Selina Kyle didn't know what to make of the stranger standing across the cell from her.
He had her reflexes. Her agility. Her instincts. Every movement she made, he matched—effortlessly, as though he'd spent years training alongside her rather than appearing out of nowhere in a Gotham prison cell. And somehow, impossibly, he was faster.
Who the hell are you?
When did Gotham produce someone like this? More importantly, why was he locked in Blackgate? Accident? Bad luck? Or something deliberate?
As he stepped closer, she widened the distance between them. The cell wasn't large, but she kept herself angled toward the bars, one hand loose at her side, the other tracing the cold concrete wall.
Jack stopped. A faint smile tugged at his lips.
"You can't beat me," he said. "You can't escape. So why are you hiding?" He tilted his head, genuinely curious. "Where exactly do you think you're going to go? I'm new here. I just want to talk. Get the lay of the land."
Selina said nothing.
Jack sighed. "Do you understand how conversations work? It's a back-and-forth. I say something. You say something. For example—" He spread his hands. "I ask, 'Are you Catwoman?' You say, 'None of your business.' Then I ask, 'So are you Selina Kyle?' And you—"
Her eyes sharpened.
He knows.
Not just the mask. The name.
"—react exactly like that," Jack finished, watching her expression shift. "See? Progress."
Selina's fingers curled against the wall. He knew her civilian identity. He knew she was Catwoman. That information wasn't supposed to exist outside a very small circle—most of whom were either dead, in hiding, or currently ruling Gotham with an army of mercenaries.
Jack continued, apparently unbothered by her silence. "Let's try again. I ask, 'Where am I?' You say, 'This is Gotham.' Then I ask, 'Where's Batman?' And you—"
"Batman is dead."
The words left her mouth before she could stop them. Something about the casual way he mentioned Bruce's alter ego scraped against a raw nerve she hadn't realized was exposed.
Jack's eyebrows rose. Just slightly. "Is he?"
"He got into trouble with Bane."
"Trouble with Bane."
Jack let the phrase roll around in his head. So the spine-snapping had already happened. Bane's theatrical little demonstration of dominance, broadcast to all of Gotham—the Dark Knight broken like a toy and tossed into some pit on the other side of the world.
Except Batman wasn't the type to stay dead. He was the cockroach of the superhero world, the villain-movie cliché made flesh—I'll be back—and everyone who'd ever underestimated him had learned that lesson eventually.
Still. That meant the timeline was clear now. Bane's occupation. The bomb. The countdown. The whole Dark Knight Rises situation, playing out somewhere above his head while he stood in a prison cell making small talk with a cat burglar.
Gotham. City of gargoyles, gothic architecture, and genuinely unhinged people.
Home sweet home.
"This is Blackgate Penitentiary, right?" Jack asked.
Selina's expression flickered with something between disbelief and irritation. "You don't even know what prison you're in?"
"I don't even know when I'm going to die," Jack said mildly, "but I still have to get through the day."
That's not the same thing at all.
Selina glared at him. He met her gaze with perfect serenity, apparently unaware—or uncaring—that his logic made no sense. Then he turned, walked to the narrow cot bolted to the wall, and flopped onto it like he was settling into a hotel bed.
He stretched out, one arm folded behind his head, one foot dangling off the edge. He looked... comfortable. Relaxed. Like he wasn't trapped in a maximum-security prison during a citywide crisis orchestrated by a masked terrorist with enough explosives to turn Gotham into a crater.
Who is this guy?
Selina studied him while he wasn't looking. Late teens, maybe early twenties. Handsome in an unfinished way, like someone who hadn't quite grown into his features yet. Buzz cut. Athletic build hidden under a loose prison uniform. No visible scars, no obvious tells.
He looked like a college student who'd wandered into the wrong building. Nothing about him screamed "threat."
Except for the part where he'd matched her speed, predicted her movements, and casually revealed that he knew the secret identities of two of Gotham's most private people.
"What's your name?" The question came out before she could decide whether asking was a good idea.
"Jack Kadere."
She repeated it silently. The name meant nothing to her. No criminal record she recognized, no rumors from the underworld, no whispers from the Gotham elite. A complete unknown.
Selina shifted her weight, watching him. His foot had started swaying—a slow, idle motion, back and forth, back and forth. The movement was hypnotic in an irritating way, and she found her eyes tracking it before she caught herself.
"Aren't you planning to leave?" she asked, forcing her attention back to his face. "Gotham is under Bane's control. No one knows what he's going to do next. He might level the entire city. If we're going to get out, we need to move now—while there's still a chance."
She paused.
"How about we cooperate?"
Jack rolled onto his side, propping his head on one hand. His foot kept swaying. Back and forth. Back and forth.
Why does he keep doing that?
Selina's brow furrowed. "Are you even listening?"
"Mm." A noncommittal sound. The foot's arc widened.
Her eye twitched.
Is he— is he doing this on purpose?
The realization hit her a second before Jack let out a quiet laugh.
"What's so funny?"
"Nothing." His smile was entirely too innocent. "Just testing a theory."
I'm going to kill him.
Jack sat up, the amusement fading into something more businesslike. "Cooperation isn't necessary. I have my own way out. But if you want to leave—" He shrugged. "I can help."
"Help how?"
He stood, crossed to the cell bars, and examined them. Steel. Finger-thick. Set deep into the concrete floor and ceiling, corroded by decades of salt air and Gotham's perpetual damp but still solid. Selina had already tested them. They weren't budging without power tools.
Jack glanced back at her, then at the bars, then at the gaps between them. His gaze lingered on her figure for a moment—measuring, calculating.
"Don't tell me you're planning to bend them," Selina said flatly. "That's impossible."
She'd tried. The bars didn't give. Even with her training, even with leverage, the steel held. Whatever he thought he was going to do—
Jack wrapped both hands around two of the bars.
His grip tightened.
"Infinite Superposition," he murmured. "Ten times."
Something shifted in the air. A tension, like the moment before a storm breaks.
Then Jack pulled.
Metal screamed. The sound was sudden, violent—a shriek of protesting steel that echoed through the cell block. Selina took an involuntary step back as the bars warped outward, bending like soft clay under his hands.
Three bars. Finger-thick steel. Bent in seconds.
Jack released his grip and stepped back to examine his work. The gap was wide enough for a person to slip through, but apparently it wasn't quite right, because he frowned, leaned in, and adjusted the angle of one bar with a casual push.
Only then did he nod, satisfied.
He turned, swept one arm out in an exaggerated bow, and smiled.
"After you."
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