A right hand, clad in a black rubber glove, moved across the desk. Deliberate. Graceful. It hovered momentarily before selecting a red ink pen.

The left followed—gloved as well—laying down a pristine sheet of white paper.

Then, with slow, thoughtful strokes, the hands began to write.

Each motion was precise. Reverent.

As if crafting scripture.

Oh blood, oh vitae, oh ichor of life
When bled to the last, I free them from strife
Each ebbing drop as they lose their life—
Look how still, how serene, my artistic scene.

Each stroke is a brush on a canvas corpse,
Each caress of my steel, an act of remorse.
Their life is the muse,
Their vessel my clay,
Each twitching spasm choreography in my play.

When the final line was written, the hand paused. The paper was lifted. A gentle breath blew across the ink to dry it.

With delicate care, the sheet was folded into thirds. An envelope appeared. The glue edge was moistened by a slow, deliberate lick before the note was sealed inside.

The envelope joined a shelf—One of dozens, all identical.

All unopened.

All waiting.

With a soft click, the new letter was slotted into place among its kin.

A voice—low, almost tender—whispered into the dim silence:

“And so I go… where my muse takes me.”

***

Later That Night

Sleep rarely came easily to Coraline Penrose.

Not since her grandfather’s murder. Not since she donned the mask and became the Vulpes.

Every choice she made—every blow struck, every line crossed in the name of justice—echoed louder when the world went quiet. When the lights were out and the mask came off, there was only her… and the memories.

Psychedelic—once Dr. Lyra Sinclair—had been a respected mind, a brilliant specialist. Now she was something twisted, broken, dangerous… and Coraline couldn’t shake the truth:

 She hadn’t stopped Psychedelic.

She had created her.

Alice Little, one of Coraline’s oldest friends, was awaiting trial for a mental break that had left people hospitalized. Coraline had been the one to take her down. No mask could protect you from that kind of pain.

She had found a new ally in Montreal—Le Renard Noir, fierce and principled—but she had also seen the worst kind of betrayal:
 

Jean Bellerose, Monsieur Minuit, a vigilante she once felt she could admire, had been bought and paid for by the very criminals he claimed to fight.

It shook her. Still did.

The path she walked was narrow. Twisted. Every night brought new shadows. New doubts.

Coraline tossed beneath the sheets, eyes fixed on the ceiling, unable to still the storm in her mind.

And now...

Now she had come home only to find her city gripped by something new.Something worse.

The media had dubbed him the Bloor Street Bloodletter—a name that sounded almost theatrical, but there was nothing fictional about the corpses.

Bodies posed like modern art.

Organs missing. Blood drained.

No evidence. No motive. No mercy.

A chill passed through her as she turned over again, staring at the darkness like it might answer her.

Toronto was bleeding.

And whoever was holding the knife was still out there.

She tossed and turned, short bursts of sleep blurring into moments of alertness. Her mind refused to be still—circling like a predator around memories, regrets, and unanswered questions.

Dreams came in flashes. So did the guilt.

And between them, the face of a corpse.

Bloodless. Silent. Arranged.

Coraline bolted upright, breath catching in her throat.

The room was dark. Silent.

The glowing red numbers on her bedside clock read 3:03 AM.

Figures.

She swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood, padding silently across the hardwood floor. Her feet carried her not to the bathroom, not to the kitchen, but to the far corner of her closet—where the coats ended and the secrets began.

She reached beneath a rack of designer jackets and brushed her fingers across a smooth metal panel embedded in the wall. A soft whirr responded as the retinal scanner flickered to life.

A red light scanned her eye.

ACCESS GRANTED.

The wall hissed open to reveal the sleek frame of a personal elevator—matte black, nearly silent. She stepped inside and descended without a sound, the familiar hum of the lift comforting in a way nothing else was right now.

Below Penrose Manor, the Fox Den awaited.

A sanctum of shadows and screens.

This was where Coraline Penrose stopped being herself and became the Vulpes.

And tonight, if she couldn’t sleep…

She was going to hunt for answers.

There wasn’t much on her computer.

Not real intel, anyway.

Coraline only had access to public-facing sources, and those were carefully curated by the RCMP. Sanitized. Censored. The official line was vague: Ongoing investigation. RCMP working closely with local authorities. No suspects at this time.

The media wasn’t much better.

Most outlets parroted the same warnings—avoid Bloor Street after dark, report suspicious activity, keep your doors locked. A few went full tabloid, spinning stories of vampire cults, experimental nanoweapons, or ghostly vendettas.

She sifted through them anyway, just in case.

Then something caught her eye.

Buried in an article from a mid-tier local news site—one of the few with a byline worth remembering—was a small, matter-of-fact sentence:

“The investigation has been formally taken over by the RCMP, with Detective Olivia Benoit assigned to the case.”

Coraline blinked.

Benoit.

The name rang a bell. She leaned forward, fingers already dancing across the keyboard as she pulled up a new search.

There were more articles than she expected.

Photos. Commendations. Case recaps.

