Gloved hands moved silently across the spines of a row of scrapbooks—each one neatly labeled, meticulously placed on a dark mahogany shelf.

One was selected.

It was drawn down slowly, reverently, and laid open beneath the warm cone of a desk lamp’s light.

The fingers—precise and surgical—traced a new addition to the collection: a freshly cut article, crisp and centered on the page.

Toronto’s Newest Vigilante Strikes Again! Is the Vulpes Myth or Menace?

The gloved hand lingered on the headline before moving downward, passing across artists’ renditions: a feral fox-woman with glowing eyes, a sleek silhouette in urban armor of red and orange, a monstrous figure stalking alleyways beneath a crescent moon.

There was even a blurry, indistinct photo—taken from a rooftop security cam, maybe. Just enough to suggest shape and movement. Not enough to give anything away.

Every city of Toronto’s size had its heroes. Its villains. Its masks.

But this one… she was different, wasn’t she?

Some called her a thief. Others, a menace. An unhinged vigilante, a masked anarchist, an agent of chaos dressed in vermillion and vengeance.

Yet the opinions were starting to shift, weren’t they?

The page was turned.

Lyra Sinclair Goes Mad! Escapes Police Only to Be Brought Down by the Vermillion Vulpes!

Another.

Madness at Macentyre Systems: Acclaimed Doctor Endangers Hundreds—Vulpes Intervenes!

There were dozens like it. Stories of corruption exposed. Lives saved. Crooked cops cuffed. Mobsters strung up like trophies for the city to find.

And not once—not once—was there mention of homicide.

She fought. But she didn’t kill.

Not yet.

The hand stilled.

A voice—low, rasping, not spoken aloud but vibrating inside the skull—mused:

Such potential...

Wasted.

All that fire, all that artistry... shackled by inhibition.

The hand turned one more page—slowly, lovingly—pausing on a hand-drawn charcoal sketch clipped from an editorial. It showed the Vulpes crouched atop a rooftop like a myth come to life, cloak fluttering in the wind.

Yes.

She was special.

But not finished.

Not yet.

The scrapbook was closed with careful precision and returned to its place on the shelf—its contents secured, catalogued, preserved.

Then those same gloved hands turned and reached down, opening a low filing cabinet beneath the desk. The metal drawer slid out soundlessly on well-oiled tracks.

From within, a single item was withdrawn: A brown paper folder, worn at the edges but well-kept.

Scrawled across the front in neat, block lettering: BENOIT, OLIVIA.

She hadn’t always warranted her own file.

But once it became knowledge to them that Detective Benoit had been assigned to the Bloodletter case… it had been necessary.

Not just prudent.

Required.

The folder was placed on the desk and opened with reverent slowness.

Inside: a series of articles, photos, printouts, and notes—each clipped, stamped, and labeled.

Headlines like:

RCMP’s Rising Star Cracks Triple Homicide Cold Case in Montreal

Decorated Officer Risks Life to Save Civilian Hostages

The Shield and the Scalpel: Olivia Benoit and the Rise of Forensic Policing

She was more than a detective. She was a figure. A narrative. A presence.

If Vulpes was myth—shadows and speculation—Benoit was certainty. A known quantity. Someone the public could point to and say "She’s real. She saved someone I know."

A hero, yes.

But not the caped kind.

Not the kind who wore masks.

Not the kind who hid.

And that made her dangerous in a different way.

She would not be seduced by ambiguity. She would not be deterred by spectacle.

She was a force of law, not legend.

And she was hunting him.

The fingers lingered on a photo—Benoit mid-action, face tight with focus, crouched beside a crime scene perimeter line.

Beautiful, in a cold, precise way. Clean. Controlled. Relentless.

She would make an exceptional subject.

Or, perhaps... an even better audience.

The folder was returned to its drawer with the same careful precision as the scrapbook before it. Everything in its place. Every record kept.

The drawer closed with a soft click.

Then came the creak of an old desk chair, the weight of a body settling into place. The figure leaned back slowly, the light from the desk lamp casting long shadows across the hardwood floor.

