Chapter 15 : Cat and Mouse
April 2016 — CatCo Worldwide Media
Two weeks of medical leave gave my ribs time to knit.
The accelerated healing was real—what should have taken months compressed into days. By the time I returned to CatCo, the only evidence of my encounter with Non was a faint tenderness when I twisted wrong and a new appreciation for protective vests.
"Winslow."
Cat Grant's voice stopped me three steps from my desk. She stood in the doorway of her office, martini in hand despite the morning hour, studying me with the intensity of a predator evaluating prey.
"Ms. Grant."
"You look different."
Careful.
"New workout routine. Finally taking those company wellness initiatives seriously."
"Mmm." She didn't believe me for a second. "Walk with me."
It wasn't a request.
We strolled through the bullpen, Cat pointing out deficiencies in employee posture and desk organization while I struggled to figure out her angle. Cat Grant never did anything without a reason. This performance was for my benefit.
"The Supergirl story is evolving," she said eventually. "Have you noticed?"
"I've been out for two weeks."
"The internet doesn't take vacations, Winton." She stopped by the conference room windows, gazing out at National City. "Footage has surfaced. Poor quality, but interesting. Supergirl fighting alongside someone. A figure who deflects attacks, redirects energy. Speculation is running wild."
My throat tightened. "People see what they want to see."
"Do they?" She turned to face me fully. "I've built an empire on seeing what others miss. Patterns, connections, the truth beneath the headlines." Her eyes held mine. "You've changed in the last few months. More confident. More present. And every time something significant happens to Supergirl, you disappear for days afterward."
She knows. Or suspects enough that it doesn't matter.
"Ms. Grant—"
"I'm not asking you to confirm anything." She took a sip of her martini. "I'm telling you that I see things. And I'm telling you that whatever you're doing, whatever you've become—you should do it better. The blurry footage won't stay blurry forever."
I stood very still.
"Do you understand what I'm saying, Winslow?"
"I think so."
"Good." She turned back toward her office. "Oh, and the story angle you suggested before your 'wellness leave'? The piece on Supergirl's growing confidence? Run it. It's good work."
She walked away without another word.
CatCo Bullpen — Later That Day
Kara found me at my desk, grinning like an idiot.
"What's wrong with your face?"
"Cat Grant complimented me."
"No."
"She did. Called my story angle 'good work.' In front of witnesses." I leaned back in my chair, savoring the moment. "Mark the calendar. Alert the press. Hell has frozen over."
Kara laughed, dropping into the chair beside me. "I told you she'd notice eventually."
"She noticed more than that." I lowered my voice. "She knows something's up. Not the specifics, but... she's Cat Grant. She sees patterns."
"Should we be worried?"
"I don't think so. She seemed more... protective? Like she's warning me to be careful rather than threatening to expose anything."
"That's surprisingly human of her."
"Don't let her hear you say that. She has a reputation to maintain."
We sat in comfortable silence for a moment. The bullpen hummed with activity around us—phones ringing, keyboards clicking, the background noise of a media empire in motion.
"I missed this," I said quietly. "Being normal. Having lunch at my desk, complaining about deadlines, pretending the biggest problem in my life is a stubborn printer jam."
"Is that what you want? Normal?"
"No." I met her eyes. "But it's nice to visit sometimes."
National City Streets — That Evening
The tabloid rack caught my eye on the walk home.
SUPERGIRL'S MYSTERY MAN? The headline screamed in bold red letters, above a photo so blurry it could have been anyone. Could have been a shadow, or a glitch, or a trick of the light.
But it wasn't.
That blur was me. Deflecting debris during a fight two weeks ago. Someone had been filming when they should have been running.
I bought the paper, stuffed it in my bag, and kept walking.
The secret identity—if I could even call it that—was becoming harder to maintain. Every fight left traces. Every public appearance risked exposure. Eventually, someone would get clear footage. Eventually, the blur would have a face.
Then what?
My phone buzzed. Alex.
DEO picked up unusual activity at the prison. Thought you should know.
The prison. Where my father—the Toyman—had been locked away for years.
What kind of activity?
Communications. Someone's been sending him messages. Encrypted, but we cracked them.
And?
A pause. Then:
He knows about you. The footage, the speculation. He's been following everything.
I stopped walking.
He wants to see you, Winn.
The tabloid in my bag suddenly felt heavier.
Meet tomorrow morning. 7 AM. We'll discuss options.
I put the phone away and stared at the sky. Somewhere up there, Kara was probably patrolling, protecting the city that was slowly learning about the figure who fought beside her.
And somewhere in a cell forty miles away, my father was watching.
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