Coraline moved through the halls of the firm with an urgency that made most of her co-workers almost subconsciously adjust themselves to grant her passage. Dressed in her usual professional attire, she exuded a quiet authority that ensured she didn’t need to speak to clear a path. Her sharp heels clicked against the marble floor, echoing like a countdown. Her day job as Coraline Penrose, rising young attorney, was officially over, but her real work—the work she had a true passion for—was just about to begin.

She reached her office, shut the door behind her, and let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. Moving with practiced efficiency, she pulled out her briefcase, carefully locking the door as she slid a hidden panel in her desk aside. Beneath it, neatly folded, lay the tools of her nocturnal trade: her armored suit, her gadgets, and her mask.

She sat down at her desk and clicked on the police scanner app on her tablet, letting the white noise fill the air as she loosened her ponytail and massaged her temples. The chatter of law enforcement filtered through her earbuds, painting a scattered picture of the city’s underbelly. Nothing major yet—a robbery in progress, a street fight between gangs, a suspicious vehicle abandoned on a bridge. Nothing that screamed for the Vulpes’ immediate attention, but Coraline knew that could change in an instant.

Coraline leaned back in her chair, letting the constant hum of the scanner serve as background noise as she mulled over her next move. The delicate balance between Toronto's crime syndicates required constant vigilance. It wasn’t enough to simply dismantle one—doing so risked tipping the scales and handing power to another. Each push had to be calculated, each pull deliberate, like playing chess against a board full of opponents all waiting to exploit the slightest misstep.

The Ruso Family’s drug trade was a cornerstone of their operation. Disrupting it wouldn’t just hurt their finances; it would destabilize their influence over key territories. But she had to tread carefully. Taking out one shipment could lead to retaliation, either from the Rusos themselves or from their rivals who saw an opportunity to strike while they were weakened. A gang war would turn the city into a battlefield, and she couldn’t let that happen—not while innocent lives were at stake.

Her phone buzzed, breaking her thoughts. She glanced at the screen to see John’s name. Swiping to answer, she pressed the phone to her ear.

“Talk to me.”

“I’ve got something solid,” John said, his voice steady but tinged with urgency. “Ruso enforcers are moving a shipment tonight. It’s big. Location’s at the docks.”

Coraline’s pulse quickened. The docks—a hub for the Ruso Family’s legal and illegal operations alike. Whatever they were moving, it had to be important.

“Details?” she asked, already mentally preparing to suit up.

“Not much yet,” John admitted. “But I’ve got a friend on the inside who says this isn’t just another drug haul. Something about it has them on edge. Extra muscle, tighter security, the works.”

“Great,” Coraline muttered, pinching the bridge of her nose. “If they’re on edge, it means they’re expecting trouble.”

“Which means you’ll need to be careful,” John replied. “You up for it?”

“Always.” She stood, her hand brushing against the hidden panel in her desk. “Meet me at the Den, I’ve got some new gear for you that might help.”

“Got it,” John said before the line went dead.

Coraline exhaled sharply, moving with purpose now. The Silver Kit was waiting for her in the underground parking lot, and the familiar routine of suiting up as the Vulpes was already playing out in her mind. Tonight wasn’t just about stopping a shipment. Tonight was about showing the Ruso Family—and every other syndicate in Toronto—that their days of unchecked power were coming to an end.

Sliding her desk panel shut, she grabbed her briefcase and headed for the door. It was time for the Vulpes to hunt.

The Silver Kit glided smoothly through the hidden drive, its headlights reflecting off the rugged stone walls of the tunnel as it descended into the heart of the Den. Coraline felt a sense of satisfaction each time she returned here. It wasn’t just a hideout; it was a piece of history, a legacy built by those who’d come before her—smugglers, wartime operatives, and one eccentric doomsday prepper. And now, it was hers.

The hidden drive opened into a spacious underground garage, its ceiling high enough to house vehicles far larger than her sleek, modified Jaguar. Workbenches lined the walls, illuminated by warm overhead lights, and racks of tools gleamed in neat rows. The air smelled faintly of oil and ozone, a comforting scent that spoke of readiness and innovation.

