Catwoman: Diamond Mirage by Jade Gretz

https://www.deviantart.com/jadegretzai/art/Catwoman-Diamond-Mirage-1268306569

Catwoman: Diamond Mirage ANIMATION

Cinder-Eyes in the Catacombs

Gotham learned to forget what it buried.

Below the city’s ribs of steel and glass lay older bones: brick catacombs laced with limestone veins, tunnels gnawed by centuries of water and want. The place had once been a church’s crypt, then a Prohibition storehouse, then a sewer-adjacent oubliette where unfiled evidence slept and rats learned to read names from badges. The air there tasted of wet pennies and ancient incense, and something feline moved through it with a grace that made the dark hold its breath.

Selina Kyle descended a spiral stair, boots whispering against stone worn smooth by prayer and flight. Her goggles rested atop her head, lenses dull to keep from reflecting stray light. She had learned that trick from a cat: don’t advertise your eyes until the moment you mean to claim the room.

“Come out,” Selina said, voice soft, amused. “I can smell the museum on you.”

A low laugh rolled back from the darkness, threaded with a purr. “You always say that like it’s an insult.”

Pantha emerged where the tunnel widened into a vault. She wore the catacombs like a crown. Fur mantled her shoulders and arms in a pattern of tawny and ink-black, muscle shifting beneath skin that seemed stitched from shadow. Her eyes glowed, amber and cunning, reflecting Selina in pieces. Around Pantha’s waist hung a belt of relics—keys, gems, a silver chalice older than Gotham’s sins.

Selina’s smile found one corner of her mouth. “I say it like it’s foreplay.”

Pantha’s grin showed teeth not entirely human. “Careful. You know what happens when you tease a predator.”

Selina lifted her whip, not cracking it, just letting it uncoil with a whisper. “We dance.”

The vault breathed. Water dripped from arches like a metronome counting down something private. The catacombs had learned the rhythm of pursuit long before either woman had a name.

Pantha prowled in a circle. “You could have left this alone, Selina. The chalice doesn’t belong to Gotham. It belongs to the old blood.”

“Funny,” Selina said. “I was thinking the same about you.”

Pantha stopped. Her pupils slit thin. “You don’t know what I am.”

“I know what you take,” Selina replied. “And what you leave behind.”

A memory skittered across the stone—museum guards found asleep, claws scoring the air inches from throats. No bodies. No blood. Just fear left warm as a blanket.

Pantha’s voice softened. “Fear is currency. You of all people should respect that.”

Selina’s whip kissed the ground. “I respect balance. You tip the scales, people get hurt.”

A blur. Pantha lunged, claws flashing. Selina ducked, rolled, came up with a kick that Pantha caught midair. They broke apart, circling again, breath fogging. The catacombs murmured approval.

“You still move like a thief,” Pantha said. “All economy and misdirection.”

“You still talk too much,” Selina shot back, snapping the whip. It wrapped Pantha’s wrist, leather singing. Pantha yanked, hauling Selina forward into a shoulder that rang her bones.

Stone rushed. Selina twisted, letting herself be thrown, fingers catching a chain bolted to the wall. She swung, boots scissoring Pantha’s chest. Pantha grunted, skidding, then laughed.

“Oh,” Pantha said. “I’ve missed you.”

Selina landed lightly, pulse humming. “We’ve never met.”

Pantha’s smile faded into something older. “We met before fur and latex. Before masks made us honest.”

The words slithered under Selina’s skin. “You’re lying.”

“Am I?” Pantha tilted her head. “You ever wonder why the city calls you when it needs something stolen back?”

Selina’s answer stuck. The catacombs pressed closer, listening.

Pantha advanced, voice a velvet knife. “There was a girl once who stole a ring from a tomb. She said it sang to her. I found her crying in a tunnel not unlike this one. She didn’t know what she’d woken.”

Selina’s breath slowed. “You’re telling a story.”

“I’m telling a warning.” Pantha lunged again, but slower now, inviting. Selina met her halfway. Claw met whip; leather wrapped fur. Selina pulled Pantha close, faces inches apart. Pantha’s scent was wildflowers crushed underfoot.

“You like stories,” Pantha murmured. “They let you pretend you’re not hungry.”

Selina twisted, using the whip as a pivot, flipping Pantha over her hip. Pantha landed on all fours, graceful as a sin forgiven.
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