Vulpes’ mind raced, running through every possibility, turning over every detail of the past few days like pieces of a puzzle she couldn’t quite fit together.

Someone had set her up.

That much was clear.

The ambush at the slaughterhouse hadn’t been a coincidence—someone had known she’d be there, and that someone had sent Odette and the Mafia’s enforcers to make sure she never walked out alive.

That meant her hunter had been given precise information.

Which led her to the only question that mattered.

Who knew where she was going?

Who knew she’d be working with the Midnights?

The answer was obvious.

It was them.

It had to be.

There was no one else who could have leaked her movements with such precision.

And yet—

Why?

What did either—or both—of them stand to gain by selling her out?

That was the question that didn’t add up.

Madame Minuit had come to her rescue.

Had taken out the snipers.

Had repaired their sabotaged comms and tried to warn her.

That part felt real.

Meanwhile, Monsieur Minuit had said he’d been ambushed too.

Had been fighting the Steel Nomads while she was nearly getting butchered in that slaughterhouse.

Someone had to be lying.

Or both of them were.

But something just wasn’t clicking together.

The why still eluded her.

And until she figured that out—until she knew the full scope of what she was dealing with—

She couldn’t make her next move.

She had to play this carefully.

Because if she wasn’t careful—

She wasn’t going to be leaving Montreal alive.

Montreal sped by in a blur as Vulpes sat on the back of Madame Minuit’s bike, the cold night air whipping past her, but her mind was nowhere near the streets rushing below.

She was turning over every piece of evidence she had.

Or had she?

Something gnawed at the back of her mind, an inconsistency, an answer she hadn't yet found—and she was beginning to think that the only way to uncover the truth was to take a calculated risk.

She lifted her hand, signaling Madame Minuit to pull over.

Without hesitation, the vigilante slowed, guiding the bike toward the curb, the engine rumbling to a stop in the dim glow of a nearby streetlamp.

Vulpes slid off, adjusting her stance before speaking, her voice measured, careful.

"Can we swing by the location your partner checked earlier tonight? The one he scouted alone?"

Madame Minuit frowned slightly.

Vulpes didn’t miss it—the small flicker of curiosity, of suspicion, but also of willingness.

"Why?"

Vulpes hesitated—not too long, just enough to look thoughtful.

She had to phrase this carefully.

Not a direct accusation. Not yet.

"I just want to double-check something," she said slowly. Measured. Nonchalant. "Call it a hunch about the old apartments."

There was a pause.

Madame Minuit studied her for a second longer, then exhaled and nodded.

"Alright," she said, flipping her visor down. She understood hunches.

She also knew better than to ignore them.

Vulpes hopped back on, gripping the sides of the seat as Madame Minuit turned back onto the road, accelerating into the night.

They were heading toward Monsieur Minuit’s last location.

And Vulpes was about to find out if her hunch was right.

The block of apartments loomed ahead, a shadowed relic of a Montreal long past.

Once, these buildings had stood proudly, a fresh addition to the cityscape—new, clean, full of promise.

That had been twenty, maybe thirty years ago.

Now?

Now, they were forgotten, neglected by time, left to decay in a part of the city where hope had long since packed up and moved elsewhere.

The faded brickwork, once a warm red, was stained with grime, weathered by harsh winters and harsher lives.

Some windows were boarded up, others cracked, the glass splintered like the people who passed through here.

Streetlights flickered half-heartedly, casting dim, uneven patches of glow over crumbling sidewalks and rusted fire escapes.

The air smelled of cold pavement, stale cigarettes, and something faintly metallic.

A place like this?

It was perfect for people who wanted to disappear.

And that’s why Vulpes was here.

If Monsieur Minuit had truly been here earlier—

She needed to see it for herself.

The bike came to a slow stop, its engine rumbling low before fading into silence.

Vulpes swung off smoothly, removing her helmet, letting the cold night air hit her face as she glanced up at the worn-down apartment complex before them.

"I want to poke around," she said evenly, her tone casual but firm. "See if he missed any evidence."

She wasn’t lying.

Not in the literal sense.

But her real reason for being here?

That was something she wasn’t ready to share.

Madame Minuit watched her for a moment, as if considering something, before finally nodding.

She wouldn’t say it out loud, but she knew Jean wasn’t as good a detective as she was.

It wasn’t a knock against him—just a fact.

He was a fighter first, an investigator second.

Maybe, just maybe, he had missed something.

"Alright," Madame Minuit agreed, her arms folding briefly across her chest before she stepped forward.

"But I’m coming with you."

