⚠️ [COMMISSION] ⚠️
Commissioned by: Anonymous
Tier Purchased: Standard Story + Visual Art Pack
THE CLIENT BRIEF:
📜 Manuscript: 4,432 Words (See below).
🎨 Visuals: 5-Panel Cinematic Sequence.
The rain wasn't just falling; it was an active participant in Gotham’s misery. Each drop was a cold, fat needle that found the gap between Coyle’s collar and his neck, tracing an icy path down his spine. He shivered, pulling the thin, generic tactical jacket tighter around his frame. It was clean. Too clean. The uniform of a nobody, a temp hire on the biggest night of his life.
Then he heard it. Faint, at first, almost lost beneath the drumming of the rain and the distant growl of city traffic. A thin, high-pitched wheeeee that rose and fell, the cry of a predator homing in. Sirens. Still far off, but getting closer. His blood ran cold. They’re coming.
As if summoned by the sound, the heavy, groaning screech of a metal fire door being forced open ripped through the alley. Three figures burst out, not walking, but moving at a clipped, urgent pace. The first, a brute named Harker, was carrying a reinforced case. Even in the gloom, Coyle could see the pristine right side of his jacket and the acid-eaten, frayed mess of the left. They were out. They’d done it.
A surge of frantic energy shot through Coyle. He stepped out of his alcove, his voice a half-shout over the rising wail of the GCPD. "Did you get it? Was it—"
"Move it, probie, you deaf?" Harker snarled, shoving past without breaking stride. The hard corner of the case dug sharply into Coyle’s ribs, forcing a grunt of pain from his lips. Harker and the other man were already at the main transport, throwing the side door open with a deafening clang.
Coyle’s elation curdled into a knot of panic in his stomach. The sirens were louder now, a distinct two-tone wail that echoed off the wet brickwork, seeming to come from every direction at once. They were close. Blocks away, maybe less.
As the others piled into the van, one man paused. Bolton. He was the last one to the door, and he stopped, turning back to Coyle. He jogged the few feet back, the urgency clear in his heavy, thudding footsteps on the asphalt.
A heavy hand, warm even through the damp fabric, landed on Coyle’s shoulder in a hard, quick clap. "You did good, kid," Bolton’s voice rumbled, a low, grounding sound even over the sirens. He was already turning back toward the van as he spoke. "Get the gear. Secondary site. NOW."
He was at the van door, one foot on the runner, when he looked back one last time. The reflected strobes of blue and red light were beginning to bleed onto the main street at the end of the alley. "Do this right, and you're in. We'll get you burned in proper." His face was a grim mask in the flashing lights. "Don't fuck it up."
The words were a command, a promise, and a threat all rolled into one. The van door slid shut with a bone-jarring slam. Before Coyle could even manage a reply, the engine roared, its V8 drowning out the sirens for a single instant. With a squeal of abused tires that sent a plume of dirty water into the air, the transport tore out of the alley and was swallowed by the Gotham night.
Coyle was left alone, his ears ringing. The wail of the approaching police cars was hideously close now, the flashing lights painting the alley walls in frantic, pulsing strokes of colour.*Don't fuck it up.*The command echoed in his head. His heart hammered against his ribs. He had maybe twenty seconds. He lunged for the discarded duffel bag near the fire door, his hands closing around the cold, wet straps, oblivious to the silhouette that had just detached itself from the stone gargoyle on the museum roof four stories above, dropping into the alley with the impossible silence of a falling shadow.
Coyle heaved the duffel bag over his shoulder, the weight of it—a mix of high-tensile wire, drill bits, and a heavy magnetic pulse device—nearly throwing him off balance. Every muscle screamed at him to run. The sirens were no longer a distant wail; they were a physical pressure in the air, a throbbing, doppler-shifting shriek that vibrated in his teeth. The blue and red lights were strobing violently now, painting the wet walls in frantic, alternating flashes. The mouth of the alley was a light show of impending doom. He had seconds, maybe less, before the first GCPD cruiser sealed his only exit.
He took one step towards the rust-bucket van, his boot splashing in a deep puddle.
"Leaving so soon?"
The voice was not loud. It was a low, feminine purr, laced with amusement, and it cut through the cacophony of the sirens like a razor through silk. It came from right behind him.
Coyle froze solid, a bolt of pure, primal fear short-circuiting his entire nervous system. He hadn't heard a thing. No footsteps, no splash, nothing but the rain and the sirens. He turned slowly, his heart feeling like it was trying to punch its way out of his ribcage.
She stood not ten feet away, a silhouette made of shadows and highlights by the flashing police lights. The form was unmistakable, a nightmare figure from the city’s folklore. The skin-tight black suit that drank the light, the horned cowl, and the large, goggled lenses that reflected the red-blue-red-blue flashes, hiding whatever eyes lay behind them. Catwoman. Not a Bat, but close enough. A predator of the same ecosystem, and infinitely worse than the cops.
"Big party in there," she said, gesturing with a gloved hand towards the museum's forced fire door. "And it looks like you missed all the fun." She took a slow, deliberate step towards him. Her movements were liquid, a fighter’s grace married to a dancer’s poise. She moved like she belonged in the shadows, while Coyle felt like a clumsy, terrified animal caught in the glare of a hunter's lamp.
"I-I don't know what you're talking about," Coyle stammered, the lie tasting like ash in his mouth. He took an involuntary step back, his heel hitting the leg of the dumpster. "I was just... heading home. Heard the noise."
"Hhh-mm," Catwoman hummed, a skeptical note that vibrated with amusement. She took another step, closing the distance. "Dressed for a cold night, I see. A lot of people heading home in tactical gear these days?" Her head tilted, the lenses of her goggles seeming to bore right through him. "What's in the bag? Your laundry?"
The sirens were deafening. A screech of tires on wet asphalt announced the arrival of the first squad car at the mouth of the alley. Its headlights blazed, cutting through the rain and pinning them both in brilliant white cones of light.
