline paradise.

"...What the hell is this?"

In the corner, nestled in a sunny patch, lay a fat orange tabby—snoring gently.

Adam suddenly lunged—and scooped the cat up with a grunt.

It wriggled lazily in his arms, too heavy to fight back. His arms trembled under its weight.

"Don't move!" he barked, holding the tabby like a makeshift hostage. "Or the cat gets it."

Selina froze.

"You wouldn't dare."

Adam's voice dropped to a whisper. Dead serious.

"Try me."

Selina's eyes darted to the tabby—eyes wide. Panic rising. She actually stepped back.

"…You sick bastard. You're threatening a cat?"

"You broke into my home, turned off my lights, and tried to shank me in the dark," Adam growled. "Now I'm the bad guy?"

He looked ridiculous—barely standing, holding a cat in one hand and rummaging through his pocket with the other. The only thing he found?

Half a melted piece of chocolate.

He raised the chocolate with mock solemnity.

"One bite, and he's on a trip to the ER. No antidotes. Cocoa's fatal to cats. You know that, Selina."

Selina tensed like a bowstring. Her claws re-emerged, but she didn't move.

Because this was her kryptonite.

Selina Kyle might've danced around bullets and robbed billionaires blind—but when it came to cats?

She would burn a city down to save one.

And he knew it.

"You filthy… cowardly... conniving…!" Her voice trembled with rage. "Put the damn cat down!"

Adam blinked at the heavy furball in his arms.

"I would. But I don't trust you not to go feral again."

The cat blinked lazily.

Unbothered.

Just a hostage in a war it didn't understand.

Meanwhile, Adam's arm was cramping, and his other hand was now coated in melted chocolate.

"This is ridiculous," he muttered under his breath. "I was supposed to stay home, work on a hard drive, maybe order noodles… not get hunted by Gotham's future queen of claws."

He glared at Selina.

"So now you want to tell me what the hell this is about, or are we gonna keep playing Batman: The Passive-Aggressive Cat Edition?"