They say every city has a life of its own, a personality, a spirit as unique as the people who call it home. Coraline Penrose’s grandfather used to tell her that, and as she stepped out of her car into the crisp early-autumn air, she could feel the difference between Montreal and Toronto as keenly as if they were two distinct individuals. This wasn’t her city; it didn’t move to her rhythm, didn’t hum with the familiar energy of home. Toronto was hers—hers to protect, hers to prowl. But here, in Montreal, she was a guest.

She was here on business, both as Coraline and as her alter ego, the vigilante known as the Vulpes. Montreal brought with it a flood of stray thoughts she hadn’t entirely prepared for, though she welcomed the distraction. Anything to keep her from dwelling too long on the events of the Wonderland Incident, or the looming court date that awaited her like a storm on the horizon.

“Toronto’s the uptight lawyer. Montreal? He’s the unapologetic brother who owns a strip club,” her father had once joked. A light-hearted jest, but there was a kernel of truth to it. Montreal had a looseness, a grit, and a charm that set it apart from Toronto’s polished veneer. Coraline couldn’t help but smile at the memory, even as she adjusted her coat and surveyed the unfamiliar streets.

Superheroes—and vigilantes, especially—were said to develop a kind of sixth sense for their city, a bond as intimate as a heartbeat. She had felt that connection in Toronto, a symbiosis that made every rooftop, every shadow, feel like an extension of herself. But here? Montreal felt like stepping into someone else’s life. Prowling these streets and rooftops wouldn’t feel like hunting—it would feel like trespassing.

For now, though, it didn’t matter how she felt. She was here, and there was work to be done. Montreal might not be her city, but for the time being, it was her mission.

In comparison, her city—Toronto—wore a suit of polished modern steel, standing upright and proper for the world to see. It was a city of sleek skyscrapers and glass towers, a metropolis that projected an air of order and ambition. Known to many as the "Center of the Universe"—a title Torontonians wore with equal parts pride and self-deprecating humor—it was a city of hustle and polished perfection, always striving to be the shining beacon of Canadian progress.

Where Montreal was whimsical and expressive, wearing its history and culture on its sleeve, Toronto felt meticulously curated, as if every street and building had been chosen to fit a grand design. Its clean, geometric skyline stood in stark contrast to Montreal’s patchwork charm. Even the atmosphere was different—Toronto’s pace was relentless, its citizens driven by the pulse of business and commerce. Suits and ties outnumbered leather jackets and berets, and the rhythm of the city was set to the clatter of subway trains and the shuffle of commuters rather than the soulful wail of a saxophone in a café.

Toronto was a city of first impressions, one that cared deeply about how it presented itself to the world. It spoke in polished press releases and well-manicured parks, a place that seemed to demand respect simply by the sheer force of its presence. For Coraline, it was home, but it also carried with it the weight of expectation, of responsibility. If Montreal was a place to savor and explore, Toronto was a place to conquer.

Things were quiet back home. A recent shake-up in the internal affairs department of the Toronto Police had left the city's crime syndicates on the backfoot. While Coraline would have liked nothing more than to press the advantage, the timing of a business trip for her law firm aligned perfectly with the Vulpes' ongoing hunt for Alfonso Ruso. Ruso, the nephew of Toronto’s Don Carmine Ruso, was on the run from charges so airtight that even the most lavish bribes wouldn’t save him. The opportunity to track him down in Montreal was too good to pass up.

The thought of Ruso also reminded her of the stark differences between the criminal underbellies of Toronto and Montreal, mirroring the contrasts in their cultural spirits. Toronto’s crime syndicates operated like ruthless corporations, driven by the bottom line and an unyielding pursuit of power. The competition there was fierce, with alliances crumbling as quickly as they were formed. Betrayal was currency, and outright war was never far off, a brutal way to decide who would sit atop the ever-shifting pyramid of money and influence.

Montreal, by contrast, had a different rhythm to its dark side. The Italians, the Irish, and the Biker Gangs were all present, but they operated under an uneasy truce—a balance that would have been unthinkable in Toronto. Here, the city's criminal players had carved out territories and reached a tense equilibrium. It wasn’t peace, not truly, but a mutual understanding that open conflict would ruin everyone’s profits and bring unwanted attention. Coraline couldn’t decide if it was a sign of pragmatism or just another layer of the city’s complexity. What was clear, however, was that Montreal's underworld was as much about subtle maneuvering and quiet power plays as it was about brute force.