Coraline stepped out of the car, the echo of her boots on the polished floor reverberating through the cavernous space. She glanced around, her sharp eyes taking in the various projects John had left half-finished: a drone prototype, a set of advanced grappling devices, and what appeared to be some kind of experimental armor. The Den was constantly evolving, just like her mission.

John was already waiting for her, leaning against one of the workbenches with a mug of coffee in his hand. He straightened as she approached, his sharp eyes scanning her for signs of weariness. “You’re cutting it close,” he remarked, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “What happened? Big lawyer meeting run late?”

“Something like that,” Coraline replied, shedding her blazer and tossing it onto a nearby chair. She rolled her shoulders, already feeling lighter as she left her daytime persona behind. “Anything new on the docks?”

“Not yet,” John said, pushing off the bench and setting his mug down. “But I’ve been going over the layout and pulling what intel I can. It’s a nightmare—maze-like, multiple warehouses, and more blind spots than I’d like. If they’ve got extra security, it’s going to be a slog.”

Coraline nodded, already shifting into her tactical mindset. “Then we make it simple. Identify the shipment, disrupt it, and get out. Minimal engagement.”

“Minimal engagement,” John echoed, though his tone suggested he wasn’t entirely convinced. “Right. Because that always works out.”

She shot him a wry look before moving toward her locker, where her suit and gear were neatly stored. The Vulpes suit gleamed under the lights, its lightweight armor panels catching the faint shine of the LEDs embedded in the walls. Coraline ran her hand over the material, feeling the familiar grooves and reinforced plates.

As she began gearing up, she couldn’t help but think about the Den itself. The smuggling tunnels, the wartime expansion, and the Cold War paranoia had all come together to create a labyrinthine fortress that she and John had made their own. It was a sanctuary, a workshop, and a war room all rolled into one. Her grandfather would’ve loved it, she thought with a pang of bittersweet pride.

Her mind drifted briefly to the Silver Fox, the legendary gentleman thief who had taught her everything she knew about stealth, strategy, and survival. His death had left a void in her life, but his teachings had given her a purpose. Now, as the Vulpes, she carried on his legacy, blending his old-school elegance with her own brand of justice.

“You good?” John’s voice pulled her from her thoughts.

“Yeah,” Coraline said, fastening the last piece of her armor. She reached for her mask, feeling the familiar weight in her hands. “Let’s get to work.”

John took a slow, deliberate sip of his coffee, savoring the bitterness like a small victory. Coraline had known him long enough to recognize the glint of mischief in his dark eyes, the telltale sign he had something up his sleeve. He was one of her closest friends—the only person she trusted enough to share her double life with—and his unwavering support made him indispensable in her war on crime.

“So,” he began casually, setting the mug down, “I mentioned I had some new gear for you, didn’t I?”

“You did,” Coraline replied, tugging at the straps of her boots to ensure they were secure. Her tone was neutral, but a flicker of curiosity crept into her expression.

John leaned back in his chair, the smirk on his face growing. “Yeah, I know you’ve been wanting to retire some of your granddad’s old tech and put your own stamp on things. I mean, it’s great gear, but… let’s be real, some of it’s a little vintage.”

“Get to the point,” she said, slotting a few gadgets into her utility belt with practiced efficiency.

“Alright, alright,” he said, holding up his hands in mock surrender. “Look, I know I promised to build you your very own car—better than the Silver Kit, if I do say so myself—but that project’s still in the works. Long way from finished.”

“Then why bring it up?” Coraline arched an eyebrow, her voice tinged with impatience.

“Because,” he said, leaning forward with a conspiratorial grin, “I wouldn’t mention it unless I had something else ready to blow your mind. You know me better than that.”

“Alright, show me,” Coraline said, a trace of excitement slipping into her voice despite herself. She kept her expression neutral—no need to feed John’s already considerable ego—but she always enjoyed seeing his inventive genius in action.

John’s smile widened as he led Coraline toward something concealed under a heavy tarp in the garage. There was a spring in his step, the kind he got when he was deep into one of his engineering projects, knee-deep in grease and wires. Coraline couldn’t help but let a small smile tug at her lips. He was a mechanic and inventor through and through, and it showed in every detail of his work.

He grabbed the edge of the tarp, his excitement barely contained. “So, I used some of the, uh, let’s call it ‘equipment’ you liberated from our less-than-savory acquaintances.”