Detective Olivia “Liv” Benoit, originally from Montreal. Started her career as a patrol officer with the city police. Rose quickly through the ranks—beat cop to detective to forensic specialist. Eventually recruited into the RCMP for her precision, insight, and rock-solid instincts.

Degrees in criminology and forensic science. Commended for bravery during a hostage standoff. Credited with cracking cold cases that had stumped veteran teams.

Analytical. Relentless. Decorated.

The kind of cop who made her badge mean something.

Coraline sat back in her chair, a flicker of unexpected respect stirring behind her tired eyes.

"Well," she murmured, “looks like the mounties put one of their best on the case.”

She tapped a finger against the edge of the screen, thinking.

This Benoit wasn’t just some bureaucratic placeholder. She was sharp. Serious. The kind of detective Vulpes could tip her mask to.

And if she was the one on this case…

Then maybe, just maybe, there was someone else in the city who wanted justice as badly as Coraline did.

But something gave her pause.

A quiet itch at the back of her mind.

Maybe it was paranoia. Maybe it was prudence.

Either way, Coraline didn’t move forward—not yet.

Not without checking everything.

The glow of the Fox Den’s monitors lit up her tired face as she shifted tabs, bringing up encrypted files and hard-won intelligence. Names. Faces. Transactions. Threads she’d pulled on for months during midnight patrols and late-night break-ins.

The city was sick beneath the surface.

She’d seen it firsthand—cops paid off by syndicates, evidence buried, cases redirected. Some officers were just looking the other way. Others were fully on the payroll. The cancer ran deep, and she had the receipts.

And so she searched.

She scoured her files for Detective Benoit. Checked known affiliations, past partners, potential pressure points.

Looked for red flags. Found none.

Liv’s record came up clean. Too clean? No. Just… earnest. She didn’t have the political ties some of the careerists had. No strange asset movements. No unexplained gaps.

It looked like she was on the up and up.

But then again…

So had Monsieur Minuit.

Jean had walked the walk. Said all the right things. Even inspired people once. Coraline had believed in him—until she saw the truth in a bloodstained ledger and a whispered confession.

He had sold his mask to the highest bidder.

So why not Benoit?

Coraline sat back in her chair, staring at the screen. Her jaw clenched.

She wanted to like her.

Wanted to believe there were still people out there in the system who gave a damn.

But trust had become a luxury.

And right now, Coraline Penrose wasn’t sure she could afford it.

It was just after five A.M. when John wandered into the Fox Den, carrying with him the aroma of salvation—black as sin, thick as tar, and hot enough to scald sense into the sleep-deprived.

He didn’t need to ask why she was still up. He didn’t even knock.

He just knew.

Without a word, he poured her a mug from the dented metal thermos he swore made better coffee than any overpriced machine. The liquid was barely a step removed from motor oil—cheap instant, over-brewed, and criminally strong.

Just the way she liked it.

Coraline took the cup gratefully and drank deep, the bitterness cutting through her haze. It was the kind of brew that could peel paint and resurrect the dead. She swallowed and exhaled, letting the burn settle in her gut like purpose.

God bless John Bane and his terrible coffee, she thought.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just stood behind her, arms folded, eyes flicking over the screen she'd left open—the article about Detective Liv Benoit, still front and center.

Then, finally, his voice cut through the silence.

“For what it’s worth,” he said, calm and plain, “I think Benoit’s one of the good ones.”

He set the pot down gently on the side table and let the statement hang in the air, no pressure, no push. Just… truth, as he saw it.

Coraline didn’t answer right away. She just sipped, eyes fixed forward, brow furrowed.

“Yeah,” she murmured. “That’s what scares me.”

John picked up a half-disassembled grapple gun from the nearby work table.

It was caught in that in-between state—somewhere between broken and improved, like most of the old gear Coraline’s grandfather had left behind. Cold War spy tech, late-sixties design back when everything had a button, a fuse, and just enough charm to feel futuristic. Once the cutting edge of cloak-and-dagger brilliance.

Now? Barely more than relics.

Functional, sure. Serviceable. But hardly bleeding-edge.

John didn’t throw those things out.

 Not because they were still useful—though a few were.

But because they meant something.

He saw potential in them. In everything, really. He loved the process—taking things apart, understanding how they ticked, and putting them back together better than they were before. It was his meditation. His language. His art.

Most people looked at John Bane and saw what was obvious:

Six-foot-three. Ojibwe. Built like a man who could wrestle a moose and come out grinning.

What they didn’t see was the brain behind the brawn.

Didn’t see the quiet, low-key technical genius who could rebuild a car engine in a parking lot with scrap parts and duct tape.

Didn’t see the guy who could rewire a guidance system, jury-rig a listening device from an old Walkman, or repurpose a sonic weapon using parts from a blender and a microwave.

Coraline saw it.

Always had.

So did his girlfriend—but she was sleeping with him, so she was a special case.

Coraline, though? Coraline was different.

She was the first to see it. The first to trust him with the truth. The first to show him the world behind the mask and ask him to be part of it.

And that meant something.