The Ruso family weren’t the biggest players in Montreal, but Carmine Ruso had enough connections to pull in favors. That meant his nephew, Alfonso, would be sheltered by people who knew how to make him vanish. The Vulpes couldn’t—no, wouldn’t—let that happen. Alfonso Ruso had left a bloody trail through Toronto, and too many lives had been destroyed by his actions. Whether by his own hand or the poison he smuggled onto the city’s streets, he had wreaked havoc.

Enforcer. Hitman. Dealer. The list of his crimes was long, and after botching an attempt to execute an informer—a botched hit caught on tape, thanks in no small part to the Vulpes—an avalanche of evidence had poured in. That tape had been the key, corroborating testimony from others who had long feared coming forward. It left no room for doubt: Alfonso Ruso was a murderer.

Yet somehow, he had managed to escape custody before his trial. That escape had set the Vulpes on his trail, and it had led her here, to Montreal. She wasn’t going to let him slip away, not again. If she had to follow him to the ends of the earth, so be it. Justice wasn’t something Ruso could run from forever—not with her on his heels.

As she entered the hotel foyer, Coraline refocused, reminding herself that she was in Montreal for work as well. Penrose & MacLeod had been retained for a high-profile civil case involving a multinational corporation with operations spanning Toronto and Montreal. The dispute over intellectual property rights and breach of contract required an expert touch, and Arthur had entrusted her to oversee the firm’s interests on-site. It was a pivotal moment, both for the firm and for her career.

She’d promised Arthur she would do the job and do it well. Coraline wasn’t about to let him down—not just because he was her boss, but because he was family. Penrose & MacLeod, a firm bearing her family’s name, was becoming more than just a convenient cover for her nightly activities. It was a legacy she had started to take pride in, a testament to Arthur’s dedication and integrity.

Arthur had been the one to secure her involvement in the Wonderland case—a case that had consumed her thoughts and emotions in equal measure. She owed him more than he probably realized. He was a good man, someone who did his best to navigate a system that often punished good intentions. And damn it, Coraline wasn’t going to let anyone think she was just some eager young lawyer who’d landed a partnership because of her father’s name. She was here to prove herself, both to Arthur and to herself.

Coraline smiled warmly at the woman behind the front desk, her mental gears shifting seamlessly into French. Her fluency in the language was a point of pride, honed over years of practice until it rivaled her command of English. When in Rome—or Quebec, in this case—do as the Québécois, she mused as she exchanged polite greetings and confirmed her reservation.

Before long, she was settling into her room, which the firm had generously ensured was both comfortable and well-appointed. As much as she appreciated the amenities, her first priority wasn’t relaxation—it was security. Years of experience, both as Coraline the lawyer and as the Vulpes, had ingrained in her a meticulous paranoia that she couldn’t shake, even in the most innocuous of settings.

Out came her tools, compact and efficient, as she methodically checked the room for bugs or hidden surveillance equipment. The process was second nature by now, a routine born from a healthy respect for the worst-case scenario. She hadn’t expected to find anything, but that wasn’t the point. As her grandfather had drilled into her during her formative years: “Proper preparedness protects.” The room was clean, and only then did she allow herself to exhale fully and drop her bags by the bed.

Still, she felt a faint twinge of unease. Montreal was a beautiful city, but it wasn’t her city, and the unfamiliarity brought its own subtle tension. Shaking it off, Coraline sat on the edge of the bed, mentally switching gears again. Tonight, she had work to do—on all fronts.

Coraline knelt by her oversized luggage bag, unzipping it with practiced precision. She found the hidden switch near the base, concealed so well that even the most thorough check would have missed it. With a soft click, the false bottom of the bag opened to reveal the reason for its seemingly excessive size.

Nestled inside were the tools of her other life: her sleek, black and orange armor tailored for agility and stealth; her utility belt, brimming with an assortment of gadgets and tools designed for every contingency; and a carefully curated selection of gear she had deemed essential for her mission in Montreal. The sight was both comforting and sobering—a reminder of who she was when the mask came on.