Coraline, or rather Vulpes now that she had donned her mask, cocked her head. “Stole, John. Let’s not sugarcoat it. I am still the Silver Fox’s protégé, and I take some pride in my, let’s say, larcenous talents.” Her tone was light, but the glint of truth behind her words made him chuckle.

“Fair enough,” he said, rolling his eyes. “Took a bit of your personal funds, too, but trust me, it was worth it. I think you’ll agree when you see this.”

With a dramatic flourish, he yanked the tarp away, revealing a sleek, modern motorcycle. Coraline’s breath hitched, her yellow lenses masking the widening of her eyes. It was compact, streamlined, and clearly built for speed and agility in an urban setting. Painted in dark orange and black with white accents, it mirrored her red fox persona perfectly.

“I call her the Vixen,” John declared with obvious pride. “Spared no expense—aircraft-grade titanium for the frame, stealth coatings, cutting-edge tech, overclocked everything. This beauty has specs that would make a fighter jet jealous.”

Coraline nodded slowly, stepping forward to run a hand over the smooth curves of the bike. Her gloved fingers traced the throttle as she saddled up, feeling the balance and power beneath her. This wasn’t just a machine; it was hers. Her bike, not one of her grandfather’s relics but something new, something made just for her. She felt a flicker of excitement she wasn’t about to let John see—his ego didn’t need any more fuel.

“It’s… not bad,” she said finally, adjusting the bike’s settings with an air of practiced indifference.

John smirked, unfazed by her faint praise. “Not bad? It’s a masterpiece, and you know it. But wait, there’s more.”

He held up a helmet that matched the bike’s colors perfectly. “The helmet’s got a full comm suite, heads-up display, real-time data feeds, night vision—all the bells and whistles. Oh, and…” He pointed to the fox-shaped ears adorning the top. “They double as antennae. Functional and fabulous.”

Coraline tilted her head as she took the helmet, turning it over in her hands. “Fox ears?” she said, her voice laced with dry amusement.

“Branding,” John said with a shrug. “You’re welcome.”

She slid the helmet on, the snug fit feeling natural as the heads-up display blinked to life inside the visor. Information began streaming across her field of vision, smooth and intuitive. She gripped the handlebars, revving the engine lightly. The bike roared to life, its purr low and menacing, like a predator ready to strike.

“Not bad at all,” she murmured under her breath, a genuine smile tugging at her lips, hidden beneath her mask.

“Not bad?” John repeated, feigning offense. “Come on, I poured my soul into this beast! The Vixen’s a masterpiece, built from the ground up with cutting-edge tech—this baby will leave anything else on the road eating her dust.”

Coraline smirked behind her mask, her fingers lightly caressing the handlebars. “You’re really laying it on thick, John.”

“Can’t help it. You’re looking at the pinnacle of urban maneuverability here,” he said, stepping back to admire his handiwork. 

“It’ll do,” she said finally, though the delight in her tone was unmistakable 

John crossed his arms, a smug grin plastered on his face. “That’s the sound of perfection, my friend. You’re welcome.”

“Thanks, John,” she said, letting her appreciation show through her usually measured tone. “You really outdid yourself.”

“Anything for my favorite masked vigilante,” he replied with a mock bow. “Just try not to wreck it on your first ride, yeah?”

"Okay, I don't want to be late for work. I’ve got to get to the docks on the lake and figure out what the Ruso family’s smuggling into Toronto this time," Coraline said, her voice calm but resolute.

With a quick nod of acknowledgment to John, she started up the Vixen. The bike’s sleek design shifted slightly under her weight, settling like a predator ready to pounce. She revved the engine, and instead of the roar she’d expected, the Vixen emitted a low, feline purr—stealthy, powerful, and ominously quiet. It suited her perfectly.

John smirked as he leaned against his workbench, arms crossed. “Just remember, it’s a bike, not a battering ram.”

“Don’t worry,” Coraline replied, her tone laced with dry humor. “Besides, when am I ever hard on your tech?.”

She gave him a mock salute and guided the Vixen out of the Den. As the vaulted doors slid shut behind her, the bike surged forward, almost whisper-quiet as it glided along the hidden driveway.

