A city, as the Vulpes had come to understand them, wore many faces. By day, it donned a polished mask of civility and routine, where the hustle of life moved in choreographed chaos. But at night, that mask slipped, revealing a different creature entirely. It was raw, untamed, and alive with an energy all its own.

Montreal was no different in that respect. When the sun dipped below the horizon, the city transformed. The flickering glow of streetlights painted its streets in soft gold, while the neon of bars and clubs pulsed like veins of light through its darker alleys. Music spilled from open doorways, mingling with the occasional distant wail of a siren. Shadows stretched long across cobblestone streets, and the air seemed to hum with secrets waiting to be uncovered.

The Vulpes crouched on the edge of a rooftop overlooking Old Montreal, her sharp eyes scanning the streets below. The district carried an old-world charm, its historic buildings and narrow streets still echoing with whispers of the past. But tonight, the charm was tinged with unease. Her lenses picked up movement below, shadows flickering in ways they shouldn’t. The city at night was a different animal indeed, and this animal had teeth.

From her perch, Coraline allowed herself a moment to take in the scenery. It was beautiful, in its way—Montreal’s mixture of history and modernity standing in stark contrast to the steel-and-glass precision of Toronto. The rooftops here felt less like battlegrounds and more like stages, every corner a story waiting to unfold.

Still, she reminded herself, this wasn’t a sightseeing tour. She had a mission, and she needed to stay sharp. Alfonso Ruso, the mobster she had trailed here from Toronto, was out there somewhere. He was slippery, and with the connections his uncle Carmine had in this city, it wouldn’t be easy to pin him down. But Coraline had never been one to back down from a challenge.

First things first, she needed a lead. Back in Toronto, she knew exactly which rats to shake down and where to find them. But here, in Montreal, she was outside her usual hunting grounds. Her coms link to John was out of range, and while his data had been helpful in giving her a starting point, it wasn’t exactly comprehensive when it came to Montreal’s criminal underbelly. She was operating on limited intel, and that made her next move critical.

If she couldn’t dig anything up tonight, there was always Laura Locke—the reporter seemed like she might know a few things about the city’s criminal landscape. Coraline could approach her in the morning and see if she’d part with any information, though reporters tended to keep their cards close to the chest. For now, she had to work with what she’d managed to gather before leaving Toronto: a list of seedy dens, dive bars, and less-than-reputable establishments frequented by the sort of people who might provide a lead.

She crouched on the rooftop, glancing down at the laminated map tucked into one of the pouches on her utility belt. A few of the marked locations were places she suspected might have ties to the local Italian Mafia. But cracking those was no easy task. Even in a city known for its vices, the code of silence among the Italians was ironclad. Getting anyone to talk would take more than just intimidation—it would take finesse, patience, and a bit of luck.

Coraline's lenses adjusted to the low light as she scanned the streets below, weighing her options. She could hit one of the dive bars first, see if anyone there had loose lips after a few drinks. Or, if she was feeling bold, she could stake out one of the mob-linked spots and see if anything suspicious came to the surface. Either way, she had to be smart. This wasn’t Toronto, and she couldn’t afford to misstep in unfamiliar territory.

A soft breeze stirred the air as Coraline stood, her shadow stretching across the rooftop. She secured her grappling hook and prepared to descend into the city below. Tonight wasn’t about making waves—it was about gathering threads. Threads she could weave into something stronger, something that would lead her to Alfonso Ruso.

The hunt was on, and the Vulpes wasn’t going to let her prey slip away. Not this time.

Her first pick was a bar on the edge of Little Italy, a gritty establishment notorious for catering to the Steel Nomads. The outlaw biker gang was one of Quebec's largest, and their connection to the Italian Mafia ran deep. If anyone had information on Alfonso Ruso or his whereabouts, it was likely someone within their ranks.

The Steel Nomads weren’t your run-of-the-mill biker gang. They had risen to prominence as a direct response to the growing threat of the Bloodied Brotherhood, a vicious gang with ambitions of seizing control over Montreal’s drug trade. Unlike most biker gangs, the Steel Nomads operated with a unique blend of chaos and calculation. Their alliance with the Mafia had turned them into a brutal yet disciplined force, capable of delivering both raw violence and methodical precision. They were soldiers on wheels, with deep pockets and dangerous connections.