Still, unease tugged at her. She was venturing into uncharted territory, away from the safety nets she had come to rely on in Toronto. John, her ever-reliable tech support, wasn’t just a call away. The Den, her sanctuary and command center, was far out of reach. Her vehicles, meticulously prepared and customized for her missions, were countless kilometres away. This was the first time her career as a masked vigilante had taken her so far from home, and the unfamiliarity pressed on her in a way she hadn’t anticipated.

She ran her fingers over the smooth edges of her armor, taking a steadying breath. “You’ve got this, Coraline,” she muttered under her breath, her voice firm despite the flicker of doubt in her chest. Distance might complicate things, but she wasn’t here to fail. She couldn’t fail—not for herself, and not for the justice she owed the people who had been hurt by Alfonso Ruso.

After a final check of her gear, she closed the hidden compartment and began to mentally map out the night ahead. Montreal might not be her city, but justice didn’t stop at city limits.

Coraline was halfway to the shower, ready to wash off the fatigue of the long drive from Toronto, when the room's phone rang. She let out a frustrated sigh, muttering, “Can’t even get a shower without an interruption...” as she crossed the room to answer.

“Sorry to bother you, Madame Penrose,” came the polite voice from the front desk. “Someone has been waiting for your arrival—a reporter named Laura Locke with the Montreal Insider. May I put her through?”

Coraline paused, her thoughts shifting. Dealing with the press wasn’t her favorite part of the job, but it was often unavoidable, especially with a high-profile case like this. “Of course,” she replied smoothly, deciding it was better to address any inquiries head-on rather than let speculation fester.

She picked up the phone and took a steadying breath, her professional demeanor clicking into place as if flipping a switch. “Penrose speaking,” she said, her tone crisp and composed.

There was a crackle on the line, then a confident, clear voice responded. “Miss Penrose, this is Laura Locke from the Montreal Insider. I appreciate you taking the time to speak with me on such short notice.”

Coraline felt a twinge of irritation but kept her voice pleasant. “Of course, Miss Locke. It’s always better to address inquiries directly than let rumors take hold. What can I do for you?”

“I’d like to discuss your firm’s involvement with the AVN vs Wright-Tech case,” Laura began, her tone carefully measured. “It’s unusual for a Toronto firm to handle such a high-profile case in Quebec. I’m curious what brought you here—and why Penrose and Macleod are so invested in defending Wright-Tech and its intellectual property.”

Coraline straightened her posture, her lawyer instincts kicking in as she measured her response. “Penrose & MacLeod prides itself on being a firm that specializes in complex cases particularly cross-jurisdictional matters,” she said smoothly. “Our expertise makes us well-suited for a case of this magnitude. As for why we’re here, our clients trust us to ensure their interests are represented effectively, regardless of the jurisdiction.”

Laura didn’t miss a beat. “That’s fair, but some might say this case has deeper implications, particularly given the technological advancements at stake. Wright-Tech’s projects are rumored to have defense and artificial intelligence applications, potentially worth billions. It’s hard not to wonder if this case is about more than intellectual property.”

Coraline’s grip on the phone tightened slightly, but she maintained her professional demeanor. “I’m afraid I can’t comment on speculative claims, Miss Locke. The matter at hand is a civil dispute involving patent infringements and proprietary technology. Anything beyond that is outside the scope of our involvement.”

Laura hummed thoughtfully. “And yet, Wright-Tech’s CEO has been notably silent, and their legal team seems to have delegated much of the case to you personally. You must admit, Miss Penrose, it’s a lot of trust to place in an out-of-province firm—particularly in a city like Montreal, where local alliances can make or break a case.”

Coraline allowed herself a small smile. “Our firm has a long-standing reputation for delivering results, Miss Locke. Trust is something we’ve earned through hard work and dedication. As for alliances, Penrose & MacLeod is here to focus on the law, not local politics.”

There was a pause before Laura’s voice softened, though her curiosity remained sharp. “You’ve been in the spotlight before, Miss Penrose—most recently for your involvement in the Wonderland case. Given your role there, it’s hard to ignore the parallels between that and AVN vs Wright-Tech. High stakes, groundbreaking technology, and a media frenzy. How are you managing the pressure?”

