Vulpes had assumed the worst—and for good reason.

She was trapped in an old meat packing plant, the kind of place where people disappeared, and their bodies were never found.

She didn’t have to check the exits to know the truth—they were covered.

And not just by a couple of goons.

No, if this was the ambush it looked like, then there were enough armed men outside to make sure she wouldn’t leave this place breathing.

Which meant she had two options—

Try to fight her way out and risk catching a lethal dose of lead, or…

Find another way.

A way they weren’t expecting.

Her mind whirred through possibilities, scanning the shadows, the rusted machinery, the towering walls and catwalks above.

She needed an extraction plan, and she needed it now.

The vents? No.

They weren’t stupid.

They’d have those covered—probably with shotguns aimed right at them, waiting for her to try and slink through like a rat in a trap.

The roof?

That was a death sentence.

If she was running this ambush, she’d have snipers posted up high, watching every exit, waiting for movement. A clean shot the second she broke into the open.

No—Vulpes doubted any of her usual escape routes would be practical.

They knew who they were dealing with.

Which meant she had to think outside the box.

She exhaled slowly, forcing herself to push past the instinctual spike of adrenaline. Panic was the enemy. She had survived situations like this before—had clawed her way out of tighter spots with nothing but wit and instinct. But that was the problem, wasn’t it? This didn’t feel like just another close call. This felt personal.

Someone had gone to a lot of trouble to box her in.

Her comms device vibrated in her hand, and for the briefest moment, a dark thought crept into her mind—

Had the Midnights set her up?

The idea wasn’t impossible. They knew where she was. They had led her here.

But… why?

They had no real reason to want her dead.

Vulpes filed the suspicion away, pushing it to the back of her mind for now. She had bigger problems.

Slowly, carefully, she slipped into the deepest pocket of shadow she could find, crouching behind the rusted husks of old machinery as she pressed the communicator to her ear.

The signal was a mess, choked by static and interference, but then—

"—My comms are messed up, been trying to get ahold of you, Fox. What’s your situation?"

Madame Minuit.

Vulpes exhaled slowly, keeping her voice low and even.

"Place was a trap. Went in and got boxed in. Had to deal with a local hitter, trying to figure out an exit plan."

A pause.

Then, Madame Minuit’s voice, slightly sharper.

"Thought I said to hold until we could get there with backup?"

That made Vulpes' brow furrow slightly.

"Never got the message. Only your partner’s go-ahead."

Another pause.

And then—a beat too long.

"He can handle a few bikers. I'm on my way."

The comms went silent again.

Vulpes’ grip tightened around the device, unease curling like smoke in her chest. That pause—too long, too deliberate.

Vulpes’ fingers tightened around the device.

She had spent most of her life working alone, and part of her still instinctively preferred it that way.

But right now?

Having back-up didn’t seem like such a bad idea.

Elsewhere, in a different part of the city…

Monsieur Minuit listened in on the same conversation, his jaw clenching, his fingers tightening around the handlebars of his bike.

His hand shook slightly, white-knuckled with rage.

That fox had the gall to survive.

The Iron Viper had failed.

And worse?

Laura had fixed the sabotage he had done to her comms.

Now she was heading straight into danger to try and save the Vulpes from a death trap..

Not acceptable.

He let out a low, dangerous growl, his teeth grinding together as he turned toward Alessandro Dubois, the hulking leader of the Steel Nomads.

"Your hitter failed."

Alessandro’s expression darkened, his sharp brown eyes narrowing at the statement.

"This Toronto Fox must be a real piece of work if she took down Odette."

Monsieur Minuit’s rage flared hotter.

"I have bigger concerns," he snapped. "My partner is on her way to try and pull her out of the fire!"

Alessandro snorted, folding his thick, muscular arms across his chest.

"Maybe you should learn to control your woman better."

Jean’s blood boiled.

But he said nothing.

Couldn’t.

Not now.

Not when he still had to salvage this mess—to make sure neither Vulpes nor Laura suspected a damn thing.

His hands clenched the handlebars, and with a roar of the engine, he peeled out, tearing off into the night.

Behind him, Alessandro watched him go, then turned toward one of his bikers, smirking.

"If Minuit and his bitch get themselves killed…" he muttered, lighting a cigarette, "...I call their bikes."

***

The rifleman scanned the dimly lit slaughterhouse through his scope, his finger resting lightly against the trigger.

He was patient. Waiting. Watching.

The second anything moved—a shadow, a breath, a flicker of motion—he’d take the shot.

Then came the sharp crack.

A moment of pain, sudden and blinding.

And then?

Everything went black.

Across the way, Madame Minuit exhaled through her nose, steadying her breath as she lowered her crossbow. The recoil was minimal, but she barely registered it. She was already recalculating.

One down. More to go.

