John had joked about her avoiding a fight, but in truth, Vulpes had always been a thief first and foremost. Her skills as a fighter were sharp, but the art of staying unseen and avoiding conflict was where she truly excelled. Her grandfather, the infamous Silver Fox, had drilled that lesson into her from an early age. A legendary gentleman thief, he had taught her that the best heists were the ones where no one ever knew you were there. Tonight, she intended to prove just how well she’d learned those lessons as she set out to uncover the Ruso syndicate's plans.

She crouched low on a rooftop overlooking the docks, her sharp eyes scanning the scene below. The docks were bustling with activity, but not the kind that came with legal shipments. Men in trench coats moved with purpose, their paths weaving between crates and cargo containers, while others loitered near vehicles, keeping a close watch on their surroundings. The iconic hearse sat ominously near a warehouse, a grim centerpiece to the operation.

"Case the joint, identify security hard points, priority targets, and gaps in defenses," she repeated her grandfather’s lesson silently, letting the mantra ground her. It was as much instinct as it was strategy now. Her mask’s HUD flickered softly in the corner of her vision, marking out the positions of key players and pathways she might exploit.

She noted the glaring weak points first: the gaps between the cargo containers, the poorly lit sections near the edge of the dock, and a ladder that led up to the warehouse’s roof. A small team of armed men patrolled the area, their movements steady but predictable. She could already see patterns in their routes. They weren’t careless, but they weren’t invincible either.

Her attention shifted to the hearse and the men near it. Stefano Ruso, "The Grave Digger," stood by the vehicle, his imposing figure impossible to miss. He radiated an aura of menace that made even his own men edgey. He was scanning the area, sharp and calculating. Vulpes narrowed her eyes. Stefano was the hard point here, the one variable that made this job riskier than she’d have liked.

But even Stefano wasn’t unfailable, she reminded herself. He was thorough, not omniscient. If she timed her movements carefully, she could bypass him altogether. Her goal wasn’t to confront him anyway; it was to gather intel.

Vulpes adjusted her gloves and slipped further into the shadows. Tonight wasn’t about showing strength. Tonight was about proving why her grandfather had called her his most promising protégé. This was her element.

Timing was everything, and Vulpes had honed hers to perfection. She moved with the fluidity of a shadow slipping between pools of light and darkness, her presence so unobtrusive that even the sharpest eyes might dismiss her as a trick of the mind. Stealth wasn’t just about silence or skill; it was about the subtle art of perception manipulation. People saw what they expected to see, and she knew how to exploit that, creating distractions in their minds without ever lifting a finger.

She waited for the perfect moment—when the patrol near the cargo containers turned a corner, their backs to her, and Stefano glanced toward another group of men shouting orders. She darted forward, each movement calculated and deliberate. Her boots barely made a sound as she slipped behind a stack of crates, flattening herself against the cool steel and letting her dark suit blend with the shadows.

Patience was her greatest weapon. She didn’t rush; she let the chaos of the docks mask her presence. A man nearby lit a cigarette, the flare of the match briefly illuminating his face. Vulpes remained still, her heartbeat steady, her breathing controlled. The trick wasn’t just to avoid making noise—it was to blend so seamlessly with the environment that no one even thought to look for her.

She watched as the cigarette-smoker turned and ambled toward another group, leaving the area clear. Timing. She slipped along the edge of the crates, her movements synchronized with the ambient noise of the dock—a truck engine roaring to life, the metallic clatter of chains being dragged, voices arguing in the distance.

She was close enough now to hear snippets of conversation. Two men near a shipping manifest were discussing something about “the shipment.” Their voices were low, but her audio amplifiers picked up enough to piece together the important bits.

“The boss says it’s too sensitive to store here long,” one muttered, his voice tinged with nervousness.

“Yeah, but moving it again? That’s another risk,” the other replied with a grunt. “The Americans don’t like delays, and they’re offering big money for this stuff. Real big money.”

Vulpes frowned behind her mask, the gears in her mind clicking into place. Sensitive cargo, a high-stakes deal with American buyers, and Stefano’s watchful presence—it all painted a picture she didn’t like. The Ruso family wasn’t importing; they were exporting, and whatever this “stuff” was, it wasn’t the usual drugs, weapons, or stolen goods. It was something different, something bigger.