"Freeze! GCPD! Hands where I can see 'em!"
The shout echoed off the brick walls. Coyle’s heart hammered a frantic rhythm against his ribs. He looked at the cops, then at the van, then at Catwoman. For a second, he thought she might bolt, leaving him to the mercy of the police.
Instead, she grinned. A flash of white teeth in the shadow of the cowl.
"Change of plans," she purred, the sound barely audible over the rain. "I hate walking in the rain. You're driving. Well... your van is."
Before Coyle could process the threat, she moved. She didn’t run; she exploded into motion. She flowed inside his guard, a blur of black leather and kinetic energy. An arm, impossibly strong, hooked under his chin, snapping his head back. His momentum was instantly arrested. She spun him around, using him as a temporary human shield against the glare of the police lights.
With a grunt of effort, she launched him. Coyle flew through the open side door of the rust-bucket van.
KRR-RUNG!
His back slammed into the opposite wall of the cargo bay. The hollow sheet metal boomed like a drum, vibrating through his skeleton. The impact stole the air from his lungs in a wet, wheezing gasp. He crumpled onto the ribbed metal floor, sliding in a patch of oil.
"Hey! Stop!" The cops were running now, boots splashing in the puddles.
Catwoman didn't climb in after him. She slammed the sliding door shut with a deafening CLANG, plunging Coyle into darkness. A split second later, the driver's side door ripped open. She vaulted into the front seat, staying low to avoid the police spotlights.
"Keys, keys, keys..." she muttered, her voice drifting through the thin metal partition that separated the cab from the cargo bay. She flipped the passenger sunshade down. A heavy set of brass keys dropped into her gloved palm with a jingle. "Predictable to a fault. I like that."
The engine roared to life, the V8 sputtering before catching with a throaty growl.
"Hang on back there, handsome," she called out, shifting gears with a violent crunch. "It’s going to be a bumpy ride."
She floored it. The van didn't go toward the cops; she threw it into reverse, smashing through a stack of wooden pallets behind them and tearing out the rear exit of the alley. Coyle was thrown violently toward the front of the cargo bay, his shoulder checking the metal partition hard.
For the next ten minutes, the world was a nightmare of centrifugal force. Coyle slid helplessly across the grime-streaked floor as Catwoman took corners at impossible speeds, the tires squealing and the suspension groaning. He bounced off the wheel wells, his tactical vest scraping against the rusted floor, the smell of exhaust fumes and old grease filling his nose.
Finally, the engine noise changed. The drumming of the rain on the roof became muffled, echoing, as if they were under heavy concrete. They slowed, the tires crunching over gravel and broken glass.
The van stopped. The silence that followed was sudden and heavy.
Coyle lay in the dark, bruised and dizzied, trying to orient himself. The engine ticked as it cooled. He heard the rustle of leather from the front cab. She wasn't getting out.
Screeee-clack.
The small partition window between the cab and the cargo bay slid open. Then, the latch of the partition door clicked. Catwoman crawled through from the front seats into the back, bringing the faint, strobing light of the distant city with her.
She stood over him in the gloom, safe beneath the concrete underpass of the Gotham stack interchange. No cops. No witnesses. Just the two of them.
"Now," she whispered, pulling a roll of duct tape from her belt. "Where were we?"
A sound cut through the blackness. A soft, menacing hiss, like a serpent striking. The sound of leather slicing through the air.
Thwip.
Something wrapped around both his wrists at once, binding them together behind his back in a flash of movement he couldn't even track. Before he could shout, a knee drove into the small of his back, forcing him face-down onto the grime-streaked floor. "Ghh-ulk!" The air rushed out of him, his chest scraping against the cold metal.
He felt his ankles seized, yanked up towards his hips with brutal force. His knees bent sharply, his heels digging into his buttocks.
Thwip.
The leather whipped around his ankles, cinching them tight. Then, a final tug connected his bound wrists to his ankles, arching his back into a painful bow. He was trussed up like livestock, utterly helpless, his cheek pressed into the freezing floor. He struggled, rocking his hips, trying to kick out, but the hogtie was immaculate, unyielding. Every movement just pulled the knots tighter, straining his shoulders and hips.
All he could hear was the frantic, ragged sound of his own breathing and the soft, almost silent shifting of the predator who was in the dark with him.
The darkness inside the van was absolute, save for the thin, frantic strobing of blue and red light bleeding through the gaps in the rear doors. The wail of the sirens outside felt incredibly close, vibrating the metal floor against Coyle’s cheek, but in here, the silence was heavy, broken only by the sound of wet leather creaking.
"Not a sound," Catwoman whispered. It wasn't a suggestion.
She was on him before he could draw a breath to scream. A heavy, oil-stained rag—likely used by the crew to wipe down tools—was shoved roughly into his mouth. The taste was acrid, metallic grease and old sweat. Before he could spit it out, she secured it with a strip of duct tape she ripped from a roll on the dashboard, winding it tight around his head. "Mmph! Ghh-mmmph!" Coyle thrashed, panic surging, but the bonds held fast.
"Stop squirming," she ordered, her voice cool and detached. She straddled his hips, her weight pinning him effectively to the floor. "I’m going to find out who you are, and then you’re going to tell me where my diamond went."
She began to search him, her gloved hands moving with professional efficiency. She patted down his chest, checked the pockets of his tactical vest, looking for a wallet, a phone, anything. Her hands moved lower, checking for concealed weapons along his waistline.
As her fingers dug firmly into the soft flesh of his sides, just below the ribs, to check for a knife sheath, Coyle’s body betrayed him instantly. A violent, electric jolt shot through his nervous system. He bucked hard against her weight, a muffled squeak forcing its way past the gag. "Hhh-yip!"
Catwoman paused. Her hands went still.
In the gloom, the lenses of her goggles glinted as she tilted her head. "What was that?"
She shifted her weight, leaning in closer. Slowly, deliberately, she pressed her gloved thumbs back into the exact same spot, right between his floating ribs and his hip bone.