The rifleman crumpled soundlessly, his body slumping over the ledge. Good. A solid kill shot might have sent him tumbling, alerting the others.

With a calm, practiced motion, she loaded another blunt bolt, scanning the rooftop and the perimeter of the slaughterhouse for her next target.

Precision. That was what mattered. Let the others fight their close combat battles. She would end this in silence. One shot at a time.

She had arrived silent, unseen, cutting her engine well before she closed in, moving with the precision of a true hunter.

This wasn’t a wild melee, a chaotic brawl like Jean preferred.

This was something else entirely.

This was her game.

The long hunt. The patient strike. The perfect shot.

Her crossbow was reserved for moments like this—when she needed to be deadly at a distance, eliminating threats before they ever saw her coming.

Jean was good up close, a relentless force of power and brutality.

But Laura?

She was precision.

Bows, crossbows, throwing knives, pistols, rifles—it didn’t matter.

If she had a weapon in her hands, her aim was lethal.

She had grown up with this skill, honed it with her uncles on hunting trips, perfected it through shooting and archery competitions, trophies lining her office not for show but for proof.

Now?

She was hunting bigger prey.

She had even considered using lethal rounds, but the blunt bolts were good enough—so long as she lined up her headshots and took her time.

She wasn’t a killer by nature.

But if any of these mobsters didn’t wake up from their concussions?

She wouldn’t lose sleep over it.

Madame Minuit steadied her breath, scanning for the next rifleman.

The fox was still inside.

She wasn’t letting her die tonight.

Vulpes’ comms vibrated, the subtle buzz against her ear a small but vital spark of hope in the suffocating tension of the meat packing plant.

She pressed the button, her voice low as she slipped between the rusted machinery.

"Go ahead."

Madame Minuit’s voice came through, clear and precise.

"Snipers are down. Roof is clear."

Vulpes exhaled, glancing up toward the fire escape.

She could see the pathway out now, her mind already calculating the fastest way to climb.

"Understood," she whispered, her muscles tensing as she prepared to move.

"See you on the outside."

And with that, the Fox was on the prowl once more—ready to slip through the cracks before the trap fully closed.

***

Monsieur Minuit listened in, his helmet comm feeding him every word, every plan falling into place without him needing to intervene.

And he quietly thanked God that Laura had used her head.

That gave him time—time to think of an excuse, to spin the perfect lie before they reunited.

He needed to be careful, needed to be convincing.

Blame a low-level informant?
Claim ignorance?

That could work.

He had enough leeway to deny any involvement—after all, why would he betray her?

Laura and the Vulpes had no proof.

And as far as they knew?

He had no motivation.

Killing the Vulpes had been ideal, but it wasn’t everything.

If she walked away from this?

He could still play the long game.

Keep her off Ruso’s trail long enough for him to disappear from Montreal, and then?

Vulpes would follow.

She’d chase Ruso out of the city—

And Laura, his city, his life, would be all his again.

Yes.

He could make this work.

He just had to play it right.

Play to expectations.

Monsieur Minuit opened his comms, his voice carefully measured, strained—just the right mix of frustration and exhaustion to sell the lie.

"I dealt with the Nomads," he said, exhaling like he was shaking off the weight of a rough battle. "Was rough. Pretty sure they had an ambush set up for me."

Let them think he’d been through hell.

"I'm on my way, I will meet you two after Vulpes has extracted herself."

A perfect play.

Now, he just had to keep up the act.

***

The three vigilantes regrouped in a dimly lit alleyway, a safe distance from the meat packing plant and the chaos they had narrowly escaped.

The air was thick with the lingering scent of gasoline and wet pavement, the city’s cold night air biting against their skin. Somewhere in the distance, sirens howled, but they were far enough away to be someone else’s problem.

Vulpes looked rough, her armor cracked, her stance betraying the weight of fresh bruises from her brutal bout with Odette.

Monsieur Minuit wasn’t in great shape either, his movements stiff, his body still aching from the beating he had taken earlier from Casey O’Hara and that damn axe handle.

And that?

That worked to his advantage.

Pain was the best disguise. It made lies easier to swallow.

The pain most certain was real, the exhaustion was genuine—and it gave his lie just enough truth to sell the deception.

Madame Minuit took them both in, her eyes darkening slightly as she saw the condition of her new friend and the man she loved.

"Mon dieu," she muttered under her breath, shaking her head. Frustration. Concern. Maybe even guilt.

"Bastards had ambushes set up for both of you?"

Her gaze flicked between them, waiting for confirmation.

Vulpes nodded slowly, stretching her shoulder, rolling out the stiffness from her battle.

"They were waiting for me. Someone sold my presence here."

Monsieur Minuit let out a controlled breath, his tone carrying the right balance of frustration and weariness as he rubbed his sore ribs.

