The last few days had been spent in quiet, focused motion—meticulous removal of any remaining shred of physical evidence that might tie Laura to the Madame Minuit persona, and the final preparation for the plan she and Coraline had set into motion.

Now, on the last day, the subway safehouse was quiet again. The city buzzed far above them, unaware of the storm brewing just beneath the surface.

Laura stood before the armor stand, hands drifting across the sleek lines of the Vulpes suit. Her fingertips traced the segmented chest plate, the reinforced weave of the gauntlets. She glanced over her shoulder at Coraline, brow raised.

“You’re just giving me your body armor?”

Coraline nodded once. “Consider it a gift—to help you build your new identity. A foundation.” She leaned against the metal support beam casually, arms crossed. “I’ve also scouted out a location for a new base of operations here in Montreal. When I get back home, I’ll have my tech guy help you set things up the way you like.”

“John?” Laura asked.

Coraline smiled faintly. “Yeah. John’s good people. I trust him with my life.”

“If you trust him,” Laura said softly, “I trust him.”

She turned back to the armor and slowly unfastened the cape.

Madame Minuit had worn a cape.

Laura decided she didn’t want one.

“I’m not sure how to repay you for this,” she added quietly, holding the fabric for a moment before folding it aside.

Coraline stepped forward and offered her a can of matte black spray paint. “Repay me by using it. By staying in the fight. Keep pushing here in Montreal. Keep them on their heels.”

Laura knelt beside the armor and started working, steady and deliberate, coating the vivid orange and red sections with fresh black. The color shift was stark—symbolic. A closing chapter.

“And we agree to a free exchange of intel, right?” Laura asked, still spraying. “Help each other out? Like some kind of vigilante network?”

Coraline grinned. “Or like some kind of friends.”

She held up her helmet—now painted black and silver. The dull grey wig she'd swapped in caught the dim light like fading moonlight.

Laura paused her painting, her smile small but sincere. “I think I like the sound of that.”

Coraline slowly lowered the helmeted cowl onto the armor stand. It clicked into place with a quiet finality, and for a moment, both women just stood there—silent, still—taking it in.

The armor looked transformed. Gone were the fiery tones of the original Vulpes suit. In their place: matte blacks, urban camo greys, and a sleek, calculated edge. The vulpine ears remained—sharp, proud—and from the back flowed a mane of synthetic grey hair like moonlight through smoke.

It was still a fox.

But it was no longer Coraline’s.

“So,” Coraline asked, tilting her head, “what are you going to call yourself?”

Laura didn’t answer right away.

She looked at the suit, really looked at it—at what it now represented. Not what Jean had made her into. Not the partner he’d molded and weaponized.

But what she had chosen.

Someone new.

Someone forged in betrayal but tempered in purpose.

She thought of Coraline. Of the trust they’d built. Of the second chance she'd been given—not just to fight, but to define herself on her own terms.

And then she smiled.

“Le Renard Noir.”

Coraline’s lips curved into something between pride and approval. “The Black Fox,” she said quietly. “Nice.”

Laura’s smile widened. “Let’s see how Montreal’s underworld likes her.”

Laura’s gaze shifted to the other armor stand—the one bearing her old Madame Minuit costume.

She rolled her shoulder, let out a slow breath, and gave a small, dangerous grin.

“Time to suit up one last time, then…”

***

It was a grey morning in Montreal.

The clouds hung thick and low, muting the sky and dulling the edges of the city. A chill wind carried the scent of wet concrete and fresh tension.

Jean climbed slowly up to the rooftop, each step deliberate, his coat rustling with movement. The sniper rifle waited for him, perfectly placed, precisely calibrated. Familiar. Comforting.

This wasn’t the first time he’d handled a cleanup job for the Italians. He felt no guilt over it—no hesitation. He’d long ago convinced himself that killing other criminals was more service than sin. If it earned him favor, or cash, or kept his position secure, well… that was just good business.

He adjusted his mask and crouched low, slipping into position behind the rifle, letting the scope sweep the street below.

A crowd had gathered. Media. Police. A prisoner transfer.

Jean’s stomach tightened slightly when he spotted the press corps—and the unmistakable silhouette of her. Laura. Her brunette hair pulled back, press badge swinging gently from her lanyard.