Vulpes nodded.

That was fine.

Because if her hunch was right—

She might just need Madame Minuit on her side before the night was over.

The two women scanned the exterior of the old apartment building, its weathered facade offering nothing of note at first glance.

But Vulpes?

She had trained eyes, the kind that knew how to see past the surface.

And as she studied the details, the small things, she began to pick up on them—things that didn’t belong, things that suggested this wasn’t just another abandoned building.

"Look here," Vulpes murmured, crouching near the doorway, running a gloved hand along the faded frame.

Madame Minuit moved closer, her sharp eyes narrowing.

"Fresh scratches near the lock." Vulpes tapped the worn metal. "Someone’s been coming in and out—but not like squatters or junkies. These are subtle, careful entries. No force, no rush."

Madame Minuit nodded slowly.

"Professionals."

Vulpes stood, glancing up at the second-story windows.

"Curtains drawn in most of them, but see that one? Slightly parted, just enough to keep an eye on the street."

Madame Minuit followed her gaze.

She saw it too.

Not a huge detail—but someone inside this building cared about keeping watch.

"Could just be a paranoid tenant," Madame Minuit murmured, but even she didn’t fully believe that.

Vulpes wasn’t finished.

"Look at the mailbox by the door."

Madame Minuit turned, noting the row of rusted, barely maintained mail slots near the entrance.

Most were stuffed full, old envelopes jammed into the metal, untouched for weeks or months.

But one?

One was clean. Empty.

Like someone had actually been here recently, actively using this place.

Madame Minuit exhaled, realization settling in.

"You're thinking this could be a safe house."

Vulpes nodded.

"It fits. Low-profile location, easy to come and go, minimal outside attention."

Madame Minuit folded her arms, her frustration mounting.

"So if Jean was actually here earlier—"

"—then why didn’t he mention any of this?" Vulpes finished.

And just like that, the nagging suspicion in the back of her mind?

It started to look a whole lot more like certainty.

Madame Minuit exhaled slowly, her eyes flicking over the subtle signs Vulpes had pointed out.

She could admit to herself that Jean wasn’t the best detective.

She had always known that.

But this?

This was obtuse, even for him.

Jean could be stubborn, reckless, and blinded by his own intensity, but he wasn’t careless.

He should have seen this.

Should have noted it.

So why hadn’t he?

She felt an uncomfortable twinge of doubt, but quickly forced it down, rationalizing.

Maybe it was the stress she thought to herself.

Jean had been hurt in the fight with O’Hara.

Maybe the pain had dulled his focus, maybe he had been too distracted to see the details.

It wasn’t impossible that he had missed something.

She wanted to believe that.

But she also knew that Vulpes wasn’t wrong to be suspicious.

Madame Minuit took a slow breath before glancing at the fox-eared vigilante beside her, then back at the building’s entrance.

"Maybe we should take a look inside?" she suggested.

Not because she was ready to assume the worst—

But because she was starting to realize that maybe, just maybe, she needed to stop assuming the best.

Vulpes nodded once, sharp and deliberate, then lifted a gloved hand and motioned toward the fire escape.

Her gaze flicked to the second-story window, the one with the slightly parted blinds—the one that stood out.

That’s the best entry point.

Madame Minuit caught the signal and responded without hesitation, giving a small nod of understanding.

Neither spoke.

There was no need for words—not when the city around them was alive with whispers of wind and distant sirens.

They moved.

Fast. Silent. Fluid.

Two shadows scaling the rusted metal fire escape, their footsteps as light as ghosts against the old framework.

Madame Minuit’s grip was sure and practiced, her body moving effortlessly—this wasn’t her first time breaking into a place unnoticed.

For Vulpes, this was second nature.

The old metal barely creaked beneath them, their motions measured and precise as they ascended toward the mystery waiting behind that window.

A moment later, they reached the ledge, their forms pressed against the wall, peering in through the narrow gap in the blinds.

What they found inside?

Would determine everything.

Vulpes and Madame Minuit crouched on either side of the window, their movements perfectly in sync, as if they had been working together for years rather than days.

Neither needed to speak.

Almost as if reading each other’s minds, they both reached for the same tool—small, precision sound amplifying mics, drawn smoothly from their utility belts.

They shared a small, knowing smile, the kind reserved for those rare great-minds-think-alike moments.

Then, with the quiet efficiency of professionals, they tuned in, adjusting their devices, angling them toward the thin gap in the window to catch the voices inside.

At first, there was only the low murmur of conversation, muffled and broken by the apartment’s cheap walls.

