Coraline woke to the dull chorus of bruises she hadn’t noticed the night before, each one making its presence known with every slight movement. Muscles she’d pushed past their limit now ached in protest, and a mild headache pulsed behind her temple like a tiny jackhammer working in steady, merciless rhythm.
The adrenaline that had carried her through the night was long gone, leaving only the fatigue of a body that had fought hard and the weight of thoughts she’d been trying not to unpack since the moment she’d crawled into the cot.
With a groan, she dragged herself toward the tunnel that connected the Fox Den to the old wine cellar beneath Penrose Manor. The short walk felt longer than any patrol. When she finally emerged into the dining room, she knew exactly how it would look—half-dead, running on fumes, and desperate for coffee and something solid in her stomach. The household staff would make the usual assumptions: another late night of high society parties and overindulgence. Her head maid would deliver the familiar disapproving glare over the teapot, while John—provided he wasn’t buried in some project out in the garage—would play along with the charade. He knew the truth, of course, but that never stopped him from tossing a wry comment about her “hangovers” into the mix. It was their unspoken routine, the social camouflage that let her injuries and exhaustion pass without question.
A copious amount of bacon, scrambled eggs, and a cup of coffee strong enough to wake the dead later, Coraline made her polite exit from the dining room. She claimed she had work to catch up on—and technically, that wasn’t a lie. She did have work. It just had nothing to do with her career as a lawyer. Her real task was to take advantage of the fact that the Bloor Street Bloodletter was wounded and try to gather something—anything—solid enough to use against him before he claimed another life.
Back down she went into the Fox Den, settling in at her computer and pulling up the map she’d been building of his known attacks. Every location marked, every alley and intersection highlighted. She was still combing through it when John emerged from the tunnel that led to the garage. He stopped just inside the room, folding his arms as he watched her work.
“This Bloodletter psycho,” he said after a beat, tilting his head slightly, “he’s giving you and the RCMP more trouble than most.”
Coraline didn’t look back—she didn’t need to. She knew John “Wolf” Bane too well, and she knew the look he wore when he was trying to hide his concern. Her voice stayed even, careful not to betray how tired or sore she still was from the fight. “He isn’t prone to making mistakes. He’s calculated. Practiced.”
John nodded slowly. “You said before you might have to break into RCMP headquarters to get more intel on him.”
Coraline wrinkled her nose. He wasn’t wrong. Breaking and entering was second nature to her as the Vulpes, but she usually reserved it for criminals, not law enforcement. “Yeah… Detective Benoit’s on the case. Met her a few days ago—as Coraline. She’s a decent cop. Profiling, forensics, knack for cracking cold cases, and finding what everyone else misses.”
“Sounds like your kind of people,” John remarked, leaning in over her shoulder to study the map she was scrutinizing.
“Are you implying something?” Coraline asked, one brow lifting just enough to make the challenge clear.
“Only that if you’ve already got such a good read on her,” John replied dryly, “you could try doing something wild—like talking to her—instead of breaking into a secure RCMP office.”
“Working with a masked vigilante would put her job at risk,” Coraline countered, her tone even. “That’s assuming she’d even agree to work with the Vulpes. Canadian laws on vigilante crime-fighting are still pretty strict, even after the reforms in the fifties.”
“Maybe,” John said with a shrug, “but you won’t know unless you try. And it seems to me you could use someone besides me lending you a hand.”
Coraline leaned back in her chair, eyes fixed on the map. It wasn’t much—just a scatter of dots and lines with no clear rhythm or pattern she could see. The RCMP, though… they’d have detailed forensics. And Benoit—Benoit was sharp. Sharp enough she might see threads Coraline was missing.
But the risk had to be weighed carefully. Approaching her could blow the Vulpes’ cover, unravel months of work in an instant. Worse, it could cost Benoit her badge.
Yet that was nothing compared to the alternative. If sharing information—if trusting her—meant catching Bloodletter sooner, then lives would be saved. And Coraline couldn’t pretend that outcome didn’t tip the scales. The risk wasn’t insignificant, but it was far less consequential than letting the killer choose his next canvas unchecked.
“I hate to say it, but you might be right, John,” Coraline admitted.
He smirked. “Me? Right? Yeah, that sounds like a truly awful thing to say out loud.”
She ignored the jab, her expression staying serious. “It’s not a terrible idea. And worst-case scenario? I drop a flash pellet, vanish into the night, and it’s like I was never there.”
John nodded, a half-hearted grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “By all accounts—and going off your own read—Benoit’s a good cop. Sharp as a whip, stubborn as hell, and too bull-headed to back down when she thinks she’s right.” He paused just long enough for the jab to land. “Kind of reminds me of a certain someone I know.”
Coraline gave a quiet huff, lips pressing into a thin line. “You saying I’m stubborn?”
John shrugged, utterly unapologetic. “If the shoe fits… and in your case, it’s probably custom-made, armored, and comes with a hidden taser.”
Coraline rolled her eyes slightly before closing the map on her computer. “In any case, I might have to pay Detective Benoit a visit—once the Vulpes’ business hours are open.” She winced and glanced down at her bandaged arm. “Gives me a few more hours to get some recovery in.”