Coyle convulsed. He twisted wildly, his shoulders slamming against the floor, a desperate, frantic noise bubbling in his throat. "Mmm-hhh-EEE!" It wasn't a cry of pain. It was pure, involuntary nervous system overload.
Catwoman pulled back, a low, incredulous laugh escaping her. "Oh... you have got to be kidding me."
The sound of metal sliding against metal cut through the air. Snikt.
Even in the dark, Coyle knew what that sound was. The claws.
"Big, tough goon," she murmured, the amusement in her voice thick and terrifying. "Let's see just how deep this goes."
She didn't use the flat of her hand this time. She extended a single, razor-sharp index claw. With surgical precision, she drove the tip through the fabric of his tactical jacket and into his side. She didn't stab; she wiggled it.
"MMMPH! GH-AHA-HA!" Coyle thrashed like a landed fish, his bound legs kicking uselessly at the air. The sensation was agonizingly sharp, a spike of ticklish electricity that made his brain short-circuit.
"Jackpot," Catwoman purred. She climbed off his hips, sliding down his legs. The pressure vanished from his back, only to be replaced by a terrifying grip on his ankles. She loomed over his bound feet, the red strobe from outside catching the silhouette of her ears.
"You know," she said, her voice dropping to a conversational tone that was infinitely worse than a threat. "I was going to beat the answers out of you. But I think this is going to be much more... educational."
She grabbed the heel of his left work boot with one hand. With the other, she hooked her claws into the thick rubber sole. With a display of terrifying strength and the sharpness of her titanium-dipped blades, she ripped upwards.
SKREEEEE-RIIIIIIP.
The sound was hideous—thick leather and rubber being shredded like wet paper. Coyle’s eyes widened in the dark, terrified tears pricking at the corners. She peeled the boot open like a sardine can, discarding the ruined husk with a clatter.
His foot was still covered in a thick, damp grey wool sock.
"Ugh. Damp," she noted with distaste. She hooked a single claw into the cuff of the sock and yanked it down. The wool tore away, leaving his pale, bare foot exposed to the freezing air of the van. She did the same to the other, shredding the boot and stripping the sock in seconds.
Coyle shivered, curling his toes instinctively, trying to hide his soles from the predator looming in the dark.
"Now," Catwoman whispered, running a gloved finger—claws retracted for now—along the sensitive, high arch of his left foot. Coyle jerked, a muffled whimper escaping the gag. "Tell me where the gem is, or I start writing my name."
Coyle squeezed his eyes shut, shaking his head violently against the floor. No. No way. He couldn't talk. If he ratted, Two-Face wouldn't just kill him; he'd make it a coin toss between a slow death and something much worse. And Bolton… Bolton had vouched for him. Don’t fuck it up. If he gave them up now, he wasn’t just a screw-up; he was a traitor.
"Mmm-mmph!" He grunted his defiance through the gag, arching his back and trying to pull his feet away from her grasp.
Catwoman sighed, a sound of mock disappointment. "Loyalty. How quaint. Let's see how long it lasts."
She looked around the van's cabin, her eyes adjusting to the gloom. On the dashboard, next to the duct tape, sat a small tub of heavy-duty axle grease, the lid pried half-open. Perfect.
She reached over, scooping a dollop of the thick, black sludge onto the tip of her index claw. It glistened in the strobe lights, viscous and cold.
"I need a canvas," she whispered, turning back to his exposed soles. She grabbed his left ankle with an iron grip, holding the foot steady despite his desperate kicks. "And since you won't use your mouth..."
She brought the grease-laden claw to the very center of his sole. The metal tip was freezing, the grease slimy and thick. Slowly, agonizingly slowly, she began to write.
C.
She carved the curve of the letter into the soft, wrinkled skin of his arch.
"MMMPH! NNN-GH-HAAA!" Coyle bucked wildy, his muffled scream vibrating in his throat. The sensation was maddening—the sharp, distinct point of the claw, the cold slime of the grease, the unbearable slowness. His toes curled and uncurled in a frantic rhythm, trying to escape the sensation.
A.
She moved to the ball of his foot, dragging the claw in sharp, deliberate strokes.
"I can do this all alphabet long, honey," she purred, admiring her handiwork. The grease left a dark, glistening trail on his pale skin. "Or you can nod your head and tell me what I want to know."
Coyle shook his head again, tears streaming down his face now, sweat beading on his forehead despite the cold. He thought of the acid scars on Bolton’s uniform. He held onto that image. He wouldn't break. Not yet.
"Stubborn," she observed, her voice hardening. "Fine. Let's try a different game."
She released his ankle and shifted her grip, taking hold of his big toe. She gave it a wiggle.
"This little goon went to the museum..."
She ran her claw down the side of the big toe, digging into the webbing between it and the second toe.
"EEE-HEEE! MMM-MPH!" Coyle shrieked into the gag, his body trashing. The sensitivity between his toes was electric, explosive.
She grabbed the second toe. "This little goon stood in the rain..."
Scritch-scratch. She raked her claw across the pad of the toe, then dipped it into the sensitive crevice underneath.
"This little goon had a diamond..."
She seized the third toe, swirling the claw tip around the nail bed before plunging it down into the soft skin of the ball of his foot.
"Nnn-NO! HMMPH-AHA-HA!" The laughter was hysterical now, broken and sobbing. He couldn't breathe. The gag was choking him, the laughter getting trapped in his throat. His resolve was crumbling, dissolved by the relentless, sharp electricity shooting up his legs.
"And this little goon got caught..."
She skipped the fourth toe and went straight for the pinky. She pinched it hard, then ran the claw all the way down the outer edge of his foot to the heel, digging in deep.
"MMMMM-HAAAA! ST-STOP-MPH!"
"And this little goon..." She paused, her voice dripping with sadistic glee. She brought both hands to his soles now, all ten claws extending fully. "Went WEE WEE WEE all the way to Blackgate!"