But after a moment—

They locked in.

A voice, clearer now, carrying a tone of strained patience.

"The plane will be here in the morning."

Then—

A sharper, angrier voice, biting back.

"Yeah—after they drained most of my offshore accounts!"

A long sigh followed, the kind that suggested this argument had been had before.

"Listen, Al, the family will take care of you."

Alfonso Ruso.

They had him.

But then—

"Yeah, but that mask you hired?"

Vulpes felt her stomach tighten.

"It’s his fault this happened. Why the fuck do you keep him on the payroll if he’s costing us money?"

Monsieur Minuit.

Vulpes and Madame Minuit exchanged a glance, though neither said a word.

Then—

The sound of a chair scraping across the floor, followed by the first voice replying, firm and unwavering.

"He took out the Irish, Al. And he’s keeping the Fox off your tail—so calm down and be thankful."

Vulpes felt the weight of those words settle over her like a storm cloud.

Her stomach didn’t just tighten this time—it sank.

There it was.

Proof.

Not suspicion. Not paranoia.

Proof.

Monsieur Minuit had been working with them all along.

And Madame Minuit—

She had just heard it for herself.

For Laura, it felt like the bottom had fallen out of her world.

Her mind raced—grasping for explanations, for any reason why the man she loved couldn’t be working with these people.

With the same people who had made her father disappear.

With the same people who had orchestrated a trap that could have killed the Vulpes.

She thought back—

The failed comms at the meat packing plant.

The nights he would go out alone, only to return with vital intel—but never against the Italian Mob.

The money—the sudden financial stability from his work as a private investigator that never quite added up.

It had all been there.

The clues. The signs.

And she had ignored them.

Had told herself not to look too hard.

Her breathing remained steady, her posture controlled—but inside?

Inside, it felt like a whirlwind was tearing her apart.

She was Luara Locke, an investigative journalist, a woman who followed the truth no matter where it led.

But she was also Laura Locke, a woman who had built her life around Jean, who had loved him with everything she had.

And now?

Now, she couldn’t be both.

Because the truth and the man she loved—

They weren’t the same anymore.

Vulpes didn’t say a word.

She didn’t have to.

She could feel the weight of what Madame Minuit was going through, the way her entire foundation had just cracked beneath her.

She understood.

And so, instead of pushing, instead of pressing—

She spoke only of what mattered right now.

"Our mission is to bring in Alfonso Ruso."

Her voice was quiet, but firm.

A reminder.

A lifeline.

Madame Minuit stood there for a long moment, her mind still a warzone of emotion and logic.

Then, finally—

She took a slow, deep breath, forced the storm inside herself to still.

And nodded.

"The mission comes first."

Her voice was steady now, stronger.

"Let’s bring this bastard in."

*** 

Alphonso Ruso sat stiffly, his fingers drumming against the table, his expression dark with frustration.

Across from him, one of the family’s made men sat, calm, composed—unbothered by the tension in the air.

The others stood on guard, silent but watchful, their hands never straying far from their weapons.

But Alphonso?

Alphonso was in a foul mood.

He was a man backed into a corner, and he knew it.

The Irish were hunting him, eager to settle a blood debt for the nine stab wounds he left in Sean Malone’s corpse.

The RCMP wanted him, and unlike before, there was enough evidence stacked against him that not even his uncle’s deep pockets could bail him out.

And then there was her.

"That damn fox."

His jaw clenched, his lips pulling back into a snarl as his thoughts burned with resentment.

The Vulpes—that bitch had shadowed him all the way from Toronto.

She had single-handedly wrecked his last job, had put his face in front of every major investigative unit in the country.

She was the reason he was even in this mess.

And if she found him before that plane to Italy took off—

He was done.

He took a shaky breath, forcing himself to calm down.

Just one more night.

One more damn night, and he’d be gone—safe, untouchable.

Until then?

He had to sit tight.

Had to trust that the family would handle things.

Had to hope that their man in the mask—

That Monsieur Minuit—

Was really keeping the heat off his back.

Alphonso ran a hand through his dark hair, his fingers tugging at the roots as he tried to steady his nerves.

With a quiet exhale, he reached for his revolver, flipping open the cylinder and checking the rounds.

Loaded.

Good.

But still—something felt off.

The hair on the back of his neck stood on end, his skin prickling with an unease he couldn’t quite place.

And then—

A chill.

A subtle, creeping breeze that brushed past him, raising goosebumps along his arms.

His brow furrowed, his gut twisting with a sense of wrongness.