Coraline didn’t expect her visit to be a friendly one. Bars like these weren’t just watering holes; they were hubs of activity, unofficial offices for planning illegal operations, and a place where anyone not part of their world was immediately marked as an outsider. It would take careful maneuvering to get what she needed without drawing too much attention—or worse, starting a fight she wasn’t equipped to win.

The bar itself, "Iron Haven," was infamous in its own right. Its weathered exterior bore the marks of countless altercations, with faded paint and a flickering neon sign casting an eerie red glow onto the cracked pavement outside. A line of bikes, polished chrome gleaming under the streetlights, stood like sentinels at the entrance. Their riders weren’t far, no doubt nursing drinks and keeping watch over their territory.

Coraline was going to have to rely on her skills of disguise for this. There was too much background noise and too many unknowns to rely on longer-range surveillance with any kind of accuracy. Thankfully, disguise was a skill her grandfather had drilled into her well. It wouldn’t be Coraline Penrose or even the Vulpes entering the bar tonight—it would be "Lynn Leforte," a badass biker babe with a sharp tongue and an eye for trouble.

She had slipped into character seamlessly: leather jacket adorned with a few strategically chosen patches, ripped jeans, and scuffed boots that screamed road-worn credibility. Her usually polished appearance was deliberately toned down, a dirty blonde wig tied into a loose braid concealing her auburn hair. Coraline even swapped her usual crisp voice for a rougher, casual drawl. Every detail was designed to blend in with the crowd she was about to infiltrate.

Sliding down to street level, she made her approach, her every movement deliberate but casual. The bar loomed ahead, a beacon of neon red flickering over a line of polished motorcycles parked like sentries outside. The two men guarding the entrance gave her a once-over, their eyes narrowing as they assessed this new arrival.

One of them, a towering man with a scar slicing across his cheek, stepped forward, arms crossed. “You lost, sweetheart?” His tone dripped with condescension, but Coraline—Lynn—didn’t bat an eye.

“Not at all,” she replied, her voice carrying the faint rasp of someone who spent a little too much time yelling over roaring engines. “Just here for a drink and maybe some conversation. Heard this is the place to be for interesting company.”

The other man snorted, but Scarface wasn’t so easily swayed. He took a long moment to study her, weighing her words against her demeanor. Coraline held his gaze, unflinching, her calm confidence clearly throwing him off balance.

Finally, he jerked his head toward the door. “Fine. Don’t cause any trouble, or you’ll be leaving in pieces.”

She smirked, tipping her head in mock gratitude. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

The moment she stepped inside, the shift in atmosphere hit her like a wall. The smell of motor oil, sweat, and stale beer mingled with the blaring music, and every eye in the room briefly flicked her way. Coraline let them look. It was part of the game. She walked to the bar with the swagger of someone who belonged, ordered a whiskey neat, and leaned casually against the counter, surveying the room without appearing to.

The Steel Nomads were exactly what she expected: an institution of raw power and calculated chaos. Groups huddled in tense conversations while others lounged with easy arrogance. Tattoos and patched leather vests spoke volumes about rank and alliances. A few women mingled among the crowd, just as tough and respected as their male counterparts. Coraline let the scene wash over her, mentally filing away every detail.

The bartender approached, a burly man with a beard that could have doubled as a Brillo pad. His sharp eyes flicked over her as he cleaned a glass. “Don’t think I’ve seen you around here before,” he said, his voice neutral but curious.

“First time,” she admitted with a shrug. “Came through town looking for work, heard this place was worth a stop. You know, where people who know how to get things done hang out.”

The bartender’s brow lifted slightly, but he said nothing. Coraline decided to push a little further. “And by ‘things,’ I mean... useful things. I’m looking for someone who might’ve crossed paths with Alfonso Ruso.”

That got his attention. His hand froze mid-clean, and his expression darkened. “You’ve got guts bringing up a name like that here. You a cop?”

