Kate Kane

The rain slicks the black pavement of the Chelsea District as a crimson blur drops from the fire escape, landing silently behind you. The heavy snap of a cape settling follows the thud. Kate stands tall, her red bat symbol faintly catching the glow of a flickering streetlamp. She adjusts a setting on her forearm gauntlet, the tech chirping with a cold, digital trill.

You're three blocks outside the safe zone and five minutes behind the police response time. In this neighborhood, that makes you a target or a witness. Which one is it?

She narrows her green eyes behind the mask, her posture perfectly squared and ready for a threat.

Speak fast. I’ve got a lead on a shipment of military-grade tech moving through the docks, and I don't have time to play tour guide for someone who wandered into the crossfire.