Slowly, his gaze drifted—

To the window.

It was open.

Just barely, but enough.

Alphonso’s blood ran cold.

His grip on the revolver tightened, his pulse thudding in his ears.

"Who the fuck left the window open…?"

His voice was low, almost a whisper, as a sickening realization curled in his gut.

This wasn’t right.

And he wasn’t alone.

Alphonso’s fingers curled around his revolver, his pulse thudding in his ears as he slowly rose from his seat.

His guards weren’t slow to react—they had survived too long in this business to ignore a shift in the air.

Something was wrong, and they could feel it.

Hands moved to holsters, fingers brushed against triggers—

But they were too late.

BOOM.

A violent burst of white light erupted in the room, swallowing the shadows in a blinding explosion.

The flashbang hit the floor, its deafening detonation stealing sight and sound alike.

The mobsters staggered back, yelping in pain, weapons fumbling from their hands as their senses betrayed them.

Alphonso reeled, his ears ringing, his vision obliterated by a burning white void.

Panic flooded his system, his breath coming fast and shallow as he stumbled backward, knocking over his chair in his blind scramble.

He tried to orient himself, tried to fight past the disorientation—

But then—

Through the smoke, through the aftershock of the blast—

A shadow moved.

Sleek. Precise. Unstoppable.

Madame Minuit had arrived.

Alphonso staggered, his body running on panic and instinct as he brought his revolver up, squeezing the trigger three times in rapid succession.

BANG—BANG—BANG!

The shots went wide, lost in the chaos, bullets punching into walls and furniture but hitting nothing.

His world was still a ringing blur, his vision drenched in searing white, but through the shifting haze—

He caught movement.

A shadow darting into his peripheral.

A figure—lean, fast, deadly.

His gut twisted in recognition.

The Vulpes.

She moved like a phantom, her body twisting as her heel snapped out, kicking a shotgun from a guard’s hands before the man even had a chance to aim properly.

The weapon clattered across the floor, and before the guard could even react—

CRACK!

Vulpes drove an elbow into his sternum, sending him doubling over in agony.

Alphonso snarled, trying to bark orders—

But he couldn’t hear a damn thing.

His voice was lost in the deafening ringing, his words muffled to his own ears, but he shouted anyway, waving his men into action.

"KILL THEM!"

He whirled, revolver raised again, his finger tightening on the trigger—

FWOOSH—THUNK!

Something whipped through the air, fast, sharp—

And then—

SNAP—!

His revolver jerked in his hand, a sharp resistance freezing the hammer mid-motion.

His vision was still clearing, but he saw it—

A steel needle, embedded right in the barrel of his gun.

His eyes widened, realization crashing into him too late.

Madame Minuit, standing just a few paces away, her fingers still outstretched from the throw.

A small, knowing smile on her lips.

Alphonso barely had time to curse—

Before he pulled the trigger anyway.

KA-CHNK!

The gun misfired instantly, the jammed barrel spitting out smoke and sparks, nearly snapping his wrist with the force of the backfire.

Pain shot up his arm, his fingers numb from the recoil—

And suddenly—

A boot slammed into his chest.

Hard.

Brutal.

He was flung backward, crashing into the table with a pained wheeze as his useless revolver clattered from his grasp.

His vision swam, his ears still ringing like a funeral bell.

And when he looked up—

The Vulpes and Madame Minuit stood over him.

Their shadows stretching long in the dim flickering light.

Predators.

Closing in.

And Alphonso Ruso?

He was the prey.

Alphonso tried to push himself up, but the world spun around him, his ribs aching from the vicious kick that had sent him sprawling.

Pain and shock warred in his brain, but instinct screamed at him to move, to get his bearings, to fight back.

But the vigilantes weren’t giving him the chance.

Through the blur of his vision, he saw Madame Minuit move first—

Her hand snapped forward, flicking something small, fast, and deadly through the air—

THUNK!

A throwing iron whirled in a brutal arc, the cold steel crashing into a guard’s wrist with bone-cracking force.

The man howled, his fingers instinctively spasming from the impact as his weapon clattered to the ground.

Another groan of pain erupted from the left—

Because The Vulpes was already on the third guard.

Her weighted gloves crashed into his jaw like a pair of bricks, the impact jerking his head sideways with a sickening CRACK!

He barely had time to make a sound before a follow-up blow slammed into his sternum, sending him staggering backward, gasping for air.

Alphonso watched, still reeling, as his last two men were systematically dismantled, their desperate counterattacks met with cold efficiency and brutal precision.

