Selina Kyle's Point of View
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I've seen Gotham eat people alive.
Good people. Smart people. Kind people.
The city doesn't care if you're innocent, gifted, or just a kid.
When he walked into The Cat's Cradle, I saw it in his eyes right away—he wasn't there for a drink or shelter. He wasn't looking for trouble either.
He was looking for something… but I don't think even he knew what.
He couldn't have been older than sixteen or seventeen. But there was nothing childlike left in his face. Whatever softness he had once known, Gotham had beaten out of him.
He was broken.
And yet, there was something else underneath that bruised exterior—steel.
Not the kind of rage that burns quick and fades.
No, his was cold. Silent. Calculating.
That's the kind of look that either makes a future crime lord… or someone who burns the city to the ground.
And I've always had a soft spot for broken kids. Maybe it's guilt. Maybe it's instinct. Or maybe, deep down, I just don't want to see Gotham win again.
I gave him work behind the bar—not because I needed help, but because I needed to anchor him.
Pour drinks. Clean up. Watch and listen. Feel like you belong, even for a night.
The others barely noticed him at first. Another stray, they thought. But I watched closely. He was always listening. Always calculating. Never wasted a movement or a word.
The first wallet he left at my desk? Swiped clean from one of Black Mask's drunk enforcers. Kid had guts—and technique.
I didn't ask questions.
He reminded me of myself at that age—scraping by on instinct and attitude, trying to make sense of a world that didn't care whether I lived or died.
He didn't ask for pity. Just purpose.
And purpose, I could give.
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Later that week, I caught him alone upstairs with an old laptop, staring at numbers on a screen like they weren't real.
$130,000.
I knew that look too. It's the look that says I could run. I could buy a life somewhere else. Be someone else. Escape.
But Gotham doesn't let go that easy.
Not of people like him.
Not of people like me.
The city gets in your blood. It twists your grief into something sharp. Weaponizes your pain until you start wondering if Gotham is the disease… or if it's the cure to everything you've lost.
He didn't say anything. But I could see the decision forming behind his eyes.
This isn't enough.
He didn't want escape.
He wanted control.
I didn't stop him.
I just gave him the space to grow.
He'd either save this city…
…or bring it to its knees.
And I wasn't sure which one Gotham deserved