Wild Claw was not a vigilante.
He did not patrol alleys looking for purse snatchers.
He did not lecture criminals about morality.
He stole because it was thrilling.
He fought because it was fun.
And sometimes because someone looked at him the wrong way.
Museums? If the security system impressed him, he'd test it.
Jewelry stores? If the diamonds sparkled enough under showroom lights, he'd take a few for the collection.
Private art brokers? Even better.
He didn't limit himself to "bad people."
He limited himself to what interested him.
And Gotham, for all its grime and corruption, had taste.
He built a stash.
Not in his penthouse. He wasn't reckless.
An abandoned train yard on Gotham's industrial edge housed a rusted subway car long removed from service. Most saw decay.
He saw potential.
Beneath a reinforced floor panel he installed himself, vacuum-sealed cases held jewelry, rare watches, museum pieces, untraceable cash.
It wasn't about wealth.
It was about proof.
Proof he could take.
Proof he could move unseen.
Proof that no one would cage him again.
At Gotham Academy, he balanced it all like a tightrope act.
Blazer sharp. Tie loose. Hair styled just messy enough to look intentional.
He flirted shamelessly.
Made jokes that had girls rolling their eyes and smiling anyway.
He didn't brood publicly.
He didn't act traumatized.
He acted magnetic.
He attended house parties in penthouses overlooking the river. Sipped expensive liquor without overdoing it. Slipped out to balconies to smoke occasionally, not spiraling, just decompressing.
He even found himself inside a nightclub one weekend.
Rich kids had connections.
Strobe lights cut through smoke.
Music vibrated through bone and promethium alike.
He danced.
Older women noticed him. Confidence did that.
He let them pull him close on the dance floor. Let the rhythm swallow the noise in his head.
He wasn't reckless.
But he wasn't pretending to be innocent either.
He lived.
Selina noticed everything.
The late nights.
The faint smell of weed beneath cologne.
The subtle trace of perfume that was not hers.
She poured a glass of wine in the kitchen one evening and leaned against the counter.
"He's fifteen," she muttered to herself.
Then she sighed.
"He's fifteen and can tear through reinforced steel."
That part made it different.
He wasn't spiraling.
But he was masking.
She could see it.
The old cocky grin was back, sharper now. More refined. But it was armor.
Underneath it, sometimes, the haunted flicker remained.
So she did what she always did when Gotham felt off balance.
She suited up.
Catwoman slipped back into leather and shadow.
Tonight's target was a high-end broker operating out of a penthouse overlooking Robinson Park. Rare antiquities. Private buyers. Questionable sourcing.
Classic.
She scaled the building with effortless grace, whip coiled at her hip.
Inside, the penthouse lights were low. Security system decent but not impressive.
She moved through it like silk.
Unlocked the display case.
Slid a ruby necklace into her pouch.
Then she felt it.
A shift in the air.
A shadow that wasn't hers.
She stilled.
Across the living room, near the balcony doors, stood a tall silhouette.
Black suit.
Hooded.
Red claw insignia slashed across the chest.
The helmet smooth and predatory.
Red optics glowing faintly.
Wild Claw.
So the rumors were true.
Selina smiled slowly.
She stepped fully into view, hips swaying deliberately, whip dangling casually from her hand.
"Well," she purred. "You must be the new kitten in town."
Wild Claw didn't respond verbally.
He lifted a duffle bag from beside the couch. It was already half full.
He moved efficiently. Clean. Controlled.
She liked that.
She flicked her whip.
It snapped near his shoulder.
He pivoted instantly, dodging without flinch.
Oh.
Fast.
She lunged.
He met her mid-motion.
For a few seconds they danced.
Strike. Counter. Leap. Pivot.
He didn't overpower her.
But he didn't hold back either.
He moved heavier than she did. Less playful. More direct.
Their boots scraped across marble as he deflected a whip wrap attempt with startling precision.
"You don't talk much," she teased, stepping close. "Strong silent type?"
She slid closer, invading space with deliberate confidence.
Leather tight against her frame. Movement fluid and calculated.
She placed a hand against his chest plate lightly.
"You could learn something from me," she murmured.
For a split second—
He froze.
Not from attraction.
From visible discomfort.
Then he disengaged abruptly.
Like she'd activated a panic button.
He stepped back quickly.
She narrowed her eyes.
"Oh?" she said coolly. "Not impressed?"
He reached up slowly.
Turned off the voice modulator.
Kept the mask on.
And said one word.
"Mom."
The world stopped.
Selina blinked.
Her brain refused to process for a full second.
Then—
"Ryker?"
The red optics dimmed slightly.
He exhaled awkwardly.
"Yeah."
Silence.
Then color rushed to her face under the mask.
Embarrassment.
Sharp. Immediate.
She dropped her whip hand.
"…You could've said something sooner," she muttered.
"You were—" He gestured vaguely. "Doing the thing."
"The thing?" she snapped defensively.
"You know. The—" He waved again. "Seductive cat burglar vibe."
She crossed her arms.
"Oh, so now I'm embarrassing?"
He tilted his head.
"I mean. A little."
She stared at him.
Then huffed.
"Please. I've seen the way you look at girls at that academy."
He shifted slightly.
"That's different."
"How?"
"…They're not my mother."
She winced.
"Fair."
They both stood there for a moment.
Then she eyed the duffle bag.
"Really? You hit the broker I was casing?"
He shrugged.
"Good taste."
She stepped closer, examining him more critically now.
"You didn't kill anyone."
"No."
"You're not targeting just criminals."
"Nope."
"You're just stealing because you like it."
"Yeah."
She stared at him another second.
Then smirked faintly.
"Honestly? Respect."
They exited separately, reconvening a block away before heading home across rooftops.
Back in the penthouse, suits came off.
Helmet on the kitchen island.
Leather draped over a chair.
Ryker explained calmly. The stash. The train car. The thrill.
She listened.
Nodded slowly.
"You realize," she said eventually, "that before you recognized me, you were leaning into my whole act."
He froze.
She smirked.
"You were listening."
He cleared his throat.
"I was analyzing."
"Oh, sure."
"I was not—"
"You absolutely were."
He pulled out his phone abruptly.
"Anyway. I have homework."
And walked quickly toward his room.
She burst into laughter behind him.
Full, unrestrained.
He paused halfway up the stairs.
"…You're never telling anyone about this."
"Oh, I absolutely am."
"Mom."
She laughed harder.
For the first time in a long time, the penthouse felt light again.
And somewhere in Gotham's underworld, red claw marks and paw prints had quietly agreed to coexist.