She unleashed a flurry. All ten razor-sharp points descended on his soles, scratching, raking, scritching in a chaotic, overwhelming storm of sensation. She attacked the arches, scribbled furiously on the heels, dug into the tender skin under the toes.
It was too much. The world dissolved into white-hot sparks of stimuli. The loyalty, the fear of Two-Face, the promise to Bolton—it was all incinerated. Coyle physically couldn't take another second without his mind snapping.
He slammed his head against the floorboards, nodding frantically, desperately. "MMMPH! MMMMPH!" He screamed the affirmation into the gag, his eyes wide and pleading.
Catwoman stopped instantly. The silence that rushed back into the van was deafening. Coyle lay there, chest heaving, gasping for air through his nose, his feet twitching uncontrollably with phantom sensations.
"See?" Catwoman said softly, retracting her claws. She leaned forward and ripped the tape from his mouth. "Was that so hard?"
Coyle coughed, spit and bile dripping from his lips. He looked up at her, broken, defeated. "Two-Face," he gasped, his voice a wrecked croak. "The... the old cannery... on the waterfront. Bolton took it there." He sobbed, a dry, hiccupping sound. "Please... just let me go."
Catwoman smiled. She patted his cheek. "Good boy."
---
The air in the foreman’s office of the derelict Gotham Cannery smelled of cheap scotch, cigar smoke, and the lingering, copper scent of dried fish scales. It was a victory smell.
Bolton leaned against the rusted doorframe, watching Harvey Dent—Two-Face—pour a drink. The heist had been flawless. The gem was already secured in the heavy-duty floor safe in the adjacent counting room, ready for the buyer's inspection at dawn.
"Clean work, gentlemen," Dent said, his voice a disturbing harmonic of smooth baritone and gravelly growl. "Fortune smiled on us tonight. The coin was kind."
Bolton nodded, taking a pull from his flask. He checked his watch. Coyle should have been here ten minutes ago with the secondary clean-up van. The kid was probably driving like a grandma to avoid scratching the paint. Bolton felt a pang of pride. The kid had potential.
Suddenly, a frantic shout erupted from the main warehouse floor below.
"BOSS! THE SAFE! SHE'S ON THE ROOF!"
The celebratory mood shattered instantly. Bolton drew his heavy pistol, the motion practiced and fluid. Two-Face roared, kicking the office door wide open and storming onto the gantry walkway that overlooked the warehouse floor.
Below, the crew was in chaos. A young thug was pointing wildly up towards the skylights.
"LOOK!"
Bolton and Dent looked up. The high, reinforced glass of the central skylight was shattered. Crouched on the iron truss, bathed in the moonlight and the storm, was Catwoman. She held the gem up, the stone catching a lightning flash from outside and refracting it into a dazzle of white fire. She had cracked the safe and scaled the wall before anyone had even known she was in the building.
"You..." Two-Face roared up at the ceiling, the scarred side of his lip curling back to reveal teeth and gum. He raised his twin .45s, but she was too high, too obscured by the shadows and the steel beams.
"Thanks for the heavy lifting, Harv!" she called down, her voice dripping with mockery. "I hate dealing with museum security systems. Much easier to let you do the hard work and just pick it up at the finish line."
"SHOOT HER!" Dent screamed.
A dozen machine guns opened up, chewing into the ceiling and the iron trusses, sparks showering down like fireworks. but Catwoman was already moving, a ghost in the rafters. She vanished through the broken skylight, but her voice drifted back one last time, loud and clear over the gunfire.
"Oh, and Harvey? Your driver is outside. He’s a little... tied up at the moment."
The shooting stopped. Silence returned to the warehouse, heavy and suffocating.
"Outside," Dent hissed, holstering his guns. "Now."
Bolton was the first one out the door, his heart sinking. Coyle.
They burst out of the cannery into the driving rain. The secondary van—the rust-bucket Coyle had been driving—was parked haphazardly near the loading dock, engine cold, lights off.
"Check it," Two-Face ordered, flipping his coin. It came up scarred side. Bad news.
Bolton grabbed the handle of the rear doors and wrenched them open. A collective precinct of flashlights beamed into the dark interior.
There was Coyle.
He was lying on his stomach, hogtied with a humiliating degree of professionalism. His wrists were bound to his ankles, arching his back, leaving him helpless. He was gagged again with the grease rag, his eyes wide, red-rimmed, and terrified as the light hit him. He made a muffled, pathetic sound as he saw Bolton.
But it was his feet that drew every eye.
His heavy boots were destroyed, peeled open like bananas and discarded. His socks were gone. His bare feet, pale and vulnerable in the harsh flashlight beams, were elevated by the hogtie, facing the crowd.
And there, scrawled across the soles in thick, black, glistening axle grease, was a message.
TICKLISH
The word was written in large, childish block letters. TICK on the left sole, LISH on the right.
The silence that followed was total. Even the rain seemed to hold its breath.
Bolton stared, a mix of pity and secondhand embarrassment washing over him. The kid hadn't just been beaten; he’d been played with. Broken by a feathertouch.
Two-Face stepped forward, leaning in to read the grease-smeared text. He looked at the word, then looked at Coyle’s terrified, twitching feet. A slow, cruel smile spread across the scarred side of his face.
"Well," Dent rasped, the malice in his voice thick enough to choke on. "It seems the cat left us a parting gift after all."
He turned to the other thugs, his good eye gleaming with a dark idea.
"Bring him inside. And find me some feathers, or brushes, or... whatever we have lying around." Two-Face chuckled, a dry, terrifying sound. "The night is young, gentlemen. And I think we need to verify the lady's research."
As the goons moved in, laughing and reaching for Coyle’s ankles, Bolton looked away. He couldn't save the kid this time. You don't fail the coin, and you don't get caught by the Cat.
Commissioned by: Anonymous
Tier Purchased: Standard Story + Visual Art Pack
THE CLIENT BRIEF:
- Theme: DC Universe.