She remained perfectly still, her dark form blending seamlessly into the shadows of the crates stacked around her. One of the men shuffled their papers, muttering about shipping schedules and payment transfers, their words confirming that the shipment was on a strict timeline. If the Americans, whoever they were in this case, were paying big money, it had to be something valuable enough—or dangerous enough—to warrant this level of coordination and paranoia.

The perimeter of the operation was now fully mapped in her mind. She knew where the guards were stationed, the routes they patrolled, and the blind spots in their coverage. Her mask's enhanced lenses highlighted potential entry points in infrared, and she mentally cataloged the rotation of each camera. Every gap, every weak point was noted with the precision her grandfather had drilled into her. The old man had been right—timing wasn’t just a skill, it was an art.

Her next move was clear. She had to find the heart of this operation, the centerpiece of whatever the Rusos were planning to ship out. But to do that, she had to remain invisible—not just to the lackeys but to Stefano. He may not have seen her yet, but his presence weighed heavy on the air. The man wasn’t just a cleaner; he was a predator, and predators could feel when something was amiss.

She took a slow, measured breath and began her advance, keeping her movements synced to the noise of the dockyard—a truck engine rumbling to life, the clanking of chains, the low hum of machinery. She was a shadow among shadows, a fox stalking her prey in the dead of night.

Sensitive cargo. Big money. American buyers. Whatever this was, her gut told her it wasn’t just the bread and butter smuggling operations of the Italian Mafia. 

What she needed was to get a look inside the crates they were preparing to ship out. The Ruso family had a well-documented habit of hiding their most valuable or illicit goods among mundane items, shipped under the guise of their legitimate business fronts. It was a tried-and-true tactic, one that made customs inspections and police scrutiny all the more difficult. Coraline had no reason to believe they’d deviate from that playbook now—it was too effective, and they were too arrogant to assume anyone could outfox them.

The real challenge lay in pinpointing the right crate. There were dozens scattered across the docks, stacked high and marked with innocuous labels: “Hardware Supplies,” “Industrial Parts,” and “Agricultural Equipment.” All perfectly plausible for a business with the Ruso family’s connections, but one of these was hiding something far more dangerous. Something worth Stefano’s personal oversight.

Her yellow lenses scanned the area again, locking onto the movement of a forklift inching toward the cargo ship. Its operator, a burly man in a weathered jacket, didn’t look twice at the crates he was moving, but Vulpes took careful note of which containers were being prioritized. Three of them, marked with a subtle blue stripe near the bottom edge, had been loaded together and carefully stacked. Too carefully, she thought. Someone had taken special care to ensure these weren’t jostled or mishandled. That alone made them worth investigating.

She exhaled slowly, measuring her next move. Getting inside one of those crates without drawing attention was going to require precision, especially with Stefano patrolling nearby. But she had learned long ago that patience and ingenuity were a thief’s greatest weapons. Her grandfather had drilled that into her: Don’t just think about getting in, think about getting out. If you can’t see the exit, you’ve already lost.

Sliding back into the shadows, she began her approach. Timing her movements with the forklift’s slow crawl and the low murmur of the workers, she darted from cover to cover. A stack of pallets, a parked truck, the dark underside of a loading ramp—each provided just enough concealment as she crept closer to the crates. She reached the edge of the stack, her gloved fingers brushing against the cold metal surface of one of the containers.

Now came the tricky part.

From her utility belt, she retrieved a slender, multipurpose lock-picking tool—a compact marvel designed for moments just like this. Cutting through the door would have been faster, but it lacked the finesse her current situation demanded. Instead, she crouched low by the container's lock, her gloved hands steady as she worked the tool into the mechanism.

The soft clicks of tumblers falling into place were barely audible over the distant hum of machinery and the occasional murmur of voices. This was where patience paid off; a rushed job would only attract unwanted attention. Vulpes tilted her head slightly, her sharp ears catching the subtle shifts within the lock.

A final click, and the lock surrendered with a satisfying snap. She eased the door open just enough to slip through, careful not to let the hinges groan or the metal clang against the frame. In moments, she was inside, the door closing silently behind her, sealing her within the container’s shadows.

