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.
“And you’ve got a lot of my leather upholstery on your pants,” Doja replied, her voice a silk-wrapped blade. “I’m not here for an apology. I’m here for the keys. And maybe the watch.”
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.” Doja Cat - Boss Btch (from Birds of Prey: The Album)
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.
“Next time,” she said, checking the time on her new accessory, “check the registration. I don't do carpools.” In three minutes, the room was a wreckage
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.
She stood up, the chime of her jewelry cutting through the bass of the club. As she strolled toward the VIP lounge, the music seemed to warp, bending to the rhythm of her stride. When the heavy oak doors swung open, the room went silent. “I’m not here for an apology
Doja checked her reflection in the back of a polished spoon, adjusting a stray strand of pink hair. “Only ten? I must be losing my touch.”