He grimaced. Of course she was here.

Still, it changed nothing. Alphonso Ruso was a liability. Dead weight. And today, Jean had no choice.

He steadied himself. Slowed his breathing. Focused.

The police van had arrived. The officers were moving into position. Any minute now, they’d bring Ruso out for transport. All Jean had to do was line up the shot and—

He heard it.

Soft movement behind him. Subtle. Barely perceptible.

But not to him.

Jean dropped the rifle, instinct kicking in. He drew his sidearm in a smooth, practiced motion and spun on his heel to face the intruder.

And froze.

It was her.

Madame Minuit stood across the roof, cloaked in shadow and matte-grey and blue armor—cape flowing slightly in the rooftop wind. Her presence was impossible. Laura was down there, not here. His mind reeled, trying to resolve the contradiction.

How?

But that brief flicker of confusion was all she needed.

With a smooth, precise flick of her wrist, she sent a small bolas spinning through the air—just like she had countless times before. It struck his wrist dead-on, knocking the pistol free and sending it skittering across the rooftop.

Jean stared, heart pounding, still trying to understand.

Then Madame Minuit spoke.

One line.

Cold. Final.

“It’s over, Jean.”

And he knew the voice.

The Vulpes.

***

Down below, right on cue, Laura Locke lifted her camera. She turned it toward the rooftop, framed her shot with calm precision, and clicked off a series of crisp, clean photos.

From the street level, there it was—clear as day.

Monsieur and Madame Minuit.

Together.

On the rooftop.

And Laura Locke, the journalist, was here with the press. Dozens of witnesses. Cameras rolling. Every major outlet covering the transfer.

Laura didn’t miss a beat.

She gasped loudly and pointed. “Oh my god—is that the Midnights?”

The press corps surged to life. Cameras pivoted. Microphones rose. Shutters clicked in rapid fire. The rooftop above them became the most watched place in Montreal for a brief, perfect moment.

And just like that—

There was evidence.

Laura Locke and Madame Minuit were two different people.

And Jean’s lies?

They were about to fall like the house of cards they’d always been.

***

Jean’s rage boiled over the instant he heard her voice.

Her voice.

That voice did more than taunt him—it betrayed him. It shattered the illusion of control he’d spent so long constructing. And he snapped.

With a furious snarl, he lunged.

But Vulpes had been ready. Laura had taught her how he reacted in a fight—how he moved, how he struck, what openings he favored when he was angry. He wasn’t just some brute in a mask. Jean-Claude Bellrose had trained with the same kind of obsessive discipline she had. He was taller, stronger, and had a reach advantage. In a straight-up brawl between equals, he’d win on paper.

But Coraline Penrose didn’t fight on paper.

She fought to win.

That’s why she and Laura had spent the last three days dissecting his methods, his rhythms, his tells—over coffee, over blueprints, over bruises. They'd broken him down, piece by piece, so when this moment came?

She could do what she did best.

Outfox the enemy.

Jean’s attack came fast—anger fueling every strike, but honed through years of experience. His form was clean. Dangerous. Precise.

But Coraline fell back half a step, letting him overextend, letting him think she was retreating.

She wasn’t.

She was inviting him in.

Jean closed the distance, and that was exactly what she wanted.

Close was where Defendu thrived—fast, ruthless, efficient.

As his momentum carried him forward, Vulpes slammed her knee into his stomach with brutal force. He grunted, but didn’t stop. She pivoted, letting her momentum swing into a tight hook—her weighted glove slamming hard into his solar plexus.

The blow staggered him, but he kept moving, pushing through the pain, through the armor. He was built for endurance, used to muscling through injuries like a bull charging through a fence.

But Coraline had struck first.

And more importantly—she’d set the tempo.

This wasn’t going to be a slugfest.

This was going to be her fight.

She smirked under her mask.

“Let’s dance, Jean,” she murmured. “See if you can keep up.”

Jean recovered quickly, dropping into a tight defensive stance. His fists came up, chin tucked, and then he surged forward—controlled fury in motion.

A series of sharp jabs snapped through the air, each one probing, testing, hunting for an opening.

Vulpes moved with him, ducking and weaving. Her arms soaked up a few glancing blows, her ribs protested with each twist. She was still sore from her fight with Odette—the bruises from that meat-packing hellhole hadn’t faded yet. But pain was fuel. She breathed through it, focused.