A red fox. A blue hound.

Neither was the reason for his work. Not truly. Not yet.

But both... intrigued him.

The Fox—wild, elusive, theatrical. Her myth danced on rooftops and prowled through police reports like a ghost in vermilion.

The Hound—steadfast, methodical, controlled. No mask, no myth. Just relentless pursuit.

They weren’t his focus.

But they were worthy of attention.

And the Fox, he suspected, was already on his trail. How could she not be?

The thought brought a slow exhale through his nose.

He imagined it then: A rain-slicked alley. Steam rising from gutters. Her—the Vulpes—cornered, self-righteous, cloaked in moral certainty.

And then... his blade.

Sinking through red fabric, parting muscle, severing breath. The way her eyes would widen. Then dim. The collapse of her myth in his hands.

His breath hitched. His heart stuttered once.

Beautiful. Clean. Final. Absolute.

But not yet.

No, not yet.

The performance wasn’t ready.

But soon.

***

Coraline and Martha left the Vanhorn Manor with the easy rhythm of two women who had long mastered the art of saying everything without saying anything.

Their conversation, on the surface, was all pleasant trivialities: the weather, vacation plans that would never happen, some thinly veiled gossip about an old classmate who married into politics and apparently lost her personality along the way.

Safe. Boring. Palatable.

The kind of talk that wouldn’t ripple through the Vanhorn estate, wouldn’t reach the ears of staff or brothers or parents. It was how they always did it—Martha’s house rules.

Because this was her theater.

Martha smiled with just the right amount of disinterest. Her tone was practiced, even her laugh—light, effortless, and so very not her. Coraline had seen her real laugh, the one that snorted and hiccupped when she was climbing a tree or dancing barefoot in a kitchen with a bottle of wine.

This wasn’t that laugh.

This was a performance. And Coraline played her part, too—polished, clever, impeccably dressed. The girl the Vanhorns approved of. The one who wore tailored blazers and gave good interviews.

But underneath that careful image, something else stirred. Something unsaid.

Coraline didn’t press. She never did.

She understood what Martha had never said aloud: that being yourself in the Vanhorn household wasn’t a virtue—it was a liability.

Whether Martha stayed quiet to avoid a fight or because some part of her still wanted her family’s approval, Coraline didn’t know. Maybe both.

What she did know was this:

The further they got from the manor—the less it loomed in the rearview mirror—the more Martha would become herself again.

And Coraline? She was waiting for that shift, that first breath of freedom, when the real Martha Vanhorn would re-emerge from behind the polite smiles and expensive pearls.

Because that was the Martha she missed. And after everything, it was the one she still needed.

Once they were in Coraline’s Mustang and the Vanhorn estate had finally disappeared in the rearview mirror—its looming spires swallowed by trees and distance—the shift began.

Coraline didn’t need to look to know it was happening. She could feel it. Like pressure easing from the air. Like a bird stretching wings after too long in a too-small cage.

Martha didn’t say anything at first. She just twisted in her seat, climbed over the console with the grace of someone who’d clearly done this before, and disappeared into the back seat where her overnight bag was waiting.

There was a rustle of fabric. The dull thunk of heels being kicked off. The soft zip of a duffle bag.

Coraline smirked as she drove. “Tell me you didn’t change in the back of my car again.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” came the dry reply—muffled and absolutely a lie.

A moment later, Martha slipped back into the passenger seat. Gone was the preened porcelain doll her family adored. In her place sat the real Martha Vanhorn—in faded khaki shorts, scuffed hiking boots, and a vintage tee from a punk band her parents would have dismissed as urban noise.

She undid the bun from her dark hair and shook it loose, the strands falling wild around her face like a rebellion let loose.

“God, I was dying to get out of that blouse and those heels,” Martha groaned, finally leaning back like someone who could breathe again.”

Coraline laughed softly, turning onto the highway. “You always wait until we’re past the tree line.”

“It’s the safety buffer,” Martha said with a shrug. “Once I cross that threshold, I stop being their perfect daughter and get to be... me.”

Coraline glanced at her and smiled, warm and knowing. “I missed you.”