These weren’t just capes.

They were a force of nature.

And right now?

They had one target left.

Him.

Alphonso groaned, his breath ragged as he forced himself up, every nerve in his body screaming in protest.

But he wasn’t going down easy.

He was a made man, a Ruso Family hitter, not some street-level punk.

His hand shot down, fingers gripping the knife strapped at his side—his last line of defense.

With a snarl, he turned to face them, his vision still swimming, his ears ringing with the aftermath of the flashbang.

But he could still see enough.

And what he saw twisted his anger into something sharp, something cruel.

His bloodied lips curled, and he spat out words like venom, fixing his gaze on Madame Minuit.

"I thought you were on our side—"

He bared his teeth, voice dripping with contempt.

"—with your boyfriend!"

The second the words left his mouth, he knew he had made a mistake.

Because something snapped inside her.

A deep, frayed thread of betrayal and rage finally tore loose.

And then—

She was on him.

CRACK!

A bone-jarring impact sent his head snapping to the side, pain exploding through his skull as the heavy steel of her throwing iron crashed into his cheek.

His hearing was coming back, just enough to hear the snarl of pure, unfiltered rage in her voice—

"I am NOTHING like him!"

He staggered, tried to recover—

Tried to lash out with a desperate kick.

But Madame Minuit didn’t stop.

Didn’t hesitate.

Didn’t let him breathe.

She moved with momentum, with fury, her small frame a coiled storm of brutal precision.

THWACK!

The throwing iron cracked against his shoulder.

THUMP!

Then his ribs—the pain roared through his body, forcing a gasp from his lungs.

His knife fell from his fingers, hitting the ground with a dull clink!

And then—

He was slammed against the wall, his back hitting the cold plaster, his body crumpling under the sheer force of it.

He barely had time to register it before she was right there, her breath hot with fury, her weapon pressed against his chest.

Her voice, once measured and controlled, now shook with vengeful fire.

"Don't you EVER accuse me of being one of you!"

He struggled, but she held him firm.

Her eyes burned with something raw, something deeply personal.

And for the first time that night—

Alphonso Ruso felt fear.

The Vulpes remained silent, watching as she finished zip-tying the other thugs together.

She understood what was happening.

Madame Minuit needed an outlet—somewhere to pour the pain that was threatening to consume her from the inside out.

And Alphonso Ruso deserved it.

He was a butcher, a professional killer, a man who had taken lives without hesitation.

So Vulpes let it happen.

She wasn’t sure how deep the betrayal ran—what they really were to each other beyond partners, whether it was friends, lovers, family, or something more complicated—but she could hear it in Madame Minuit’s voice, could see it in the way she fought.

This wasn’t just about justice anymore.

It was personal.

"We need him alive," Vulpes finally said, her voice calm, her words even—a quiet reminder, but not a command.

She was testing the waters—seeing how far Madame Minuit would go in her fury.

Madame Minuit’s hands trembled as she held Ruso against the wall.

Her rage burned hot, hotter than anything she had felt in years—hotter than anything since she was just a girl, since the night her father disappeared, taken by the very people she had sworn to fight.

Her father had believed in justice.

Had believed in doing the right thing.

And it had gotten him killed.

Now she was standing here, face to face with the very same rot, the same corruption—and it had been beside her the entire time.

"How long has he been on the take?" she snarled, her fingers tightening in Ruso’s shirt.

Her grip was like iron, her knuckles white with rage.

"Tell me, you bastard, or I start breaking bones until you talk!"

Alphonso Ruso—bloodied, battered, and barely standing—managed to smirk through his swollen lip.

And then, with all the defiance he could muster—

He spat at her feet.

"Ask him yourself, bitch—" his voice was a ragged growl, but his words dripped with venom,

"—that is, before the Family kills him for you and your friend for this."

Madame Minuit’s rage boiled over.

She didn’t think—

She just reacted.

CRACK!

She drove him back into the wall, bouncing his skull off the wall with a sickening thud.

His eyes rolled back, and his body went limp, his dead weight slumping in her grasp.

Madame Minuit stood there, chest heaving, her breath coming in ragged, furious bursts.

Then—without another word—she hauled his unconscious body up, slinging him over her shoulder as if he weighed nothing at all.

"Let's get this trash to the RCMP, Vulpes," she growled, her voice still tight, still dripping with fury.

Then, after a pause—

"Then you and me? We are having a talk."

Vulpes didn’t reply right away.

She just nodded, her mind already turning, calculating, preparing—

Because she had a feeling that this talk?

It was going to change everything.