And Jean? Jean wasn’t at full strength either.

He’d taken a beating from O’Hara and his axe handle. And Laura—bless her sharp-eyed, sharpshooting self—had made damn sure Coraline knew exactly where the bruises were hiding beneath that armored suit. Left shoulder. Lower ribs. Right thigh.

Vulpes absorbed a glancing jab to her side, rolled with the momentum, then stepped in fast—too fast for Jean to brace.

And drove her fist hard into his left shoulder.

Right where the axe handle had landed.

The effect was instant.

Jean grunted, the force knocking him half a step back as his entire left side faltered. Pain shot through his expression, brief but telling. His stance slipped—barely—but enough.

She didn’t hesitate.

“That one’s from Madame Minuit,” she said coldly, slipping to his right.

“And this one—”

She spun and drove her elbow into his bruised ribs.

“—is from me.”

Jean staggered, but stayed upright, breathing harder now.

Vulpes reset her stance, heart steady, eyes locked.

She could see it in him.

He was starting to realize—

This wasn’t just a fight.

It was a reckoning.

Jean snarled—a raw, guttural sound of frustration and violence—and his hands snapped down to his utility belt.

A flash of metal caught the light as his fingers locked around a pair of polished brass knuckles.

Just as she and Laura had predicted.

But that didn’t make it less dangerous.

In fact, it made him twice as lethal.

Because now he had a force multiplier—and he was still an enemy just as trained, just as skilled, and just as stubbornly dedicated to the fight as Vulpes was.

Only now, he wasn’t holding back.

He lunged again, this time more aggressive, and Vulpes braced herself.

His first swing came up from below—an uppercut arcing toward her jaw with bone-breaking promise.

She reeled back just in time.

But it was a feint.

His real strike came from the left, a brutal hook that clipped her just under the collarbone with the full weight of the brass knuckles behind it.

Even through her reinforced body armor, the impact cracked.

Pain lanced down her shoulder like lightning, and she staggered, biting back a hiss. The armor absorbed some of it—but not all.

Jean pressed forward, eyes alight with savage intent.

He thought he’d found his rhythm.

Vulpes let him believe it.

Even as her collarbone throbbed and her breath hitched, she kept her stance steady, her footing sharp.

And if Jean thought a little pain was going to stop her—

He was still underestimating what a fox could do when cornered.

Vulpes struck back with a whip-fast snap kick, her boot slicing the air toward Jean’s temple.

He reacted—just barely—throwing up his forearm to block it.

The impact echoed sharp against bone and reinforced plating.

But Vulpes smirked behind the mask.

Feints went both ways.

Because what Jean didn’t know—what he never even considered—was that this fight had been rigged from the moment he’d left his kit unattended.

Laura had sabotaged him.

In quiet moments, in those precious hours while he thought she was playing the dutiful partner, she had been taking him apart—plate by plate, stitch by stitch. A few armor inserts missing. Just enough reinforcement peeled away. And his utility belt?

Tampered.

Sabotaged with surgical precision.

So when Coraline’s hand snapped down to her belt and came back up holding a compact, high-voltage stun gun, Jean didn’t flinch—at first.

He expected his armor to dull the shock. To bleed off the voltage like it always had.

But this time—

There was no insulation.

No rubber.

No resistance.

The prongs slammed into the meat of his right bicep, and the stun gun screamed to life, electricity surging straight through the muscle and nerve.

Jean howled—the cry torn from his throat unbidden, his entire arm seizing violently as his fingers spasmed and dropped the brass knuckles.

He stumbled back, barely catching himself, breath ragged, eyes wide with stunned rage.

And Coraline?

She straightened slowly, stun gun still humming in her hand, stance relaxed now.

Jean snarled, a raw, animal sound torn from deep in his throat.

Adrenaline and rage surged through him in equal measure. His right arm still twitched from the stun, but fury pushed him forward.

“You’re a dead woman, Vulpes!”

He reached for his last resort—the combat knife holstered at his hip. Reliable. Lethal. Familiar.

He yanked it free with practiced speed—

Only to come up with an empty handle.

No blade.

Just a clean break where steel should’ve been.

For a heartbeat, he stared at it in stunned disbelief.