- Scenario: A heist gone wrong. A low-level henchman is intercepted by Catwoman before he can escape.
- Key Mechanics: Hogtie restraint, Boot rip, and a specific request for a "messy" humiliation element involving axle grease.
- Tone: Visceral, panic-inducing, with a definitive "Bad Ending."
📜 Manuscript: 4,432 Words (See below).
🎨 Visuals: 5-Panel Cinematic Sequence.
The rain wasn't just falling; it was an active participant in Gotham’s misery. Each drop was a cold, fat needle that found the gap between Coyle’s collar and his neck, tracing an icy path down his spine. He shivered, pulling the thin, generic tactical jacket tighter around his frame. It was clean. Too clean. The uniform of a nobody, a temp hire on the biggest night of his life.
Then he heard it. Faint, at first, almost lost beneath the drumming of the rain and the distant growl of city traffic. A thin, high-pitched wheeeee that rose and fell, the cry of a predator homing in. Sirens. Still far off, but getting closer. His blood ran cold. They’re coming.
As if summoned by the sound, the heavy, groaning screech of a metal fire door being forced open ripped through the alley. Three figures burst out, not walking, but moving at a clipped, urgent pace. The first, a brute named Harker, was carrying a reinforced case. Even in the gloom, Coyle could see the pristine right side of his jacket and the acid-eaten, frayed mess of the left. They were out. They’d done it.
A surge of frantic energy shot through Coyle. He stepped out of his alcove, his voice a half-shout over the rising wail of the GCPD. "Did you get it? Was it—"
"Move it, probie, you deaf?" Harker snarled, shoving past without breaking stride. The hard corner of the case dug sharply into Coyle’s ribs, forcing a grunt of pain from his lips. Harker and the other man were already at the main transport, throwing the side door open with a deafening clang.
Coyle’s elation curdled into a knot of panic in his stomach. The sirens were louder now, a distinct two-tone wail that echoed off the wet brickwork, seeming to come from every direction at once. They were close. Blocks away, maybe less.
As the others piled into the van, one man paused. Bolton. He was the last one to the door, and he stopped, turning back to Coyle. He jogged the few feet back, the urgency clear in his heavy, thudding footsteps on the asphalt.
A heavy hand, warm even through the damp fabric, landed on Coyle’s shoulder in a hard, quick clap. "You did good, kid," Bolton’s voice rumbled, a low, grounding sound even over the sirens. He was already turning back toward the van as he spoke. "Get the gear. Secondary site. NOW."
He was at the van door, one foot on the runner, when he looked back one last time. The reflected strobes of blue and red light were beginning to bleed onto the main street at the end of the alley. "Do this right, and you're in. We'll get you burned in proper." His face was a grim mask in the flashing lights. "Don't fuck it up."
The words were a command, a promise, and a threat all rolled into one. The van door slid shut with a bone-jarring slam. Before Coyle could even manage a reply, the engine roared, its V8 drowning out the sirens for a single instant. With a squeal of abused tires that sent a plume of dirty water into the air, the transport tore out of the alley and was swallowed by the Gotham night.
Coyle was left alone, his ears ringing. The wail of the approaching police cars was hideously close now, the flashing lights painting the alley walls in frantic, pulsing strokes of colour.*Don't fuck it up.*The command echoed in his head. His heart hammered against his ribs. He had maybe twenty seconds. He lunged for the discarded duffel bag near the fire door, his hands closing around the cold, wet straps, oblivious to the silhouette that had just detached itself from the stone gargoyle on the museum roof four stories above, dropping into the alley with the impossible silence of a falling shadow.
Coyle heaved the duffel bag over his shoulder, the weight of it—a mix of high-tensile wire, drill bits, and a heavy magnetic pulse device—nearly throwing him off balance. Every muscle screamed at him to run. The sirens were no longer a distant wail; they were a physical pressure in the air, a throbbing, doppler-shifting shriek that vibrated in his teeth. The blue and red lights were strobing violently now, painting the wet walls in frantic, alternating flashes. The mouth of the alley was a light show of impending doom. He had seconds, maybe less, before the first GCPD cruiser sealed his only exit.
He took one step towards the rust-bucket van, his boot splashing in a deep puddle.
"Leaving so soon?"
The voice was not loud. It was a low, feminine purr, laced with amusement, and it cut through the cacophony of the sirens like a razor through silk. It came from right behind him.
Coyle froze solid, a bolt of pure, primal fear short-circuiting his entire nervous system. He hadn't heard a thing. No footsteps, no splash, nothing but the rain and the sirens. He turned slowly, his heart feeling like it was trying to punch its way out of his ribcage.
She stood not ten feet away, a silhouette made of shadows and highlights by the flashing police lights. The form was unmistakable, a nightmare figure from the city’s folklore. The skin-tight black suit that drank the light, the horned cowl, and the large, goggled lenses that reflected the red-blue-red-blue flashes, hiding whatever eyes lay behind them. Catwoman. Not a Bat, but close enough. A predator of the same ecosystem, and infinitely worse than the cops.
"Big party in there," she said, gesturing with a gloved hand towards the museum's forced fire door. "And it looks like you missed all the fun." She took a slow, deliberate step towards him. Her movements were liquid, a fighter’s grace married to a dancer’s poise. She moved like she belonged in the shadows, while Coyle felt like a clumsy, terrified animal caught in the glare of a hunter's lamp.
"I-I don't know what you're talking about," Coyle stammered, the lie tasting like ash in his mouth. He took an involuntary step back, his heel hitting the leg of the dumpster. "I was just... heading home. Heard the noise."
"Hhh-mm," Catwoman hummed, a skeptical note that vibrated with amusement. She took another step, closing the distance. "Dressed for a cold night, I see. A lot of people heading home in tactical gear these days?" Her head tilted, the lenses of her goggles seeming to bore right through him. "What's in the bag? Your laundry?"