John’s gaze flicked to the bandage. “How bad did he tag you?”
“Flesh wounds, scrapes, and bruises mostly,” Coraline replied. Her voice was even, but there was a flicker of grudging respect there. “Man keeps his blades in immaculate condition, though… have to give him that.”
The words lingered in the space between them, and she fell quiet—turning the thought over in her mind. It wasn’t just about skill. Immaculate blades meant meticulous habits. Precision. Control. It gave her another glimpse into who she was really hunting… and maybe, how he’d be caught.
Coraline tapped her fingers against the desk in a slow, steady rhythm as the cogs of her mind turned. “Thinking back on the fight… his reaction to blood was telling. The moment he cut me, it was like he got a second wind—adrenaline spiking, focus sharpening. I wouldn’t call him a sadist; his kills are quick, precise. It’s not the suffering he craves…”
John picked up her thread without missing a beat. “…It’s the sight of the blood itself, you think?”
She nodded once, firm. “Exactly. Pretty much confirms he’s some form of hemophile. And paired with his weapon maintenance, his clean execution… it points to a strong perfectionist streak. Professionalism, too. Maybe both. That means his rituals matter to him—everything from how he plans, to the condition of his tools, to the moment the blood hits the air.”
Coraline furrowed her brows, gaze fixed on the map as if she could will it to give up its secrets. “This just makes me realize I need more than whatever the media’s recycling. And the worst part? I can’t do much else until I talk to Benoit—and if that falls through, I’m left breaking into the RCMP files on the case.”
John gave a half-smirk. “Well, let’s hope for the best… and prepare for the worst.”
That drew a faint, almost nostalgic smile from her. “One of my grandfather’s favorite sayings.”
Coraline leaned back in her chair, chewing her lip as the thought settled in. “I also noticed he had a gun—but didn’t use it except as a last resort. My guess? He’s got a real disdain for firearms.” She tapped her fingers against the table in a slow rhythm, mulling it over.
John tilted his head. “Guns are loud. Not hard to rig a suppressor, sure, or pick one up off the black market—but maybe noise isn’t his problem. Maybe it’s personal.”
She gave a slow nod. “Could be. He seems to favor thrown weapons—knives, axes, anything with an edge. I’m thinking it might be worth stripping down some of the ballistic plating in my suit for reinforced close-combat protection.” She glanced over at him with a raised brow. “Any ideas, tech guy?”
John’s grin was quick and sharp. “Always. But you’re not gonna like what it’ll weigh.”
Coraline let out a sharp sigh, folding her arms as her gaze drifted back to the fresh bandage on her arm. “He came at me with a stiletto, John. I was lucky he didn’t just punch right through the Kevlar. That man keeps his blades in immaculate condition—and after last night, my armor’s not cutting it for the kind of fight he brings.” She winced, the memory of his precision still fresh. “So, weight be damned—we tune this suit for slashing and piercing defense. Strip some of the gun protection if we have to. I want it ready before he’s healed up enough to be back in action.”
She pushed back from her chair and started toward the small armory in the Fox Den, each step measured with intent. “Alright,” she said over her shoulder as John fell in behind her, “give it to me straight—what’s it going to take to build an anti-Bloodletter version of the Fox Suit?”
John followed her into the armory, eyeing the current Fox Suit on its stand. He gave a slow whistle, circling it like a mechanic sizing up a car. “Alright, you want an anti-Bloodletter rig, here’s the straight talk.”
He tapped the torso section. “First, we strip out most of the layered Kevlar panels. Kevlar’s great against bullets, not so much against a dedicated thrust from something like a stiletto. What you need is stab and slash resistance—different weave pattern, tighter fibers, less flex. Think cut-resistant aramid blends and laminated composite inserts. That’s gonna stop a blade from slipping between fibers and doing you like a roast.”
He moved to the forearms. “Second, we reinforce your vambraces and forearm guards with hardened polymer over steel mesh. That way you can block and trap blades without them chewing through your arms like they did last night.”
John crouched to check the boots. “Third, anti-penetration midsoles—same thing riot cops use against nail boards and spikes. Might save your feet if he decides to get creative with that boot blade again.”
He straightened up and gestured to her shoulders and sides. “I can integrate articulated ceramic plating in high-risk close-combat areas—shoulders, ribs, thighs. Curved plates so they deflect a stab instead of letting the point sit in and work.”
Then his tone shifted, more serious. “But here’s the trade-off: you ditch most of the ballistic layering, and you’re taking a hit against gunfire. It won’t be paper thin, but it won’t shrug off a low calibre round like the current build. You’ll be betting that you can close the distance and control the fight before anyone puts a bullet in you.”
Coraline gave him a look, and he added with a shrug, “Against Bloodletter? That’s a decent bet. Against anyone else? You’re gonna have to be smarter about when you pick fights.”
Coraline nodded once, decisive. “You’re getting time and a half, John—hell, I’ll even spring for overtime. I want it done yesterday.” She was already turning toward her workbench, mind shifting gears. “While you’re playing tailor, I’m going to start fine-tuning my utility loadout for close-quarters work. If Bloodletter wants to dance up close, I’ll make sure he regrets the invitation.”