She chuckled, shaking her head. “Not even close. Let’s just say Alfonso and I have unfinished business, and I’m not leaving until I settle it.”

He eyed her for a long moment, then smirked. “Well, you’re not the only one sniffing around for Alfonso. Word is he’s laying low, but Alfonso? Not exactly the sharpest tool in the shed. If you’ve got the patience, you’ll find him.”

“Patience isn’t my strong suit,” she replied, swirling her untouched drink. “Any chance someone here might help me speed things up?”

The bartender leaned closer, his tone a little colder. “People don’t just hand out info in a place like this. You want something? You’d better have something to offer.”

Coraline met his gaze evenly, her voice dropping just enough to convey an edge. “Let’s just say I’ve got a knack for solving problems. And something tells me this place has no shortage of those.”

The bartender let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “Good luck, sweetheart. Around here, problems usually get solved with fists or bullets.”

He moved away, leaving Coraline alone to plot her next move. She wasn’t discouraged—if anything, the interaction confirmed she was in the right place. Now she just needed to find the right person to talk to, someone with a problem she could solve in exchange for the lead she needed.

Her eyes swept the room, settling on a table in the far corner. Three bikers were locked in a heated discussion, their body language tense. One of them, a wiry man with tattoos snaking up his neck, gestured emphatically, his voice cutting through the noise.

“… Brotherhood’s pushing hard. Took a shipment out near Longueuil last week.”

“Bastards,” one of his companions growled. “They’re gunning for all of us.”

Coraline’s instincts flared. This was it—the thread she needed to pull. Adjusting her jacket, she adopted the easy swagger of a woman who knew how to insert herself into the right conversations. If she played her cards right, she’d be walking out of here with a solid lead—and maybe a few more pieces of the puzzle she was chasing.

Coraline had to admit, this was a solid start. "Lynn" was fitting in well enough, and the atmosphere here played into her hand. The haze of smoke, the dull roar of conversation, and the steady flow of alcohol were all working in her favor. A little more effort, perhaps a touch of seduction if needed, and she’d have the lead she was looking for.

She let her gaze wander again, her posture casual but purposeful. People here didn’t trust easily, and she’d have to play the part of someone who wasn’t a threat but also wasn’t to be underestimated. The trick was to make herself approachable without being vulnerable, confident without being cocky. That balance was key.

Coraline noticed a biker at the far end of the bar nursing a half-empty bottle of beer. He looked like the type who’d had a few too many already—the slight sway in his seat, the heavy-lidded eyes. His vest bore the Steel Nomads patch, and more importantly, a rank insignia that suggested he wasn’t just a low-level grunt. Perfect.

Adjusting her stance, she began to saunter over, letting her boots click against the floor just enough to announce her presence without seeming deliberate. Everything was falling into place, perfectly in line with her carefully laid plans, her mind always three steps ahead as she’d been trained.

What she hadn’t planned for, however, was the interruption about to barge through the door.

There was a resounding thud, followed by the unmistakable sound of a body hitting the floor. The scar-faced door guard, a hulking figure just moments ago, was hurled into the bar like a discarded ragdoll, landing in a groaning heap.

Violence wasn’t exactly a rarity in this place, but the sheer audacity of the act drew nearly every eye in the room toward the door, which swung open with a dramatic creak. The dim glow of the streetlights spilled inside, casting stark silhouettes of two figures standing in the doorway.

The two figures standing in the doorway exuded an undeniable aura of authority, their silhouettes sharp against the dim light spilling in from the street. Monsieur Minuit stood tall and imposing, his trench coat sweeping just above the ground, the gleaming straps and buckles of his tactical gear catching the light like faint stars in the dark. His sharp jawline and the faint glow of his domino mask gave him an intimidating edge, while the way he rolled his shoulders suggested a readiness to fight at a moment's notice. Beside him, Madame Minuit cut a striking figure—lean, athletic, and poised, with an almost predatory elegance. Her coat was slightly shorter, tailored for ease of movement, and her gloved fingers hovered near the throwing knives sheathed at her hip, a quiet but unmistakable warning.