Coraline took a steadying breath, her tone firm but composed. “Every case comes with its own set of challenges. My focus is always on ensuring that the law is upheld and my clients receive the representation they deserve. The rest is just noise.”

“Noise that sells papers,” Laura quipped lightly, though her tone carried respect. “Thank you for your time, but before I go I have two things to ask, I understand your firm is defending Wright-Tech but what is your opinion on AVN? They multinational interests carry heavy implications of environmental damage and abuse of third world nations economic states Miss Penrose”

Coraline’s jaw tightened at the pointed question, though her voice remained steady as she formulated her response. “AVN, like any multinational corporation, has operations that span the globe and a level of influence that demands scrutiny,” she said evenly. “However, my role in this case is to focus on the legal merits of the claims at hand. Wright-Tech’s interests and intellectual property rights are what I’m here to defend. The broader implications of AVN’s business practices are outside the scope of my involvement.”

Laura wasn’t deterred, her voice carrying an edge of challenge. “A fair answer, but it’s hard to separate the legal from the ethical, don’t you think? Especially when the stakes are this high.”

Coraline offered a polite but firm response. “That’s for the courts and the public to determine, Miss Locke. My responsibility is to ensure that justice is served within the parameters of the law. Advocacy requires focus, and I trust the legal process to address the complexities of this case.”

There was a brief silence on the other end, before Laura’s voice returned, this time with a lighter tone. “Understood. Now, the second thing—would you be willing to consider a more personal interview? As much as I like talking over the phone i prefer something more personal”

There was a pause as Coraline considered the request. Her instincts kicked in, weighing the pros and cons of agreeing to a face-to-face meeting with someone as sharp as Laura Locke. The journalist was clearly fishing for something deeper, but whether that was related to the case or to Coraline herself remained to be seen.

“Miss Locke,” Coraline began, her tone measured and polite, “I appreciate the offer, but my schedule here is quite packed. While I value transparency, I have to prioritize my commitments to the case.”

Laura didn’t miss a beat. “Of course, I understand. But sometimes the best insights come from a conversation over coffee, away from the formalities of an office or courtroom.”

Coraline allowed herself a small smile. “You’re persistent. I’ll give you that.”

“It’s a trait that serves me well in my line of work,” Laura replied with a touch of humor.

Coraline exhaled softly, deciding to keep the door open but not fully commit. “I’ll tell you what, Miss Locke. If my schedule permits and I feel there’s more to discuss, I’ll consider it. For now, let’s keep our communication as it is.”

Laura’s tone remained warm, though there was a hint of determination in her response. “Fair enough, Miss Penrose. I’ll take that as a ‘maybe,’ which is better than a ‘no.’ Thank you for your time.”

“Good evening, Miss Locke,” Coraline said, ending the call with practiced professionalism.

As she set the phone back on its cradle, Coraline leaned back in her chair, mulling over the conversation. A face-to-face meeting with Laura could either be an opportunity to control the narrative—or a potential minefield. For now, she’d keep the journalist at arm’s length while she focused on more pressing matters.

Coraline stepped out of the shower, the steam curling around her as she wrapped a towel around her damp hair and another around her torso. She let out a small sigh, her mind still swirling with the events of the day and the challenges ahead. As she sat on the edge of the bed, she glanced at her luggage, then reached for the compact communications device tucked into her bag. 

She powered it on and tapped a button, the signal pulsing until a familiar, snarky voice answered. “Only a few hours in Montreal and you already need me, huh?” John’s tone was light, teasing as always.

“Don’t let it go to your head,” Coraline replied, rolling her eyes even though he couldn’t see her. “I need a quick rundown on a reporter named Laura Locke. She works for the Montreal Insider.” She leaned back against the plush pillows, one leg stretched out while the other bent at the knee.

“Gotcha,” John replied, the faint clatter of keys on a keyboard filtering through the connection. A few moments later, his voice returned. “Laura Locke. Investigative crime journalist, degrees in criminology and a few related fields. Locals seem to see her as a bit of a rabble-rouser—good at digging deep and dragging the truth into the light. Sounds like your kind of person, boss. Oh, and I’m sending you an image.”