The long, winding back roads leading into Toronto stretched out before her—a perfect testing ground. She rolled her shoulders, settled into the seat, and gave the throttle a satisfying twist. The Vixen responded instantly, rocketing forward with an ease and precision that made her grin behind her mask. The bike was everything John had promised—fast, silent, and agile. It felt like an extension of her own body, every movement seamless as she leaned into curves and accelerated down the deserted stretch of asphalt.

This was more than just a bike. It was freedom, power, and precision—a perfect tool for her mission. And maybe, just maybe, she thought as she opened the throttle and let the wind whip around her, it was also a little bit of fun.

The city lights of Toronto began to glitter on the horizon, growing brighter with each passing second. Tonight, the Ruso family was her target, and whatever they were bringing in at the docks wouldn’t make it past her watch. But for now, as she weaved through the quiet countryside, she allowed herself a moment to savor the ride.

"Alright, Vixen," she murmured, her voice barely audible over the bike’s hum. "Let’s see what you can really do."

Had anyone been present that evening in the rural outskirts of Toronto, they would have witnessed quite a show. Coraline Penrose, masked as the Vulpes, was many things—a strategist, a crimefighter, a relentless force for justice—but above all, she was a damn good driver. The Vixen roared (or purred, rather) through the empty countryside, its sleek frame gliding with grace as she put it through its paces.

Cars and bikes had been the cornerstone of her relationship with her father. Growing up in privilege might have meant ponies or private lessons for other girls her age, but Coraline had always preferred the rumble of engines and the thrill of speed. Minibikes, quads, and ATVs had been her childhood companions, her father’s patience and enthusiasm teaching her not just how to drive but how to truly master a machine.

The Vixen was no different. As she leaned into a sharp turn, she felt the tires grip the asphalt like a predator’s claws, the bike obeying her every command. The countryside blurred past, moonlight catching the reflective highlights of her suit and the faint glimmer of the bike’s fox-ear antennae. She was in her element—focused, controlled, and completely at one with the machine beneath her.

The straightaway ahead called to her, and she couldn’t resist. Twisting the throttle, she urged the Vixen to full speed. The landscape became a streak of muted colors, the wind rushing past her, the bike’s hum a soft crescendo that only enhanced the thrill. It wasn’t reckless; it was precision, discipline, and skill. Every movement was deliberate, every action calculated.

For Coraline, this was more than a joyride. It was preparation. Every twist of the handlebars and every calculated maneuver reminded her that she wasn’t just testing the Vixen—she was honing herself for the fight ahead. The Ruso family wouldn’t go down easily, but with the Vixen at her side (and under her), she felt more than ready for whatever they threw her way.

Toronto’s docks—or at least this section of them—transformed after dark. The hum of daytime activity and the clatter of machinery gave way to a tense, deliberate silence. By night, the legitimate hustle of shipping containers and freight trucks was replaced with shadowy dealings under the watchful eyes of trench-coated sentinels. Made men stood in clusters, their postures stiff, their conversations clipped. Cargo was prepped for arrival from across the Great Lakes, each crate carrying secrets worth more than gold.

But something else hung in the air tonight—a tension that set everyone on edge. Dock workers murmured nervously, and even the enforcers stationed on the ground moved with an air of caution. The source of this unease wasn’t just the shipment; it was the matte black hearse parked in the shadows of the yard. The vehicle stood out like an omen, its silver trim gleaming faintly under the dock's overhead lights. Its presence was iconic, unmistakable, and chilling.

The hearse wasn’t here by accident. Stefano “The Grave Digger” Ruso had arrived.

Perched high above on a crane’s crossbeam, Vulpes watched the scene unfold through her yellow-tinted lenses, her jaw tightening as she took in the sight of the hearse. She moved like a shadow across the crane’s arm, her footing precise as she positioned herself for a better view. From this vantage point, she could see the men shifting nervously around the docks, and her gaze landed on Stefano himself. He stood near the hearse, a towering figure dressed sharply in a dark suit, his broad shoulders and deliberate movements exuding authority.

