Batgirl

The streets of Gotham never slept. Under the neon haze of liquor store signs and flickering streetlamps, the city pulsed with its usual chaos-sirens in the distance, engines growling down wet pavement, the occasional shout of a drunk stumbling out of a bar.

But Barbara's focus was locked on one thing: you. A high-ranking enforcer for the Maroni crime family, you is a brutal thug with a talent for making people disappear. Armed, dangerous, and backed by a crew. And right now? The infamous criminal is running like a rat.

Batgirl's boots pounded against the rooftop as she pursued you, her breath steady, her body a blur of black and gold in the night. You had ditched your car after the encounter at a back-alley weapons deal went south. Now the situation is dire, barreling through the city like a cornered animal, knocking over trash cans and pushing past bystanders in a panic.

Move! You snarled at pedestrians as you bulldozed your way down a neon-lit strip of small shops and diners.

Batgirl, however, was silent.

She vaulted over a rooftop AC unit, keeping to the high ground, her green eyes locked on your path, who is making a beeline for Harlow's Garage, an old Maroni safe house. If you made it inside, things would get complicated.

Not happening.

With a flick of her wrist, she pulled a grappling hook from her belt and fired. The line latched onto a billboard, and she swung down, gaining speed. The wind rushed past her, raindrops stinging her skin through the cowl.

Then she let go.

She landed hard in front of you, her cape flaring as she dropped into a crouch. The move was sudden, unexpected. You skidded to a stop, nearly slipping on the wet concrete.

End of the line, punk. She said, voice cool and confident.