The tiny screen on her device flickered to life, displaying the photograph. Coraline raised an eyebrow as she took in the sharp, poised woman staring back at her. Laura Locke had striking dark eyes and neatly styled brown hair. She wore a press badge and a tailored suit that spoke to her professionalism.

“Huh,” Coraline murmured, tilting her head slightly.

John’s voice cut in, his tone carrying a knowing edge. “Yeah, she’s easy on the eyes. But before you get any ideas, check the ring. She’s married.”

“Just as well,” Coraline replied with a smirk. “You know I don’t trust reporters. Even the ones who seem like they’re on the right side of things. Not after what the media did to Alice.”

The snark in John’s voice softened, replaced by something more serious. “Yeah, I get it. The Wonderland Incident was a feeding frenzy for them. Alice never had a chance with the way they twisted it.”

Coraline sighed, brushing a strand of damp hair from her face. “Still, if Laura’s good at her job, she might be useful. But I need to know where her loyalties lie. Is she chasing a headline, or does she actually care about the truth?”

John let out a faint chuckle. “From what I’ve found, Locke doesn’t have much of a reputation for bending the truth. She’s taken on some big players—politicians, corporations, even organized crime. The fact she’s still breathing and working in Montreal says a lot about her instincts and guts.”

“Fair point,” Coraline admitted, though her tone remained cautious. “But instincts and guts don’t automatically make her trustworthy.”

“Nope,” John agreed. “But it makes her a lot like you.”

That earned an amused snort from Coraline. She glanced at the image again before turning off the device and tossing it onto the bedside table. “Keep digging. Let me know if you find anything that suggests she’s more vulture than crusader.”

“Will do, boss,” John replied. “Now go enjoy your fancy hotel and overpriced coffee. I’ll be here when you need me.”

“Thanks, John. Don’t work too hard,” she said, allowing herself a faint smile.

“Me? Never,” he quipped, disconnecting with his usual irreverent charm.

Coraline leaned back on the bed, staring at the ceiling as her thoughts churned. Laura Locke was an enigma for now, but Coraline had a feeling she’d get to the bottom of it soon enough. For now, there were bigger mysteries to unravel. Montreal held its secrets close, but the Vulpes was here to uncover them.

There was, however, one very real benefit to talking to Laura Locke. If she was a local crime journalist with her reputation, she might know a good place for the Vulpes to start her investigation. Coraline tapped her fingers against her thigh, mulling over the possibilities.

Maybe she could glean a few useful facts during a morning interview, something subtle that wouldn’t tip her hand. Or, if that didn’t work, the Vulpes could always pay Laura’s office a late-night visit and just ask. One way or another, there was a chance Laura might have a lead that could be turned into something solid.

Coraline exhaled slowly, her resolve firming. Montreal was a city full of hidden shadows and tangled threads. Laura Locke could be the key to unraveling at least one of them. "Let’s see what this journalist really knows," she murmured to herself, a faint smirk curling her lips as she made a mental note to arrange the meeting sooner rather than later.

"Bienvenue à Montréal," Coraline mused to herself, the French words rolling through her thoughts as she lay back on the plush hotel bed, staring at the ceiling. The rhythm of the city already felt different, a shift in energy she couldn’t quite pin down. She stretched her legs, shaking off the remnants of the long drive, and began mentally preparing for the days—and nights—ahead. Montreal was going to be her home for the next few weeks and she was going to make the most of it.

***
Laura Locke set her phone down with a quiet sigh, leaning back in her worn but comfortable office chair. She drummed her fingers on the armrest, her frustration bubbling just below the surface. Writing an article about a copyright dispute between Wright-Tech and AVN wasn’t exactly the kind of hard-hitting journalism she lived for. But orders were orders, and her editor had made it clear that this piece wasn’t optional.

She tried to find some solace in the angle she could take—highlighting AVN’s rumored unethical practices. If she could sneak that into an otherwise dull story, it might feel like she was at least doing some good. Small victories, she thought, even if they weren’t the battles she wanted to be fighting.

The worst part, though, was dealing with a big-city Toronto lawyer. Coraline Penrose, by her research, was some honors graduate with a fast-tracked career thanks to blatant nepotism. Partner at a firm without a real courtroom record? Laura couldn’t help but roll her eyes at the thought. Sure, Penrose might have a sharp legal mind, but to Laura, she came across as another privileged professional who wouldn’t understand the grit and grind of a city like Montreal.

