The moment the intruder shifted focus onto Thea, the pressure skyrocketed.
But with her senses fully opened, every twitch of her opponent's body was clear as day. There would be no blind strikes tonight—she could meet every move head-on.
From the distance came Detective Lance's barked orders:
"Switch to backup power! Units One and Two, grab the heavy gear! Everyone else, with me!"
The intruder froze for half a second.
Even the toughest fighter couldn't stand against a thousand armed officers—what was this, Terminator: Star City Edition?
What was supposed to be a quick in-and-out job had turned into a disaster. They hadn't expected resistance, and now some fast-moving blur had pinned them down. The figure was small—too small to match any fighter the thief remembered. Whoever she was, she shouldn't have been here.
Thea, for her part, was fuming. The whole charity-police partnership she had planned for days was now in ruins. Sure, the police were embarrassed, but she was the one whose event had been blown to hell.
The opponent's skill was decent—on par with her own—but once the lights came back on, their game would be over. There was no walking away from this in front of fifteen hundred witnesses.
Both grew impatient. Their movements sped up, clashes sharper and faster, each testing the other's rhythm. The tempo climbed until—
Click!
A side spotlight flickered back to life.
Half a second before the light hit, Thea pulled back and melted into the crowd, arranging herself into the perfect portrait of a harmless onlooker. She had no intention of revealing what she could do; after all, kidnappers with knives went for helpless heiresses. The kind who fought back got attacked with automatic weapons.
Call it "playing dumb" or "strategic invisibility"—Thea was fine being underestimated.
Through the growing glow, she finally saw her opponent clearly.
Tight black suit. High-heeled boots. A small butterfly mask. A sharp nose and crimson lips that curved into a smirk.
Wait… is that Catwoman?
What the hell was Gotham's favorite burglar doing in her city?
As the hall brightened, Catwoman realized the same thing Thea had: the night's little heist had just turned into a survival run. She shot Thea a look—sharp, assessing, and full of annoyance. Thea, pretending to be just another socialite in the crowd, still bore faint traces of combat—creases, dust, a scuff on her sleeve. To someone with Selina Kyle's thief-trained eyes, it was obvious.
The sound of boots thundered closer. The police were regaining order; visibility was returning. Catwoman's situation was bad.
Thea, cunning as always, had fought her toward the center of the ballroom. Now she was surrounded by people, ten meters from the nearest window.
Police weren't superheroes, but they weren't idiots either. Several quick-thinking officers were already sprinting toward her, guns drawn. In a sea of tuxedos and gowns, the leather-clad woman stood out like a spotlight. You didn't need detective vision to pick the odd one out.
Thea whistled softly, folding her arms, curious to see how Catwoman would claw her way out.
A metallic clatter interrupted the thought—something cylindrical rolled through a window.
Thump.
Smoke erupted, thick and choking, swallowing the hall in seconds.
A smoke bomb. Of course.
Thea coughed, vision vanishing behind clouds of white. The crowd panicked again, screaming and stumbling. Lance's voice cut through the chaos, rough but commanding:
"Stay calm! Open the windows! Get the fans running!"
By the time visibility returned, Catwoman was gone.
No way I'm letting you slip out that easily.
Seeing her mother now safely surrounded by bodyguards, Thea darted toward Felicity.
"Pull city traffic cams—track where she's headed. I'm going after her."
"Front street, about six hundred meters east," Felicity said, fingers flying over her tablet. "Found her—high heels and all."
"Six hundred meters? In heels?!" Thea muttered, clipping an earpiece in.
"Find me her route. I'll cut her off."
Without another word, she vaulted out the window and sprinted into the night.
The city was dim under the 9 p.m. haze. Streetlights flickered; the air was cool. Thea wasn't worried about being spotted—Felicity was already blacking out any cameras in her path.
"Left turn."
"One hundred meters ahead—detour."
"Under the billboard, go right."
Their teamwork, though new, was seamless—Felicity guiding, Thea executing. Three minutes of full-speed pursuit later, Thea intercepted her target.
"Hey! You're Catwoman, right? What are you doing in Star City?" she called out, half out of breath, half buying time to recover. "Here on vacation? Or are Gotham's folks expanding the franchise?"
Selina turned, clearly not thrilled to see her again. A quick look up and down confirmed the identity she'd guessed earlier.
"Thea Queen?" Catwoman's voice was smooth, edged with disbelief. "Didn't think a pampered heiress could move like that. You rich kids—so hard to figure out."
There was something almost… resentful in her tone. Thea blinked.
Wait, is she mad at me? Or just having a bad day?
Catwoman wasn't a villain, not really—more chaotic neutral than evil—and up close she looked very much like Anne Hathaway's twin. That alone softened Thea's irritation. Beauty, it turned out, was an international truce.
Still, Thea wasn't letting her go. Someone with comparable reflexes was a rare treat.
"You didn't answer my question," she said. "Why Star City?"
"Passing through," Catwoman said lightly. "You're a little too tense, kid."
Thea frowned. In the earlier fight, the dark and the crowd had dulled her edge. Now, with space to move and her vision clear, she wanted a rematch. If Catwoman wasn't going to talk, fine—she'd make her.
Selina had her own bruised pride to nurse. Getting caught mid-heist by a teenager was not great for her reputation.
Seeing Thea charge again, she smirked. "Alright, kitten. Let's see what you've got."
They clashed for the second time that night.
Now unrestrained by crowds, Thea fought at full power, senses sharp, every motion crisp and precise.
Catwoman, finally free of the police, regained some of her grace and confidence. Her years of street fighting balanced Thea's trained precision. Around lampposts, between parked cars, over fences—they moved like shadows, strike meeting counter-strike.
It was a perfect match: Thea's heightened perception versus Selina's sheer experience. For every attack, a counter; for every feint, a dodge.
But as minutes passed and exhaustion built, Thea started gaining ground. Catwoman's breathing turned shallow, her steps lost rhythm. High heels, after all, were terrible combat footwear—no matter how balanced she was.
Still, watching her pull off high kicks and flips in stilettos, Thea couldn't help admiring her. Alright, respect, she thought. But if you beat me in heels, I'd never live it down. Sorry, not happening.
Catwoman stumbled. Thea moved in, ready to end it. The fight wasn't over yet—but the outcome was already clear.