The patrons of the bar, a rugged collection of bikers, mercenaries, and lowlifes, had fallen silent. All eyes were fixed on the Midnights as they strode in with deliberate confidence. The tension in the air was almost tangible, a coiled spring ready to snap. A few of the bikers shifted uneasily, muttering to one another, while others tightened their grips on half-empty beer bottles or rested their hands on their belts, close to hidden knives and guns. The bar was no stranger to violence, but the presence of these two vigilantes was something else entirely. They weren’t just intruders—they were disruptors, forces of nature with reputations that preceded them.

Vulpes, leaning casually against the bar, sipped from her drink as her sharp eyes darted between the vigilantes and the bikers. She recognized them immediately; their images had been splashed across media outlets for months. The press, always eager to sensationalize new heroes, villains, and vigilantes, had dubbed them "The Midnights," and the name had stuck. Lynn, however, was newer to the city and less familiar with its underworld players. She leaned toward the bartender, her voice low but laced with curiosity.

"Who are the two masks?" she asked, keeping her tone neutral.

The bartender, a grizzled man with a salt-and-pepper beard and a face weathered by years of this life, didn’t take his eyes off the duo as he answered.

"That’s Monsieur Minuit," he said, jerking his head toward the taller figure. "The guy’s a brawler, through and through. Fists like bricks—rumor is he once broke a man’s jaw clean with a single punch. He’s the muscle of the operation, no doubt about it." His voice lowered slightly, almost reverent despite the danger lacing his words. "And her—that’s Madame Minuit. She’s the sniper, or marksman, or whatever you want to call her. Heard stories about her pinning a guy’s ears to the wall with throwing knives from across the room. She’s got precision that’ll give you nightmares."

Vulpes nodded slowly, her sharp mind absorbing the information and recalibrating her plan. Her gaze flicked back to the duo as they continued their approach, their boots clicking against the floor in a deliberate rhythm that seemed to echo in the tense silence. She gestured toward the bikers with her chin, speaking softly to the bartender.

"So why isn’t anyone bolting or trying to knife them?” In Toronto, walking into a biker outlaw bar in anything other than a good disguise gets you shot—or worse.

The bartender’s lips twitched into a faint smirk. "That’s because they play fair—long as you don’t cross them. Most of the Nomads respect that. Few weeks back, the Midnights put the boots hard to the Blooded Brotherhood. Took out a whole chapter of those lunatics—cleaned up the streets, saved some locals. Earned 'em some respect around here. Enough that the Nomads don’t feel the need to shank or shoot ‘em on sight." His eyes flicked toward the heap of a man groaning on the floor. "Looks like our new bouncer didn’t get the memo, though. Poor bastard probably said the wrong thing."

The bartender chuckled dryly, his eyes never leaving the Midnights as they finally stepped fully into the bar. The room was deadly silent now, save for the groans of the downed bouncer. Madame Minuit’s eyes swept the room like a sniper scanning for her target, while Monsieur Minuit cracked his knuckles, the sound reverberating like a gunshot in the tension-laden air.

Vulpes studied them closely, her mind racing to assess the new dynamic. The Midnights had derailed her carefully laid plans, and while she wasn’t exactly thrilled about it, she also couldn’t ignore the way they commanded the room. Their presence was a double-edged sword—on one hand, they might prove a distraction she could use to her advantage. On the other, they could completely upend her operation if she wasn’t careful.

Vulpes leaned against the bar, hiding the slight arch of her brow as she watched the interplay between the Midnights and the room. Their dynamic was undeniable—Monsieur Minuit exuded raw strength, every inch of him brimming with controlled power, while Madame Minuit’s sharp, calculating gaze seemed to cut through the crowd like a blade. Together, they were an unstoppable force, complementing each other with a practiced ease that spoke of years working side by side. For all their bravado, they didn’t seem reckless—just confident. Vulpes tucked that observation away, her analytical mind working overtime. They weren’t wild cards—they were professionals.