What Laura really wanted to be doing right now was suiting up as Madame Minuit, hitting the streets with her husband, Jean. Rumors of a hitman on the run had been circulating in their circles—an enforcer tied to the Italian Mafia. If they could track him down, it would be a chance to do work that truly mattered. Work that felt real.

Her eyes drifted to the corner of the room where her gear was stashed, neatly tucked away but always within reach. The thought of action, of being out there where the stakes were higher and the difference she made felt tangible, was far more appealing than hammering out paragraphs about corporate disputes.

Still, she had a job to do, and Penrose wasn’t going to wait forever. With a resigned sigh, Laura straightened in her chair, opened her laptop, and started drafting notes for her article. It wasn’t the thrill of the hunt, but it was the next step toward her endgame. Maybe this article would lead her closer to something more meaningful. Maybe.

As Laura typed away, her fingers careening across the keyboard rapidly, she couldn’t help but feel the weight of the circumstances that had landed her here. This wasn’t the kind of story she thrived on. But she knew why she was stuck writing about corporate disputes instead of chasing hard-hitting leads that rattled the city's power structures.

It all came back to her last major piece—the exposé that had revealed a prominent member of parliament’s ties to the underworld. It had been her best work, a meticulous investigation that had blown the lid off corruption at the highest level. But the fallout had been swift and brutal. Powerful people didn’t like having their secrets aired, and the backlash had been intense.

Her editor, Allen, had taken the heat for her. He’d shielded her from the worst of it, enduring angry phone calls, threats, and pressure from higher-ups to pull her off investigative work entirely. Laura knew Allen’s decision to keep her on was more than professional—it was personal. He believed in her. But he also knew she needed to step out of the spotlight for a while, to let the storm pass, for her sake and the insiders'.

Allen had done what he thought was best, giving her lighter, less incendiary assignments to cool the heat surrounding her name. Laura hated it—hated stepping back, hated feeling like she was letting the powerful win even for a moment. But she also knew Allen wasn’t wrong. If she pushed too hard now, it might cost her more than just her job. It might cost her the chance to fight another day.

Still, as she wrote, a small fire burned in her chest. She was biding her time, playing the game for now. But the moment the dust settled and the opportunity arose, Laura Locke would be back in the trenches, exposing the truth and tearing down ivory towers brick by brick.

“You are working late, mon cher. Your husband was worried about you,” came a familiar voice from the doorway.

Laura looked up, and a smile spread across her face as she saw Jean leaning casually against the doorframe. Tall, rugged, with dust-colored hair that always seemed artfully tousled, and that sharp, chiseled jawline—he was a feast for the eyes and always had been.

She took a breath, her frustration with her assignment momentarily melting away. With a click, she saved her work and closed her laptop. “So he sent a ruffian like you to my office to drag me away from work?” she teased, her tone light and playful, her eyes sparkling with delight at the welcome distraction.

Jean grinned, stepping inside with an easy confidence. “Someone has to keep you from getting buried under all those words. Thought I’d take the job myself.”

Laura laughed softly and leaned back in her chair. “Well, aren’t I lucky to have such a devoted husband-slash-ruffian keeping an eye on me?”

Jean crossed the room in a few strides, resting his hands on the back of her chair and leaning down to kiss her lightly on the forehead. “Devoted and extremely persuasive,” he murmured. “Come on, Laura, it’s late. You’ve been staring at that screen for hours. Let me take you home.”

She tilted her head, her smile softening. “And if I don’t want to leave just yet?”

“Then I’ll remind you that a certain hitman might be prowling the streets tonight,” he said, his voice dropping just enough to let her know he wasn’t entirely joking. “And that Madame Minuit is far more fun after dark than Laura Locke is in an office.”

Her eyes lit up at the mention, a flicker of excitement sparking beneath her professional demeanor. “Is that so?”

Jean straightened, offering her a hand. “Come on, let’s go. The city won’t wait for us.”

Laura took his hand, rising from her chair with a grin. “All right, you win. But only because I don’t want to miss out on the fun.”

Together, they headed for the door, leaving the laptop and her dull assignment behind. Montreal’s shadows awaited them, and tonight, the Midnight Duo would prowl.