Martha didn’t answer right away. She just leaned her head back, rolled down the window, and let the wind whip through her hair like it was washing away weeks of tension.

“I missed me too.”

They sat in silence for a little while—just the hum of the Mustang's engine, the rush of wind through the window, and the rhythmic blur of countryside sliding past.

It was Martha who finally broke it.

“How have you been holding up since Alice… you know.”

Coraline’s hands tightened slightly on the wheel. That question had been hanging in the air between them since the moment she pulled into the drive, but she hadn’t expected Martha to be the one to say it aloud first. Then again, she should have. Martha never was one to pull punches—not once the mask of the dutiful Vanhorn heiress was off.

“I’ve been better,” Coraline admitted, her voice low, steady. “But I pulled some strings. Got myself assigned as Alice’s lawyer.”

Martha nodded slowly, then rolled her window down the rest of the way. The warm spring wind kissed her skin, pulling strands of bronze hair across her cheek as she let her arm drift lazily out into the breeze.

“If anyone can help her, it’s you,” Martha said after a beat. “You’re the only lawyer I’d trust as far as I can throw them.”

Coraline let out a soft, humorless laugh. “That bad, huh?”

“Please,” Martha snorted. “I grew up in a house where lawyers were like wallpaper. Fancy, expensive, and always covering up something ugly underneath.”

“Charming.”

“But you?” Martha looked over, a flicker of something sincere in her eyes. “You always gave a damn. Even when it hurt. Even when it wasn’t smart. That’s rare, Cor.”

There was a long pause. Coraline didn’t respond right away—not because she didn’t have anything to say, but because her throat had tightened with emotion.

She’d needed to hear that more than she realized.

“What happened to Alice… well, it shook a lot of us,” Martha admitted, her tone quieter now, more introspective as the wind tugged at her freed hair. “Jason took it about as well as you’d expect. He’s throwing the full weight of Wright Tech behind making sure her inventions remain hers—locking the patents down, freezing access, trying to keep them from being torn apart by vultures.”

Coraline nodded, eyes on the road. “I figured. Jason’s not the type to let something like this slide. We both saw it back in college—he might’ve never said it, but the guy was head over heels for Alice. They were both just too brilliant and too damn awkward to do anything about it.”

Martha gave a short, amused breath. “Yeah. You could always tell in the little ways, though. The late-night coffee runs. The way he never missed one of her presentations. He adored her. Still does, I think.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” Coraline said. “I’ve got a strong suspicion he’s already hired a few private investigators and a legal team just to keep pressure on the Macentyres. Wouldn’t shock me if he’s pushing charges up to and including corporate espionage, human rights violations, hell—probably high treason if he can make it fit.”

Martha leaned back against her seat, gazing out the window at the passing landscape. “Well, if you’re on the case, and Jason figures it out, you can expect some backup. Whatever his father lets him deploy from Wright Tech, it’ll be there. Jason’s many things, but letting go of people he cares about isn’t one of them.”

Coraline said nothing at first, but the corner of her mouth twitched, just slightly. Jason Wright had always carried more weight on his shoulders than he let on. Even back in university, he was already tinkering with impossible tech, trying to live up a legacy while defining it as his own. Now he was throwing everything he had into saving what remained of Alice..

“Yeah,” Martha said again, quieter this time as the wind died with the closing of the window. “Once her DID became public, people… well, people reacted like idiots. Like they always do when it comes to mental health.”

Coraline’s hands tightened slightly on the steering wheel.

She didn’t respond at first, because there wasn’t much to say. It was the truth. A sad, infuriating truth.

“They see the headlines,” Coraline finally muttered, “and think that’s the whole story. They don’t want to understand—don’t try to. It’s easier to call someone crazy than to admit society failed them. Easier to say 'villain' than to ask what kind of world pushes a person to break.”

Martha’s eyes lingered on the trees flashing past the window.

“She wasn’t a monster,” Martha said firmly, her voice suddenly edged with the same anger Coraline felt. “Wonderland… maybe. But Alice?” She shook her head. “Alice was just brilliant and broken. And no one gave a damn until it was too late.”