The sirens were deafening. A screech of tires on wet asphalt announced the arrival of the first squad car at the mouth of the alley. Its headlights blazed, cutting through the rain and pinning them both in brilliant white cones of light.
"Freeze! GCPD! Hands where I can see 'em!"
The shout echoed off the brick walls. Coyle’s heart hammered a frantic rhythm against his ribs. He looked at the cops, then at the van, then at Catwoman. For a second, he thought she might bolt, leaving him to the mercy of the police.
Instead, she grinned. A flash of white teeth in the shadow of the cowl.
"Change of plans," she purred, the sound barely audible over the rain. "I hate walking in the rain. You're driving. Well... your van is."
Before Coyle could process the threat, she moved. She didn’t run; she exploded into motion. She flowed inside his guard, a blur of black leather and kinetic energy. An arm, impossibly strong, hooked under his chin, snapping his head back. His momentum was instantly arrested. She spun him around, using him as a temporary human shield against the glare of the police lights.
With a grunt of effort, she launched him. Coyle flew through the open side door of the rust-bucket van.
KRR-RUNG!
His back slammed into the opposite wall of the cargo bay. The hollow sheet metal boomed like a drum, vibrating through his skeleton. The impact stole the air from his lungs in a wet, wheezing gasp. He crumpled onto the ribbed metal floor, sliding in a patch of oil.
"Hey! Stop!" The cops were running now, boots splashing in the puddles.
Catwoman didn't climb in after him. She slammed the sliding door shut with a deafening CLANG, plunging Coyle into darkness. A split second later, the driver's side door ripped open. She vaulted into the front seat, staying low to avoid the police spotlights.
"Keys, keys, keys..." she muttered, her voice drifting through the thin metal partition that separated the cab from the cargo bay. She flipped the passenger sunshade down. A heavy set of brass keys dropped into her gloved palm with a jingle. "Predictable to a fault. I like that."
The engine roared to life, the V8 sputtering before catching with a throaty growl.
"Hang on back there, handsome," she called out, shifting gears with a violent crunch. "It’s going to be a bumpy ride."
She floored it. The van didn't go toward the cops; she threw it into reverse, smashing through a stack of wooden pallets behind them and tearing out the rear exit of the alley. Coyle was thrown violently toward the front of the cargo bay, his shoulder checking the metal partition hard.
For the next ten minutes, the world was a nightmare of centrifugal force. Coyle slid helplessly across the grime-streaked floor as Catwoman took corners at impossible speeds, the tires squealing and the suspension groaning. He bounced off the wheel wells, his tactical vest scraping against the rusted floor, the smell of exhaust fumes and old grease filling his nose.
Finally, the engine noise changed. The drumming of the rain on the roof became muffled, echoing, as if they were under heavy concrete. They slowed, the tires crunching over gravel and broken glass.
The van stopped. The silence that followed was sudden and heavy.
Coyle lay in the dark, bruised and dizzied, trying to orient himself. The engine ticked as it cooled. He heard the rustle of leather from the front cab. She wasn't getting out.
Screeee-clack.
The small partition window between the cab and the cargo bay slid open. Then, the latch of the partition door clicked. Catwoman crawled through from the front seats into the back, bringing the faint, strobing light of the distant city with her.
She stood over him in the gloom, safe beneath the concrete underpass of the Gotham stack interchange. No cops. No witnesses. Just the two of them.
"Now," she whispered, pulling a roll of duct tape from her belt. "Where were we?"
A sound cut through the blackness. A soft, menacing hiss, like a serpent striking. The sound of leather slicing through the air.
Thwip.
Something wrapped around both his wrists at once, binding them together behind his back in a flash of movement he couldn't even track. Before he could shout, a knee drove into the small of his back, forcing him face-down onto the grime-streaked floor. "Ghh-ulk!" The air rushed out of him, his chest scraping against the cold metal.
He felt his ankles seized, yanked up towards his hips with brutal force. His knees bent sharply, his heels digging into his buttocks.
Thwip.
The leather whipped around his ankles, cinching them tight. Then, a final tug connected his bound wrists to his ankles, arching his back into a painful bow. He was trussed up like livestock, utterly helpless, his cheek pressed into the freezing floor. He struggled, rocking his hips, trying to kick out, but the hogtie was immaculate, unyielding. Every movement just pulled the knots tighter, straining his shoulders and hips.
All he could hear was the frantic, ragged sound of his own breathing and the soft, almost silent shifting of the predator who was in the dark with him.
The darkness inside the van was absolute, save for the thin, frantic strobing of blue and red light bleeding through the gaps in the rear doors. The wail of the sirens outside felt incredibly close, vibrating the metal floor against Coyle’s cheek, but in here, the silence was heavy, broken only by the sound of wet leather creaking.
"Not a sound," Catwoman whispered. It wasn't a suggestion.
She was on him before he could draw a breath to scream. A heavy, oil-stained rag—likely used by the crew to wipe down tools—was shoved roughly into his mouth. The taste was acrid, metallic grease and old sweat. Before he could spit it out, she secured it with a strip of duct tape she ripped from a roll on the dashboard, winding it tight around his head. "Mmph! Ghh-mmmph!" Coyle thrashed, panic surging, but the bonds held fast.
"Stop squirming," she ordered, her voice cool and detached. She straddled his hips, her weight pinning him effectively to the floor. "I’m going to find out who you are, and then you’re going to tell me where my diamond went."
She began to search him, her gloved hands moving with professional efficiency. She patted down his chest, checked the pockets of his tactical vest, looking for a wallet, a phone, anything. Her hands moved lower, checking for concealed weapons along his waistline.
As her fingers dug firmly into the soft flesh of his sides, just below the ribs, to check for a knife sheath, Coyle’s body betrayed him instantly. A violent, electric jolt shot through his nervous system. He bucked hard against her weight, a muffled squeak forcing its way past the gag. "Hhh-yip!"
Catwoman paused. Her hands went still.
In the gloom, the lenses of her goggles glinted as she tilted her head. "What was that?"
