Doja didn’t flinch. She leaned back against a marble pillar, a wicked grin spreading across her face. “I’m a bitch, I’m a boss,” she hummed, the lyrics a low-frequency threat. “I’m a shine and I’m a gloss.”

The enforcer, a man built like a brick wall in a silk suit, looked up from his cards. “You’ve got a lot of nerve coming here, girlie.”

The neon lights of Gotham didn’t just glow; they bled into the puddles of the Diamond District. Inside ‘The Gilded Cage,’ the air smelled of expensive gin and impending property damage.

Doja sat at the velvet-drenched bar, her boots resting on a table that cost more than a mid-sized sedan. She wasn't here for the drinks. She was here because Roman Sionis’s lead enforcer had forgotten to say "please" when he’d tried to “requisition” her getaway car.

In three minutes, the room was a wreckage of broken mahogany and unconscious henchmen. Doja stood over the enforcer, who was now clutching his ribs on the Persian rug.

She walked out of the club, the heavy beat of the music resuming as if the building itself was exhaling in relief. Outside, the engine of her ride roared to life, a sleek, predatory growl that echoed off the skyscrapers. She didn't look back. Bosses never do.