The interior of the crate smelled of oil and wood, its floor covered with neatly arranged industrial supplies—spools of wire, heavy-duty bolts, and sealed plastic containers. But she wasn’t here for the window dressing. Her lenses scanned for anomalies, searching for anything that didn’t belong.

There it was. A false bottom, its edges barely perceptible beneath the neatly arranged supplies. She smiled faintly behind her mask. Predictable indeed.

She worked quickly, shifting the industrial supplies aside to access the hidden compartment. Inside were several smaller cases, the cases here unmarked, almost painfully plain. She produced a small flat tool from her belt and used it to slowly and carefully pry open one of the wooden crates lids. What was inside was not what she expected.

Inside the dim confines of the container, Vulpes’ sharp eyes scanned the unmarked crates. The contents were unlike anything she had expected—advanced devices that screamed cutting-edge technology, though their exact purpose eluded her. The headset, with its embedded, sparkling micro-crystals and exposed circuitry, looked eerily futuristic. A box-like device with dials and connectors sat beside it, clearly part of the same setup. Everything was packed meticulously in foam padding, with no markings or labels to give away its origin or purpose.

Her instincts told her these weren’t ordinary smuggled goods. Whatever these devices were, they were valuable—too valuable for the Rusos to risk shipping out without good reason.

The faint sound of deliberate, heavy footsteps outside the container snapped her focus back to the present. She froze, listening intently. Stefano’s measured voice followed, cutting through the ambient noise of the docks like a knife.

“Something doesn’t feel right. Check those crates again.”

Vulpes gritted her teeth. She needed to act fast. She slipped her micro-camera from her utility belt and quickly took several shots of the devices, ensuring she captured every detail, from the crystalline structures to the peculiar wiring and control panels. Once satisfied, she pocketed the camera and turned her attention back to the crates.

Her gloved hands moved swiftly as she retrieved the headset and one of the smaller connected devices, tucking them into a padded pouch on her belt. Samples secured, she reached for her final touch—a compact incendiary device. With practiced efficiency, she armed the device, setting a short delay timer before placing it carefully among the remaining crates. Whatever the Rusos were planning with this tech, they wouldn’t have the chance to complete it.

The footsteps outside grew closer, accompanied by muffled conversation. Vulpes took a calming breath, glancing around for her exit. Her fingers brushed against the container’s inner frame, finding the latch she’d used to slip inside.

As she eased the door open just wide enough to slip through, she activated the incendiary’s timer. Ten seconds. Just enough time to disappear into the shadows.

Slipping out silently, she darted toward the nearest stack of crates, blending into the darkness as the incendiary device detonated behind her with a dull whoomp. Flames and smoke began to pour from the container, drawing the shouts of panicked men scrambling to contain the blaze.

Stefano’s voice cut through the chaos, sharp and commanding. “Get that fire out now! Secure the rest of the shipment! And find whoever’s responsible for this!”

Vulpes smirked behind her mask, slipping further into the shadows. Whatever the Rusos were up to, they had just taken a major hit. And she had the samples she needed to start piecing the puzzle together.

Before she disappeared into the night, there was one last thing Vulpes had to do—a calling card, a reminder to the Mafia that their veneer of control was just that: a façade. Fear was a weapon as sharp as any blade, and she wielded it with precision. Besides, she couldn’t deny the satisfaction of knowing she both infuriated and terrified the city’s criminal element. A little personal touch to send the message home.

She moved swiftly, keeping low as she reached for the small can of spray paint tucked into her utility belt. With practiced ease, she shook it silently and aimed it at a nearby cargo crate. In bold, sharp strokes, a fox’s face began to take shape, its sly grin and piercing eyes glaring defiantly back at anyone who might stumble upon it.

The hiss of the paint was lost in the din of shouting men and crackling flames. When she was done, she stepped back to admire her work for a fleeting second before melting into the shadows once more.

Let them find it. Let them fume and fret, knowing full well that the Vulpes had been here, unseen and untouchable, and had walked away with more than just their precious cargo.

As she slipped through the perimeter, disappearing into the night, a faint smile tugged at her lips beneath her mask. The message was clear: they weren’t safe—not from her, not anywhere.