Coraline nodded. “I’m going to make everyone see that in the courtroom or die trying.”

Martha glanced over and gave her a look—equal parts pride and pain.

“You always were the brave one,” she said. “The rest of us got scared, or angry, or ran. But not you.”

Coraline didn’t answer right away. She kept her eyes on the road, her jaw tense.

“I was scared too,” she finally said. “Still am. But I’d rather fight scared than do nothing at all.”

And for a few moments, they drove in silence. Two women in a red Mustang, both of them haunted, both of them grieving, and both of them still fighting—for Alice, and maybe for themselves too.

A few minutes of companionable silence passed before Martha changed the subject—something they both needed.

“So,” she said, watching the trees blur past outside the window, “how was your trip to Montreal?”

Coraline hesitated. She couldn’t tell Martha about her secret identity or the true events that had unfolded. Instead, she offered a carefully curated truth. “It was... an experience. Highlight was meeting Laura Locke. She’s not too bad—for a reporter.”

Martha arched a knowing brow. “Not too bad, huh? Beautiful, well-put-together brunette with a reputation for dragging corruption into the daylight no matter the cost…”

Coraline gave her a sidelong glance. “You know a suspicious amount about a reporter from Quebec, Martha.”

Martha just shrugged with a grin. “She writes good work. I read her interview with you a few days ago and poked around a little out of curiosity. The woman practically screams your type. You ask her out?”

Coraline huffed, hoping Martha didn’t notice the slight flush creeping into her cheeks—or the tips of her ears. “No. Our relationship is purely professional. Well… not yet, anyway.”

Martha snickered. “Called it. I know the kind of girls you like, Cora—and Laura Locke reads as Coraline-coded the second I read her bio.”

Coraline took a slow breath to steady herself. Martha knew her too well—knew the kinds of men and women she was drawn to, the blend of fire and conviction that caught her attention every time. And she wasn’t wrong. Laura Locke had already proven to be something rare: a friend she could trust, someone the Vulpes could rely on, and someone Coraline might just be able to build something with—both in and out of the mask. That kind of alignment was uncommon, precious even, especially in their world.

Martha smirked and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, her voice teasing but warm. “Well, don’t wait too long. I know how damn picky you are, Cora, and it’s not every day someone actually clears that impossible bar you set.”

"Anyway!" Coraline said with a bit more force than necessary, a flush still faintly coloring her cheeks. She flicked on the turn signal and deliberately shifted the conversation. “We’ve got a full day ahead of us, and I, for one, vote we spend it doing anything other than dissecting my love life. Rock climbing, hiking, that little farmer’s market that sells the best ice cream in Niagara... ring any bells?”

Martha grinned like a cat who had just finished playing with its prey. It was the smile of someone who knew exactly how to press buttons—but also when to back off. “Fine, fine,” she said with mock surrender, stretching lazily in her seat like she had just won a small but meaningful victory. “A day of fresh air, sore muscles, and overpriced artisanal dairy. Sounds perfect. Honestly, we could both use it—with the Alice case, life, and... whatever the hell is going on with the Bloor Street Bloodletter.”

Coraline’s smile faded a little, her hands tightening on the wheel. The very real shadow that lingered over her city wasn’t something easily pushed aside, even on a day meant for healing. “Yeah,” she said softly. “Let’s hope the RCMP finds whoever’s behind it before they hurt anyone else.”

Martha looked out the window again, her tone thoughtful. “The RCMP... or the Vulpes.” She paused, then added with quiet certainty, “My money’s still on the fox.”

There was a flicker of tension in Coraline’s jaw, but she said nothing. She simply stared at the road ahead, the Mustang’s tires humming against the sun-warmed pavement. Her silence said more than agreement.

The Mustang rumbled onward, cutting through the winding roads of Niagara’s wine country. Orchards and vineyards blurred past the windows in streaks of green and gold. And for a little while, the weight of the world fell away, replaced by the simple pleasure of a Sunday drive, old memories, and the fleeting illusion that everything was going to be okay. If only for a day.