Still, there was no denying their presence put her plans on shaky ground. Vulpes was careful about entangling herself with other vigilantes. While their goals often aligned, alliances in this line of work had a way of getting messy. The Midnights were clearly used to commanding the narrative, and Lynn, her criminal alter ego, wasn't eager to play second fiddle in someone else’s drama. But as Monsieur Minuit’s deep, steady voice cut through the silence, Coraline found herself reconsidering. They wanted justice, same as she did. Maybe, just maybe, there was common ground to be found—if she played her cards right.

"Sorry about the mess," Monsieur Minuit said, his tone unapologetic despite the words. He gestured toward the groaning bouncer without so much as a glance. "But he shouldn’t have been so crass toward my lady friend."

Madame Minuit’s smirk was faint but unmistakable, a flicker of amusement in her otherwise sharp expression. Her eyes swept the room, daring someone—anyone—to challenge them. None of the bikers took the bait. One particularly bold patron started to shift in his seat, but a withering glance from her froze him mid-motion. Her presence alone demanded respect—or at least the kind of fear that kept foolish men in check.

"We’re not here looking for a fight," Monsieur Minuit continued, his voice calm but firm, a low rumble that carried across the room. "Just some information. We’ll be out of your hair as soon as we get what we need. Namely, a few breadcrumbs about a man named Ruso who just came to town."

The name hung in the air like a lit fuse. Several patrons exchanged uneasy glances, their tension betraying more than they probably intended. Vulpes noted it immediately, her sharp instincts picking up on every nervous tic and subtle shift. Ruso clearly wasn’t just any man, and the reaction to his name told her everything she needed to know—he was trouble, the kind that even hardened bikers didn’t want to cross.

Behind the bar, the bartender stiffened slightly but recovered quickly, masking his unease with a practiced calm. "Ruso, huh?" he said, his voice gruff. He began wiping down an already-clean glass, the motion deliberate, a way to buy time as he decided how much to say. "Don’t know much, but word is he’s been sniffin’ around the docks. Got himself a little crew, too. Not the friendly kind."

Monsieur Minuit nodded slowly, absorbing the information. His posture was relaxed, but his presence remained imposing, a constant reminder of who controlled the room. Madame Minuit tilted her head slightly, her sharp gaze fixed on the bartender, as if gauging the truth behind his words.

Vulpes, meanwhile, watched the exchange with interest. The Midnights weren’t just strong—they were methodical, peeling back layers with an efficiency that spoke to their experience. It made her all the more curious about how they operated. For now, though, she stayed in the background, content to observe and let the scene play out.

One of the patrons, a burly woman with tattoos snaking up her muscular arms, slammed her drink down on the table with a force that made it rattle. She leaned forward, her lips curling into a sneer as she growled her response. "Steel Nomads ain't rats. If you two want information, try calling four-one-one!"

The tension in the room, already thick, seemed to harden into something even more tangible. A few of the other bikers grunted their agreement, their eyes narrowing as they watched the Midnights closely. The faint creak of leather and the clink of chains hinted at subtle shifts in posture—a room full of people preparing for the possibility of violence.

Monsieur Minuit’s response was measured, his deep voice cutting through the hostility with an eerie calm. "We’re not here to make enemies," he said, stepping forward just enough to assert his presence without encroaching too far. "And we’re not accusing anyone of being a rat. We just need to know where Ruso is. Once we have that, we’re gone."

Madame Minuit’s gaze flicked toward the woman who had spoken, her lips curling into a faint, almost predatory smile. "Unless, of course, you’d like us to stick around for a while. Something tells me that wouldn’t be much fun for anyone here." Her voice was smooth, dripping with the kind of confidence that only came from knowing she could back it up.

The tattooed woman’s jaw clenched, and for a moment, it looked like she might throw the first punch. But the collective weight of the room seemed to pull her back, the unspoken understanding that a fight with the Midnights wouldn’t end well for anyone. Instead, she spat on the floor, her glare like daggers. "You don’t scare me," she muttered. "But fine. I’ll tell you what I know—when hell freezes over."

