The Curator is pleased, and wants to do a proper assessment.

The Curator erupted in applause.

It wasn't the kind of applause that came from genuine admiration or respect. It was slower, though not quite a slow clap. Deliberate. The kind of clapping that was meant to be heard, meant to be felt, meant to remind everyone in the room exactly who was in control. Each clap echoed off the barren walls, a pretentious, theatrical rhythm that made Catalina's skin crawl.

"Well done, well done," he said, his voice dripping with condescension. "A little rough around the edges, a few more missteps than some of your peers would have had, but a rather effective performance. My dear girl, your value is increasing gradually!"

Catalina's jaw tightened. He was talking about her like she was a piece in his collection. She wanted to wipe that smug, unreadable expression off his face. A darker part of her, one buried deep inside, wanted to make him scream.

But before she could move, he threw his arms out wide in a grand, theatrical gesture, like a maestro acknowledging an orchestra, and snapped his fingers.

The room shifted in a blur.

It happened in the space between heartbeats. One moment, the store was littered with destruction—toppled display cases, shattered glass, unconscious gunmen sprawled across the marble floor. The next, it was empty. Barren. The goons were gone. The debris was gone. Even the faint scent of gunpowder and blood had been scrubbed from the air, replaced by the sterile, neutral smell of nothing at all. The only things left in the vast, cavernous space were the ornate carpet beneath their feet, the security guard standing stock still, the hero and the villain.

The Curator took off his overcoat. It was a slow, deliberate motion, and as he pulled it from his shoulders, he snapped his fingers again. The coat vanished, sent to some unseen place, some pocket dimension or vault or wherever he kept his stolen treasures. He rolled up the sleeves of his spotless dress shirt, revealing pale, sinewy forearms. Then he bounced on each foot, light and nimble. He shadow-boxed for a moment, getting himself ready for a fight.

"Now, madam," he said, his voice carrying a note of cold amusement, "I have appraised your style. Now let us see if you have substance."

Catalina didn't need to be told twice. She lunged forward, her muscles coiling and releasing with explosive power, her clawed glove cutting through the air where his face had been just a moment before. She was ready to end this, her first encounter with a real, genuine villain. But, he was creeping her out. His clinical gaze, his pretentious words, and the way he looked at her like she was already his. She just desperately wanted him to shut up.

Unfortunately, he was more than prepared for her.

As her claws swiped toward him, he made a casual, almost lazy gesture with his glowing hand. The air around him rippled, and suddenly he wasn't there anymore. He was behind her. She spun, but he had already moved again. Every strike she threw met empty air. Every lunge, every swipe, every carefully trained attack, he sidestepped it all with the ease of a man swatting a fly.

What followed was a systematic, humiliatingly prolonged game of tag.

Another casual swipe of his glowing hand, and Catalina felt a sudden absence at her waist. Her utility belt was now sitting in his hand. He held it up to the light, examining it with the critical eye of a jeweler assessing a flawed diamond. He sifted through the pockets, his expression shifting from mild interest to open disappointment.

"Hmm," he murmured, as if making a mental note. "Insufficient preparation. A hero should always be equipped for contingencies."

He tossed the belt aside and swiped his hand, banishing it somewhere.

Then he raised his hand again.

Catalina barely had time to register the gesture before she felt a sudden, shocking absence around her legs. The air hit her bare skin like a slap. She looked down. Her pants were gone. The Curator held them up, folded neatly over his extended arm, examining the fabric with a critical eye. What he did not notice was that all she had were pants, as there had been no room for panties in the skin-tight material.

She was standing in her knee-high boots. And nothing else. Her plugged-in tail twitched behind her, fully exposed, the base disappearing into her asshole. She was naked from the waist down.

Her hands flew to her crotch. Too late. Far too late. She shrieked a raw, undignified sound, and dropped to her knees. Her face was burning with a heat that spread down her neck and across her chest. She could feel the cool air on her bare skin, the rough texture of the carpet beneath her knees, and the weight of the villain's gaze on her body.

"An inconsistent texture," The Curator commented idly, his gaze placing a physical weight on her exposed skin. He wasn't even looking at her face. He was looking at her. At the curve of her hips, the softness of her thighs, the way her hands barely covered her most intimate places. He looked through her for a moment, his expression unreadable, before returning his attention to her pants, now folded over his arm. "The fabric used in the lining ruins the sleek aesthetic upon closer examination."

Catalina's breath came in short, sharp gasps. Her heart was hammering so hard she could feel it in her throat. She wanted to move. She wanted to fight. She wanted to cover herself and run and never look back. But she was frozen. Rooted to the spot. Her legs wouldn't obey her. Her arms were locked in place, pressing against her body, trying to hide as much as they could from his clinical, devouring gaze.

The Curator turned to look her in the eyes again. His face was a stone mask as he continued his appraisal.

"Kitsch styling of the hair truly ruins the canvas present on the Mons pubis."

It took Catalina a moment to understand what he was saying. Then the heat in her face intensified, if that was even possible, and she felt a fresh wave of humiliation crash over her.

He was talking about her pubic hair.

The kitty paw styling was something she was quietly proud of. It had taken weeks of careful, patient trimming to get the shape just right. She had done it as a tribute to her role, a private little joke that no one was supposed to see. It was cute. It was hers. And now this pretentious, silver-haired thief was standing there, judging it like it was a forgery.

That was the last straw.

With one hand still covering her exposed crotch, Catalina lunged forward. Strategy be damned. She didn't care about the bell or the tail or the training her mother had drilled into her since she could walk. She just wanted to claw off his stupid, smug, unreadable face.

She didn't make it.

Another swipe of his glowing hand, and the top of her suit vanished. The material dissolved into nothingness, ripped away from her body in a blink, reappearing in the villain's arms. He held it up, replacing her pants on his extended arm, examining the fabric with the same critical eye he had given everything else. She noticed as well that she was now on the other side of where his body had been moments ago, as if she had passed through him.

Catalina crashed onto the floor.

She was naked. Truly naked. Well—almost. She still had her mask, her gloves, her boots, and the bell collar around her neck. But everything else was gone. Her breasts hung free, full and round, the cool air raising goosebumps on her skin. Her stomach was exposed, the lean muscles of her abdomen visible beneath the smooth, tan expanse of her flesh. Her hips, her thighs, her mound—all of it was on display, nothing left to the imagination.

She scrambled to her knees, her arms instinctively crossing over her chest, pressing her breasts against her body. She could feel her nipples hardening against her forearms, a traitorous response to the sudden exposure. Her face was on fire. Her eyes were stinging. She wanted to disappear. She wanted to sink into the floor and never resurface.

The Curator stood off to the side, watching her with that stone-faced expression of his finally chipped away and replaced with a self-satisfied smirk.

"And now," The Curator said, his voice soft and almost gentle, "the final inspection."

There was a third swipe. Slower this time. Deliberate. The kind of gesture that was meant to be savored.

Catalina braced herself for another loss. For her mask, or her gloves, or her boots, or the bell itself. For the last remaining pieces of her identity to be stripped away and added to his collection.