"Same here. Nomads were on me as soon as I got close—took everything I had to shake them."

He gritted his teeth, carefully weaving his truth into the lie, letting the soreness in his body sell the illusion of a hard-fought battle.

Madame Minuit exhaled, clearly unhappy.

"Merde… someone wants us out of the picture."

Vulpes studied Monsieur Minuit, her gaze lingering on him for half a second longer than necessary.

He held her yellow lenses without a flicker of doubt.

Because that was the trick to lying—

Believe it yourself.

Vulpes couldn't shake the feeling.

Something was off.

She had been in enough setups, enough fights, enough hunts to trust her gut—and right now?

Her gut was telling her that something wasn’t adding up.

She couldn't put her finger on it yet—couldn't point to any one thing—but the way this all fell into place?

It felt… wrong.

Like a puzzle with one piece jammed in where it didn’t quite fit.

Monsieur Minuit rolled his neck, a soft crack breaking the silence before he spoke.

"They must know we’re after Alphonso."

His voice was even, measured, controlled—too controlled.

"Just lucky they didn’t have all three of us set up to get jumped."

Vulpes watched him carefully.

Because that was the thing about luck—

She didn’t believe in it.

And right now?

She had a feeling she shouldn't believe in him either.

"Tabarnak!" Madame Minuit cursed, her frustration cutting through the tense air like a blade.

Vulpes noted it, just like she had noted the earlier concern, the guilt that had flickered across the other woman’s face when she saw the state of her and Minuit.

She filed it away.

Because something wasn’t adding up, and she wasn’t about to ignore her instincts.

She didn’t have the full picture yet, didn’t have a motive—but she wasn’t ruling out the possibility that something was off with the Midnights.

Even if she couldn’t prove it yet.

Madame Minuit folded her arms across her chest, leaning against her bike, her lips pressed into a thin, irritated line.

"Everywhere the Irish had marked off turned out to be a bust," she muttered. "You two barely escaped, and the only thing that came out of this was leaving some Irish hitters for the RCMP."

She wasn’t wrong.

But Vulpes wasn’t convinced that was all that had come out of this.

Because someone had set her up.

And sooner or later?

She was going to find out who.

"We should call it a night," Monsieur Minuit said, his tone firm, decisive. "Two of us are in rough shape, and our leads are dry."

Vulpes watched Madame Minuit carefully as the words settled between them.

She let out a slow sigh, then nodded—but it wasn’t agreement.

It was a resignation.

Vulpes saw it in the way her shoulders dropped just slightly, the subtle shift in her stance, the way her weight moved like she was reluctantly conceding a point she didn’t like.

She wasn’t happy about this.

Not in the least.

Vulpes nodded slowly, keeping her expression neutral, but her mind was anything but still.

She was going over everything, piece by piece.

The ambush.
The way the Minuits had reacted.
The subtle inconsistencies.

Something wasn’t adding up—

And she didn’t want them to be guilty.

She didn’t want to believe that this was what it looked like.

But what she needed—what she was waiting for—

Was irrefutable evidence.

Something that told her without a doubt that they had nothing to do with this.

Or something that proved they did and removed all doubt.

Madame Minuit turned to Monsieur Minuit, her voice carrying a quiet finality.

"Head back to base and rest up. I'll drop Vulpes off somewhere."

Monsieur Minuit nodded in agreement, offering no argument.

Vulpes watched him carefully as he turned and left, taking his exit without hesitation.

Then, she turned her attention back to Madame Minuit as the woman moved toward her bike.

For a brief moment, Vulpes considered the scenario.

If Madame Minuit was the betrayer, this would be the perfect opportunity to take her out alone.

But—being the passenger also put Vulpes in the advantageous position.

If Madame Minuit tried anything, she would be right within striking range.

A second location? Maybe.

But Vulpes' instincts told her something else entirely—

Something stronger than suspicion.

Something closer to trust.

And that?

That carried weight.

She took a breath, let the tension settle into something quieter, then stepped forward and swung onto the back of the bike.

Madame Minuit glanced over her shoulder, a hint of playfulness softening the frustration of the night.

"So, where to, foxy lady?"

Vulpes let out a quiet breath, the faintest ghost of amusement flickering across her lips.

"For now, just drive for a bit… if that’s alright."

A pause.

"Need to clear my head."

Madame Minuit nodded, understanding.

As they rode into the Montreal night, Vulpes let herself sink into the quiet rhythm of the road, the wind cutting through the tension that clung to her skin.

She had been betrayed tonight by someone. She knew the taste of it. The sharp, bitter edge of a knife in the back.

And right now?

She couldn’t tell if she was feeling the first warning prickle of the blade—

Or just ghosts from the past.

The engine growled to life, the roar cutting through the silence of the alleyway as the two disappeared into the Montreal night.