Monsieur Minuit exhaled slowly, his broad shoulders rising and falling as he glanced toward the bartender. "I take it she doesn’t speak for everyone here?"

The bartender, who had been cleaning the same glass for far too long, gave a faint shrug, his expression carefully neutral. "She’s got a point, though. Nomads don’t take kindly to outsiders pokin’ around. If Ruso’s got anything to do with us, that’s our business, not yours."

Vulpes watched the exchange with interest, her sharp eyes noting every detail. The Midnights were holding their ground, but the situation was precarious. The bikers clearly weren’t eager to cooperate, and it wouldn’t take much for the room to erupt into violence. Still, she couldn’t help but be impressed by how the duo handled themselves—cool under pressure, unflinching in the face of open hostility.

But Coraline wasn’t about to let things spiral out of control. Taking another sip of her drink, she leaned toward the bartender, her voice low and deliberate. "Sounds like the lady’s done talking."

The bartender grunted, his gaze locked firmly on the Midnights, as though weighing every word and movement with a practiced wariness. His hand tightened around the glass he was polishing, but he stayed silent, unwilling to be the first to crack.

Monsieur Minuit rolled his neck, the faint popping sound audible even over the low buzz of the room. His fingers flexed with a deliberate motion, and his next words were calm yet heavy with unspoken intent. "Not anyone who’s heard a word about Alfonso Ruso?" he asked, his voice carrying just enough edge to demand attention.

Stepping forward, he rested a hand on one of the tables, the subtle creak of wood beneath his weight breaking the stillness. "Because the longer it takes us to get some information," he continued, his tone deceptively casual, "the longer we get to enjoy the atmosphere of this fine establishment." His gaze swept over the room, sharp and unyielding, daring anyone to challenge him.

The statement wasn’t a threat—not directly, at least—but it lingered in the air like a loaded gun. The bikers exchanged uneasy glances, some fidgeting in their seats while others kept their eyes fixed on their drinks. Tension coiled tighter, and the room seemed to hold its collective breath, waiting to see who would blink first.

Leaning against the bar, Coraline—Lynn Laforte—watched the scene unfold with a detached curiosity, taking another slow sip of her whiskey. She had to admit, there was something impressive about Monsieur Minuit’s approach. High risk, high reward. A bold gamble, but one that could just as easily backfire if the wrong nerve was struck.

Still, she couldn’t deny the method in his madness. By making himself the center of attention, he was drawing the heat away from Madame Minuit, whose sharp eyes darted across the room, taking in every detail. Coraline caught the faintest movement of the woman’s hand near her knives, ready to spring into action if things went south. It was a calculated maneuver, one that spoke of experience and a practiced dynamic between the pair.

The question, of course, was whether the bikers would take the bait—or if Monsieur Minuit’s bravado would push them too far. Coraline let her lips curl into a faint smirk as she leaned back, her posture relaxed but her mind sharp. Whether this was about to turn into a useful distraction or a full-blown disaster, she’d be ready to make her move.

The tension in the room broke like a taut wire snapping as Madame Minuit stepped closer to her partner, her movements smooth and deliberate. She leaned in, whispering something barely audible in Monsieur Minuit’s ear. Whatever she said, it caused an immediate shift in his posture. His rigid stance softened, and he nodded slightly in response, his expression calm but decisive.

"Well," Monsieur Minuit said, his voice cutting through the room like a blade, "seems like this is your lucky night. We won’t need to stick around after all." His tone carried an almost mocking warmth, as though he were leaving by choice rather than necessity. "Tell you what, next round’s on me." With a practiced flourish, he reached into his utility belt, pulling out a wad of cash and tossing it onto one of the tables. The bills fluttered down like leaves, drawing a few wide-eyed stares from the patrons.

The pair began to back away, moving toward the door with the same deliberate confidence they had walked in with. Every eye in the room remained fixed on them, wary of any sudden moves. The bikers, though visibly relieved, didn’t let their guards drop entirely. The unspoken message was clear: the Midnights might be leaving, but they weren’t retreating.