She shifted her weight, leaning in closer. Slowly, deliberately, she pressed her gloved thumbs back into the exact same spot, right between his floating ribs and his hip bone.
Coyle convulsed. He twisted wildly, his shoulders slamming against the floor, a desperate, frantic noise bubbling in his throat. "Mmm-hhh-EEE!" It wasn't a cry of pain. It was pure, involuntary nervous system overload.
Catwoman pulled back, a low, incredulous laugh escaping her. "Oh... you have got to be kidding me."
The sound of metal sliding against metal cut through the air. Snikt.
Even in the dark, Coyle knew what that sound was. The claws.
"Big, tough goon," she murmured, the amusement in her voice thick and terrifying. "Let's see just how deep this goes."
She didn't use the flat of her hand this time. She extended a single, razor-sharp index claw. With surgical precision, she drove the tip through the fabric of his tactical jacket and into his side. She didn't stab; she wiggled it.
"MMMPH! GH-AHA-HA!" Coyle thrashed like a landed fish, his bound legs kicking uselessly at the air. The sensation was agonizingly sharp, a spike of ticklish electricity that made his brain short-circuit.
"Jackpot," Catwoman purred. She climbed off his hips, sliding down his legs. The pressure vanished from his back, only to be replaced by a terrifying grip on his ankles. She loomed over his bound feet, the red strobe from outside catching the silhouette of her ears.
"You know," she said, her voice dropping to a conversational tone that was infinitely worse than a threat. "I was going to beat the answers out of you. But I think this is going to be much more... educational."
She grabbed the heel of his left work boot with one hand. With the other, she hooked her claws into the thick rubber sole. With a display of terrifying strength and the sharpness of her titanium-dipped blades, she ripped upwards.
SKREEEEE-RIIIIIIP.
The sound was hideous—thick leather and rubber being shredded like wet paper. Coyle’s eyes widened in the dark, terrified tears pricking at the corners. She peeled the boot open like a sardine can, discarding the ruined husk with a clatter.
His foot was still covered in a thick, damp grey wool sock.
"Ugh. Damp," she noted with distaste. She hooked a single claw into the cuff of the sock and yanked it down. The wool tore away, leaving his pale, bare foot exposed to the freezing air of the van. She did the same to the other, shredding the boot and stripping the sock in seconds.
Coyle shivered, curling his toes instinctively, trying to hide his soles from the predator looming in the dark.
"Now," Catwoman whispered, running a gloved finger—claws retracted for now—along the sensitive, high arch of his left foot. Coyle jerked, a muffled whimper escaping the gag. "Tell me where the gem is, or I start writing my name."
Coyle squeezed his eyes shut, shaking his head violently against the floor. No. No way. He couldn't talk. If he ratted, Two-Face wouldn't just kill him; he'd make it a coin toss between a slow death and something much worse. And Bolton… Bolton had vouched for him. Don’t fuck it up. If he gave them up now, he wasn’t just a screw-up; he was a traitor.
"Mmm-mmph!" He grunted his defiance through the gag, arching his back and trying to pull his feet away from her grasp.
Catwoman sighed, a sound of mock disappointment. "Loyalty. How quaint. Let's see how long it lasts."
She looked around the van's cabin, her eyes adjusting to the gloom. On the dashboard, next to the duct tape, sat a small tub of heavy-duty axle grease, the lid pried half-open. Perfect.
She reached over, scooping a dollop of the thick, black sludge onto the tip of her index claw. It glistened in the strobe lights, viscous and cold.
"I need a canvas," she whispered, turning back to his exposed soles. She grabbed his left ankle with an iron grip, holding the foot steady despite his desperate kicks. "And since you won't use your mouth..."
She brought the grease-laden claw to the very center of his sole. The metal tip was freezing, the grease slimy and thick. Slowly, agonizingly slowly, she began to write.
C.
She carved the curve of the letter into the soft, wrinkled skin of his arch.
"MMMPH! NNN-GH-HAAA!" Coyle bucked wildy, his muffled scream vibrating in his throat. The sensation was maddening—the sharp, distinct point of the claw, the cold slime of the grease, the unbearable slowness. His toes curled and uncurled in a frantic rhythm, trying to escape the sensation.
A.
She moved to the ball of his foot, dragging the claw in sharp, deliberate strokes.
"I can do this all alphabet long, honey," she purred, admiring her handiwork. The grease left a dark, glistening trail on his pale skin. "Or you can nod your head and tell me what I want to know."
Coyle shook his head again, tears streaming down his face now, sweat beading on his forehead despite the cold. He thought of the acid scars on Bolton’s uniform. He held onto that image. He wouldn't break. Not yet.
"Stubborn," she observed, her voice hardening. "Fine. Let's try a different game."
She released his ankle and shifted her grip, taking hold of his big toe. She gave it a wiggle.
"This little goon went to the museum..."
She ran her claw down the side of the big toe, digging into the webbing between it and the second toe.
"EEE-HEEE! MMM-MPH!" Coyle shrieked into the gag, his body trashing. The sensitivity between his toes was electric, explosive.
She grabbed the second toe. "This little goon stood in the rain..."
Scritch-scratch. She raked her claw across the pad of the toe, then dipped it into the sensitive crevice underneath.
"This little goon had a diamond..."
She seized the third toe, swirling the claw tip around the nail bed before plunging it down into the soft skin of the ball of his foot.
"Nnn-NO! HMMPH-AHA-HA!" The laughter was hysterical now, broken and sobbing. He couldn't breathe. The gag was choking him, the laughter getting trapped in his throat. His resolve was crumbling, dissolved by the relentless, sharp electricity shooting up his legs.
"And this little goon got caught..."
She skipped the fourth toe and went straight for the pinky. She pinched it hard, then ran the claw all the way down the outer edge of his foot to the heel, digging in deep.
"MMMMM-HAAAA! ST-STOP-MPH!"