Then his eyes snapped up—and saw Coraline smirking.

“Your ex-girlfriend,” she said coolly, flicking the detached blade from her belt and tossing it to the rooftop floor with a clang.

“She says fuck you, Jean.”

At that moment, everything came crashing down on Jean.

The truth hit like a freight train.

They knew.

They’d always known.

Laura—his Laura—had betrayed him. Played him. Undone everything he thought he’d built, everything he’d told himself he was doing for her, for them, for the city.

The illusions he'd clung to crumbled in an instant.

The empty knife handle slipped from his fingers and clattered against the rooftop.

He stood frozen for only a breath—but it was all fury and fire now. Pride shattered. Heart hollow. No strategy. No precision.

Only rage.

With a guttural yell, Jean forced his battered body forward, every muscle screaming as he charged through the pain.

“You turned her against me, you bitch!” he howled.

But Coraline didn’t flinch.

She welcomed it.

Because this wasn’t about power anymore. This wasn’t even about justice.

This was about ending it.

On her terms.

Jean’s charge was reckless—clumsy, wild, and blind.

Driven by pure emotion, by betrayal, by wounded pride. No form. No defense. Just fury given legs.

And Vulpes?

She saw everything.

Every flaw. Every tell. Every desperate swing.

She let him come, let him close the gap again—but this time, she didn’t fall back.

She stepped in.

And she tore him apart.

Every strike she threw was targeted, calculated, brutal. She didn’t waste a single blow. Her fists landed with surgical precision, hammering into every compromised piece of armor Laura had told her about—every plate that had been loosened, every inch left exposed.

She knew where his bruises were.

She knew how hard to hit to make them count.

And with every jab, every hook, every slam of her fists, the lead powder woven into her gauntlets did its job—turning each punch into a hammer blow.

Jean grunted, stumbled, tried to throw a counter—but he was too slow now, too rattled. Pain staggered him. The air was leaving his lungs faster than he could draw it back in.

Another punch—dead center on his left ribs. He folded slightly.

An uppercut—right to the bruised shoulder. He staggered.

And then a final, twisting elbow—straight across the jaw.

He collapsed to one knee.

Gasping.

Bleeding.

Broken.

Coraline stood over him, her breath steady, her gloves dusted grey at the knuckles.

It was over.

And this time?

He knew it.

Jean wheezed on one knee, blood dripping from his lip, pain painting his every breath.

But he wasn’t finished.

Not yet.

With a guttural cry, he gathered the last reserves of his strength and surged upward, one final charge born of ego and desperation.

And Vulpes?

She let him.

She stood tall. Still. Waiting.

Because she already knew how this was going to end.

As Jean lunged forward, she stepped into him—fast, ruthless.

Her knee came up in one clean, brutal motion.

Crack.

Direct hit—groin, full force.

Jean let out a strangled noise—less a scream than a gasp from hell itself—as he crumpled forward, his momentum dying in an instant.

He dropped hard to the rooftop, curled in on himself, broken in body and pride.

Vulpes stood over him, expression hard beneath the mask.

And as he writhed, her voice cut through the morning air like a blade of ice.

“And that’s for every woman who ever got used by a man like you.”

When the RCMP arrived on the rooftop, the morning sky still heavy with clouds, they found what could only be described as the end of a legacy.

Monsieur Midnight lay on the ground, bound in reinforced cuffs, bruised and barely conscious. His mask had been torn off, revealing the face of Jean-Claude Bellrose—ex-hero, now publicly unmasked traitor.

Beside him was a small pile of carefully arranged evidence. Drives. Dossiers. Photos. Paper trails. All of it damning. All of it very real.

And on top of it all, folded neatly, was a single note made of clipped newspaper letters.

One of the officers knelt and picked it up, eyes scanning the words quietly.

I'm sorry I let him trick this city into thinking he was a hero.

Sorry I let myself become part of his lies.

Tell his fiancée, Laura Locke, I’m sorry I cheated on her—with him.

Madame Minuit won’t be seen in Montreal again.

The Midnights are over.

There was silence on the rooftop.

The kind that only follows the fall of something that once pretended to be noble.

The officer folded the note gently and slipped it into an evidence bag.

And with that, it was done.

The Midnights were finished.