Coraline—Lynn Laforte—allowed herself the faintest smirk as she watched the scene unfold, her sharp mind piecing together the real game at play. The duo had come in bold, brash, and loud, commanding attention and sowing tension like a storm rolling in. But as Monsieur Minuit played the part of the heavy, hamming up his role as the enforcer, Madame Minuit had been watching. Observing. Calculating.

And, like Vulpes, she had seen it—the guy who panicked. A wiry man near the back of the room, trying too hard to melt into the shadows, had made the mistake of shifting toward the exit. The moment he had slipped from his seat and started edging toward the back door, his fate had been sealed.

The Midnights hadn’t come here expecting cooperation. They’d come to flush a rat from the pack, and they had done so with precision. Their theatrics, the tension they had stoked, it had all been a ruse—a means of forcing someone to break ranks. Now, with their target in motion, they would corner him on their terms.

Well played, Coraline thought, taking another slow sip of her whiskey. Very well played.

As the Midnights disappeared through the door, leaving the bar in a quiet buzz of unease, Vulpes leaned back against the bar and tapped her fingers thoughtfully against her glass. The game had just gotten a lot more interesting. She had come to Montreal to hunt Ruso, and now it seemed that she might have partners if of course they were willing to work together to see justice done..

Lynn—Coraline in disguise—rose slowly from her seat, stretching with the air of someone unaffected by the tension that had just roiled through the bar. She set a few bills on the counter, catching the bartender’s eye with a casual smirk. "Too much heat for me for my first night in town," she quipped, her voice carrying the same gritty drawl she had perfected for her cover.

The bartender nodded in understanding, his expression a mix of relief and curiosity as he watched her saunter toward the door. She pushed it open and stepped out into the cool night air, before the heavy door creaked shut behind her.

Outside, the energy of the bar faded into the hum of the city. Coraline’s posture shifted as soon as she was out of sight—no longer the cocky biker, but the focused vigilante slipping into her element. In truth, the "heat" she had just left behind was exactly the kind of fire she thrived in. But there were bigger priorities at the moment. The Midnights were on the move, and so was the man they had flushed out. If she wanted to see this through, she’d have to follow them.

She moved quickly, her steps precise and purposeful as she navigated toward her stash point. A small, secluded alley a few blocks away housed her gear—a secure case built hidden in the cracked brickwork of an old, forgotten storage facility. Coraline crouched beside it, her fingers deftly working the hidden mechanism to open it. Inside was her true self: the sleek, black-and-orange armor of the Vulpes, along with her utility belt and grappling gear.

She slipped into the suit with practiced efficiency, the familiar weight of the armor settling against her like a second skin. The wig came off, replaced by the red haired wig she wore as the Vulpes. Her mask clicked into place, its built-in optics flickering to life as she scanned the area for any signs of movement. Satisfied she was alone, Coraline—now fully the Vulpes—closed the case and secured it, vanishing into the shadows like she had never been there.

Her thoughts raced as she moved, her steps soundless against the pavement. Following the Midnights would require finesse. They were experienced and methodical, and she couldn’t afford to alert them to her presence—at least, not until she decided the time was right. The man they were after would lead them to valuable information about Ruso, and she wanted to be there to hear it firsthand.

Would introducing myself be the right move? The question lingered in her mind as she vaulted onto a rooftop, her grappling hook hissing quietly as it retracted into its spool. The etiquette of vigilantes operating in another’s territory wasn’t exactly a written rulebook, but Coraline liked to think she would appreciate it if a like-minded person came to Toronto with the same goal of delivering justice.

The Midnights clearly had a style all their own—one that she could respect, even if it was different from hers. And if they were truly aligned in their pursuit of justice, working together might not just be an option—it might be the best way to ensure Ruso’s capture.

From her vantage point above the street, Vulpes activated the tracker in her mask, scanning for signs of movement that might lead her to her targets. The thrill of the hunt coursed through her, sharpening her senses. Tonight wasn’t just about finding Ruso—it was about determining whether the Midnights were allies, rivals, or something in between.

Either way, she thought, a faint smirk tugging at her lips as she launched herself toward the next rooftop, this is going to be interesting.