Vulpes grimaced beneath her mask. This complicated things. Stefano “The Grave Digger” Ruso wasn’t just another Mafia cleaner. He straddled the line between traditional organized crime and the world of supervillains. Known for his precision, his talent for making problems disappear—both evidence and bodies—and his unnerving obsession with death and funeral rites, Stefano was a figure who inspired dread even among his own ranks. When he donned his skeletal armor, he became more than a hitman; he became a symbol of mortality itself, wielding his persona like a weapon.

Her gaze lingered on the hearse for a moment longer before shifting to the cargo being prepared for unloading. Whatever was coming in tonight, it was valuable enough to bring in Stefano himself. She’d been chasing leads on the Ruso family’s operations for weeks, and this was her chance to finally uncover something concrete. But Stefano being here meant the stakes had been raised—dramatically.

Crouched on the beam, Vulpes activated the mic in her helmet and murmured into the comms. “John, you’re not going to believe who the Rusos brought in tonight.”

John’s voice crackled through her earpiece. “Let me guess. Someone with a name that sounds like it belongs in a Halloween movie?”

“Close. Stefano Ruso.”

There was a pause on the other end, followed by a low whistle. “The Grave Digger? You sure about that?”

“His hearse is here, and I’ve got eyes on him.” Vulpes shifted her position, her body tense but controlled. “This isn’t just a regular smuggling job. If Stefano’s involved, they’re either covering something big, or they’re expecting trouble.”

“Which means you’re walking into a hornet’s nest,” John said, his tone losing its usual humor. “Be careful, Cora. That guy’s not like the usual muscle.”

“Don’t worry,” she replied, though her grip on the beam tightened. “I know what I’m dealing with. I’ve just got to figure out what they’re hiding before Stefano decides to try and bury me, too.”

She moved with calculated precision, descending from the crane toward a stack of shipping containers. The shadows clung to her like a second skin as she surveyed the scene below. The docks had become a chessboard, and Stefano was the piece that could tip the entire game.

Even without his signature body armor, Stefano "The Grave Digger" Ruso was a man who commanded attention—and fear. Broad-shouldered and standing tall in a perfectly tailored gray suit, his imposing frame exuded a quiet, predatory confidence. The suit, no matter how finely made, did little to conceal the muscular, battle-hardened physique beneath. This was a man forged for violence, someone who thrived in the darkness of the underworld.

From her perch, Vulpes watched as Stefano’s cold, calculating eyes swept the perimeter of the docks. His gaze was methodical, missing nothing, and she felt the weight of his presence even at a distance. Stefano wasn’t like the usual hired muscle the Ruso family employed—he was leagues above them, a professional cleaner with a reputation for precision and ruthlessness. Coraline knew that even the smallest mistake on her part would draw his attention, and Stefano Ruso wasn’t the type to hesitate once he had a target.

She grimaced, her mind racing as she weighed her options. Stefano’s reputation was no exaggeration; his skill set was the kind of thing black-ops operatives would admire. Hand-to-hand combat, tactical marksmanship, and an almost preternatural ability to adapt to any situation—it was no wonder he was one of the Ruso family’s most trusted assets. Worse, if her instincts were right, he had a Desert Eagle holstered under that suit jacket, likely loaded with armor-piercing rounds. One wrong move, and she’d be outmatched, even with her gadgets and armor.

Coraline adjusted her position, her movements slow and deliberate as she stuck to the shadows. Stefano might not be in his full battle gear tonight, but that didn’t make him any less dangerous. She had to remain invisible, her every step calculated. If she wanted to uncover what the Rusos were up to and shut this operation down, she couldn’t afford to let Stefano catch so much as a glimpse of her.

Her yellow lenses glinted faintly in the low light as she activated her helmet’s zoom function, focusing on the scene below. The men surrounding Stefano were nervous, their postures stiff as they moved crates under his watchful eye. That alone told her plenty—his presence didn’t just intimidate enemies; it kept his own allies in line. This wasn’t just another shipment. Whatever the Ruso family was moving tonight was important enough to warrant their most feared cleaner who moonlighted as a hitman overseeing the operation.

Vulpes exhaled quietly, centering herself. This was going to be a challenge, but challenges were her specialty. If Stefano was the Ruso family’s grim reaper, then tonight, she’d have to be their shadow—a phantom moving unseen, striking before anyone knew she was there. Her heart pounded as she prepared to descend further, knowing full well the risk she was taking.

The game was on.