"And this little goon..." She paused, her voice dripping with sadistic glee. She brought both hands to his soles now, all ten claws extending fully. "Went WEE WEE WEE all the way to Blackgate!"
She unleashed a flurry. All ten razor-sharp points descended on his soles, scratching, raking, scritching in a chaotic, overwhelming storm of sensation. She attacked the arches, scribbled furiously on the heels, dug into the tender skin under the toes.
It was too much. The world dissolved into white-hot sparks of stimuli. The loyalty, the fear of Two-Face, the promise to Bolton—it was all incinerated. Coyle physically couldn't take another second without his mind snapping.
He slammed his head against the floorboards, nodding frantically, desperately. "MMMPH! MMMMPH!" He screamed the affirmation into the gag, his eyes wide and pleading.
Catwoman stopped instantly. The silence that rushed back into the van was deafening. Coyle lay there, chest heaving, gasping for air through his nose, his feet twitching uncontrollably with phantom sensations.
"See?" Catwoman said softly, retracting her claws. She leaned forward and ripped the tape from his mouth. "Was that so hard?"
Coyle coughed, spit and bile dripping from his lips. He looked up at her, broken, defeated. "Two-Face," he gasped, his voice a wrecked croak. "The... the old cannery... on the waterfront. Bolton took it there." He sobbed, a dry, hiccupping sound. "Please... just let me go."
Catwoman smiled. She patted his cheek. "Good boy."
---
The air in the foreman’s office of the derelict Gotham Cannery smelled of cheap scotch, cigar smoke, and the lingering, copper scent of dried fish scales. It was a victory smell.
Bolton leaned against the rusted doorframe, watching Harvey Dent—Two-Face—pour a drink. The heist had been flawless. The gem was already secured in the heavy-duty floor safe in the adjacent counting room, ready for the buyer's inspection at dawn.
"Clean work, gentlemen," Dent said, his voice a disturbing harmonic of smooth baritone and gravelly growl. "Fortune smiled on us tonight. The coin was kind."
Bolton nodded, taking a pull from his flask. He checked his watch. Coyle should have been here ten minutes ago with the secondary clean-up van. The kid was probably driving like a grandma to avoid scratching the paint. Bolton felt a pang of pride. The kid had potential.
Suddenly, a frantic shout erupted from the main warehouse floor below.
"BOSS! THE SAFE! SHE'S ON THE ROOF!"
The celebratory mood shattered instantly. Bolton drew his heavy pistol, the motion practiced and fluid. Two-Face roared, kicking the office door wide open and storming onto the gantry walkway that overlooked the warehouse floor.
Below, the crew was in chaos. A young thug was pointing wildly up towards the skylights.
"LOOK!"
Bolton and Dent looked up. The high, reinforced glass of the central skylight was shattered. Crouched on the iron truss, bathed in the moonlight and the storm, was Catwoman. She held the gem up, the stone catching a lightning flash from outside and refracting it into a dazzle of white fire. She had cracked the safe and scaled the wall before anyone had even known she was in the building.
"You..." Two-Face roared up at the ceiling, the scarred side of his lip curling back to reveal teeth and gum. He raised his twin .45s, but she was too high, too obscured by the shadows and the steel beams.
"Thanks for the heavy lifting, Harv!" she called down, her voice dripping with mockery. "I hate dealing with museum security systems. Much easier to let you do the hard work and just pick it up at the finish line."
"SHOOT HER!" Dent screamed.
A dozen machine guns opened up, chewing into the ceiling and the iron trusses, sparks showering down like fireworks. but Catwoman was already moving, a ghost in the rafters. She vanished through the broken skylight, but her voice drifted back one last time, loud and clear over the gunfire.
"Oh, and Harvey? Your driver is outside. He’s a little... tied up at the moment."
The shooting stopped. Silence returned to the warehouse, heavy and suffocating.
"Outside," Dent hissed, holstering his guns. "Now."
Bolton was the first one out the door, his heart sinking. Coyle.
They burst out of the cannery into the driving rain. The secondary van—the rust-bucket Coyle had been driving—was parked haphazardly near the loading dock, engine cold, lights off.
"Check it," Two-Face ordered, flipping his coin. It came up scarred side. Bad news.
Bolton grabbed the handle of the rear doors and wrenched them open. A collective precinct of flashlights beamed into the dark interior.
There was Coyle.
He was lying on his stomach, hogtied with a humiliating degree of professionalism. His wrists were bound to his ankles, arching his back, leaving him helpless. He was gagged again with the grease rag, his eyes wide, red-rimmed, and terrified as the light hit him. He made a muffled, pathetic sound as he saw Bolton.
But it was his feet that drew every eye.
His heavy boots were destroyed, peeled open like bananas and discarded. His socks were gone. His bare feet, pale and vulnerable in the harsh flashlight beams, were elevated by the hogtie, facing the crowd.
And there, scrawled across the soles in thick, black, glistening axle grease, was a message.
TICKLISH
The word was written in large, childish block letters. TICK on the left sole, LISH on the right.
The silence that followed was total. Even the rain seemed to hold its breath.
Bolton stared, a mix of pity and secondhand embarrassment washing over him. The kid hadn't just been beaten; he’d been played with. Broken by a feathertouch.
Two-Face stepped forward, leaning in to read the grease-smeared text. He looked at the word, then looked at Coyle’s terrified, twitching feet. A slow, cruel smile spread across the scarred side of his face.
"Well," Dent rasped, the malice in his voice thick enough to choke on. "It seems the cat left us a parting gift after all."
He turned to the other thugs, his good eye gleaming with a dark idea.
"Bring him inside. And find me some feathers, or brushes, or... whatever we have lying around." Two-Face chuckled, a dry, terrifying sound. "The night is young, gentlemen. And I think we need to verify the lady's research."
As the goons moved in, laughing and reaching for Coyle’s ankles, Bolton looked away. He couldn't save the kid this time. You don't fail the coin, and you don't get caught by the Cat.
