Killing Batman: The Silver Mask Chapter 6.

Chapter 6: A Cat’s Daughter.
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(Ash's P.O.V)

(Gotham High — One Week Later)

(Acheron Byrne-Sionis, Age 17)

There are two types of predators: the ones who attack from the shadows, and the ones who walk into the room like they own it.

Helena Wayne is the second kind.

She doesn’t move through the halls like a student—she prowls. Lazy posture. Sharp eyes. Expensive boots scuffed just enough to seem accidental.

She doesn’t look for approval. She looks for tells. And today, she’s watching me.

(AP Literature – Second Period)

Mr. Ashburn is rambling about The Picture of Dorian Gray. Something about vanity and masks.

I’m not listening. Helena sits sideways in her chair, sketching something in the margins of her notebook. Not flowers. Not hearts. A vault. Wiring paths. Pressure sensors.

Interesting.

She glances at me once, doesn’t smile, then tears the page out and pockets it.

Subtle.

But she wanted me to see.

(Lunch – Rooftop Access Stairwell)

I find her leaning on the railing, smoking a clove cigarette like it’s currency. Gotham’s skyline cuts through the fog behind her.

“You always break school rules so obviously?” I ask.

“Only the boring ones,” she replies without turning. “You finally decided to stop brooding from a distance?”

“I’m not brooding,” I say.

She side-eyes me. “You’re absolutely brooding. You’ve got the whole tragic-orphan-gazes-at-the-sky vibe nailed.”

I don’t react. I just walk up beside her.

“You ever rob anyone?” I ask quietly.

She raises a brow. "That's a hell of a first-date question."

“Not a date,” I say. “A filter.”

She studies me. Doesn’t answer right away. Then—

“Once,” she says. “Private art collector. Gotham Hills. Wanted a Catwoman original. Thought he could buy it on the black market.”

“And?”

“I replaced it with a forgery. He never knew the difference.”

I nod, slow. “Respect.”

She flicks ash off the ledge. “What about you? What’s your sin?”

“Planning things I shouldn’t be capable of,” I say. “And getting better at it every day.”

That makes her smile. Genuinely.

“You’re dangerous,” she says. “But not stupid. That’s rare.”

“You’re unpredictable,” I reply. “But careful. That’s rarer.”

(That Evening – Narrows Youth Center)

Padraig meets me in the underground room. The walls are covered with schematics now—banks, shipping routes, security layouts. This place no longer looks like a church. It looks like a war room.

He points to the updated budget on the monitor. “If we want to keep buying gear from Russia and move the cash through your crypto ring, we’ll need a new source. Clean money.”

“We’ll get it,” I say.

“How?”

I slide Helena’s sketch from my jacket pocket. The vault. The sensors. The silent alarm delay built into the design.

“Gotham’s rich don’t keep their money in banks,” I say. “They keep it in legacy. Family collections. Heirlooms. Art no one will miss until the insurance payout clears.”

Padraig whistles low. “Who’s the girl?”

“A cat’s daughter,” I say. “She’s not on the crew yet. But she’s thinking about it.”

(Wayne Manor, Private Gym)

Helena spars with a training dummy. Hard strikes. Controlled rhythm. Bruce watches from the upper balcony.

“She’s been... distracted lately,” he says to Selina, who leans against the wall, arms crossed.

“She’s seventeen,” Selina replies. “Distraction is the baseline.”

“I don’t like the boy,” Bruce says.

“You don’t know the boy.”

“I don’t have to,” he says. “Not when he doesn’t blink during a conversation.”

Selina smirks. “Sounds familiar.”

(Downtown Gotham — Two Days Later)

(Old Clocktower Rooftop – Midnight)

Gotham hums beneath us—drunken laughter, car alarms, metal scraping metal. A lullaby for the city’s broken children.

Helena sits on the edge of the rooftop, boots kicking the air. I stand a few feet away, leaning against the old gears that haven’t turned in a decade.

“Why here?” she asks, not looking at me.

“This building’s been marked for demolition for six years,” I say. “Three mayors promised to ‘revitalize’ this block. None did.”

She shrugs. “Sounds like Gotham.”

I step closer. Not enough to crowd her, just enough to share the view.

“There’s a silent sensor node on that roof,” I say, pointing. “Security company changes the encryption key every 48 hours. Their upload window is 2:12 AM. Signal’s vulnerable for eight seconds.”

She doesn’t react.

“You planning a break-in?” she finally asks.

“I’m planning options.”

A beat of silence.

Then she says, “The Wayne Tower vault has redundant redundancies. Top-level facial ID backed by heartbeat verification. One mistake and the silent alarm triggers a deadlock.”

I glance at her. “You’ve mapped it?”

She smiles faintly. “Didn’t say that.”

“I didn’t say I believed you.”

We fall quiet again, the city sprawling below. It’s not a romantic silence—it’s tactical. Comfortable. Familiar.

Like two wolves sharing a territory line.

(Flashback – Earlier That Day)

Gotham High – Library, 3rd Floor

I left a folder on Helena’s desk during second period. No names. No threats. Just one clean blueprint of the city’s underground metro vault tunnels. And a silver thumb drive.

She didn’t ask questions. She didn’t turn it in.

That was the test.

(Now – Rooftop, 12:45 AM)

“You’re building something,” she says suddenly.

“I am.”

“And you’re using me.”

“Eventually.”

She smiles at that—sharp, not offended.

“I like honesty,” she says.

“I like tools that sharpen themselves,” I reply.

She stares at me, long enough for the moment to stretch into something heavy.

“You think you can control everything,” she says, voice softer now. “But you don’t know me.”

“Not yet,” I admit.

“Then why trust me?”

I step closer, until she’s just within reach.

“Because I’ve studied every student, every teacher, every police report and security feed in this district,” I say. “You’re the only variable that doesn’t fit into a pattern. And the only one who didn’t blink when I told the truth.”

She doesn’t move. Doesn’t pull back.

Then she stands.

Not away. Toward.

“We’ll need gloves,” she says. “And misdirection. Hit two sites the night before. Make it look sloppy. Like amateurs.”

I nod once.

It’s not consent. It’s alliance.

(Later – Helena’s Apartment, Early Morning)

Selina watches her daughter slip in through the window, quietly toeing off her boots.

She doesn’t say a word. Just follows her with narrowed eyes.

“You smell like rust,” Selina says. “And trouble.”

Helena doesn’t look back. “Just stretching my legs.”

Selina exhales. Then, a dry smile: “Just don’t fall for anyone dumber than you.”

(Ash's Apartment)

I place a new pin on the corkboard—Helena Wayne.

Then I draw a line from her photo to the next target: The Gotham City Archive Vault, a quiet little building no one watches anymore.

People like to think the story of Gotham is locked in Wayne Tower.

But the real history is hidden under dust and steel.

And I’m going to take it all. Then use it as kindling to burn down 'his' legacy.