That kind of trust—that kind of bond?

That was family.

John glanced over at her now. She was hunched over a second workbench, fingers deft as she adjusted the spring mechanism in the same old grapple gun—trying to keep her hands busy, trying to distract her mind.

But he knew her too well.

He recognized the signs of a brain that refused to shut off.

She’d barely slept. He’d found her down here at five in the morning, already half a pot of sludge-coffee deep, eyes red with restless calculation. Montreal was behind her, but the weight of it hadn’t gone away. If anything, it had gotten heavier.

He’d read her debrief.

Alfonso Ruso? Locked up.

Laura Locke? A new friend with potential.

But Jean Bellerose—Monsieur Minuit—was the part that still clung to her like a stain she couldn’t scrub out.

He'd been a hero. A real one, or so they thought.

And in the end, just another mask that had sold itself to the highest bidder.

John wasn’t a philosopher, but he wasn’t an idiot either. He knew what that kind of betrayal did to someone like Coraline.

Someone who believed in the line.

The line that separated vigilantes from villains.

The line her grandfather had lived by.

Now? That line looked more like a smudge in blood.

She hadn’t said she was hurting. She wouldn’t.

But John could see it.

And he didn’t need to lecture her or give a speech—he just needed to be here. Steady. Familiar. A reminder that some things—some people—could still be counted on.

He looked down at the half-finished grapple launcher in his hands, then casually broke the silence.

“The Vixen’s tuned up and road-worthy,” he said, setting down the tool and reaching for his coffee. “Got a bit more work done on the concept for your own crime-fighting car, too. A little more R&D, and we can finally retire the Silver Kit.”

He smirked. “Unless you’re feeling sentimental.”

Coraline didn’t look up right away, but he saw the twitch of a smile. Just a flicker.

And for now, that was enough.

Coraline nodded, still focused on the screen but with a flicker of clarity in her voice.

“I have to drop by the firm today,” she said, more out of obligation than interest. “But tonight—yeah. I want to take the Vixen for a spin. Do a sweep near Bloor Street, see if I can shake something loose on this Bloodletter.”

Her fingers tapped the edge of the desk, already thinking through the route, the timing, the risks.

“If I can catch them before they take another life,” she added quietly, “all the better.”

John nodded, slow and thoughtful, his eyes drifting to a row of armored suits hanging on a rack near the back wall. Each one was tailored with care. Each one told a story.

“Take the suit reinforced with mesh,” he said, his tone casual but edged with quiet concern. “The newer one—Kevlar blend, reinforced joints, inner lining with anti-puncture weave.”

He picked up a folded section of the suit and gave it a light shake. “Guy seems to like blades, from what little the media’s coughing up.”

Coraline snorted, the corner of her mouth twitching into a rare smile. “Nah was thinking of leaving my armor behind and showing up in my work outfits, because nothing throws off a knife-happy maniac like a well-tailored courtroom suit. I’ll show up in heels and a blazer—dazzle him with style.”

John gave her a look. “You know what? Maybe the couture line of anti-stab suits is what the world’s been missing.”

“Patent pending,” she deadpanned.

He cracked a grin, the tension easing just enough between them to feel normal for a beat.

Coraline sipped the last of her coffee and stood, stretching with a faint groan. “I’ll wear the mesh. Scout’s honor.”

“You were never a scout.”

“I scouted things.”

John shook his head, amused. “Just bring the Vixen back in one piece,” he said, nodding toward the sleek black-and-orange motorcycle resting under its canvas shroud. “The Vixen’s running better than ever.”

“I’ll try not to scuff the paint,” she promised, already moving toward the wardrobe where her gear waited.

Behind her, John leaned against the workbench and watched her go.

The city was dangerous. The Bloodletter was worse.

But Coraline Penrose, the Vulpes?

She was ready to remind Toronto that some predators hunted back.

But first things first—Coraline had work.

Not a long day, thankfully, but one that still demanded her presence at the firm. And that meant dragging herself out of her comfy, high-backed computer chair and trading tactical black for high fashion and courtroom poise.

She groaned as she stood, stretching her arms and rolling her neck with theatrical suffering.

“Okay,” she muttered to herself, “I’m off to go wade through the shark-infested waters of Canada’s legal system. Clock in, look sharp, pretend not to know the exact rib to break it takes to puncture a lung.”

John raised an eyebrow without looking up from the workbench. “Sounds like a fun morning. Want me to prep a restraining order for your coffee addiction while you're at it?”

She shot him a tired smile. “Only if I can counter-sue my alarm clock for emotional distress.”

She ran a hand through her hair, already planning her transition. A hot shower. Hair styled. A sleek black power suit. Makeup sharp enough to cross-examine with. By the time she walked through the doors of Penrose & MacLeod, she’d look every inch the ambitious legal powerhouse she was supposed to be.

But just as she reached the hallway, she paused. A new thread pulled at her thoughts.

“…and,” she added, turning back toward John, a flicker of something more tactical lighting up in her expression, “maybe see if big-deal Toronto lawyer Coraline Penrose can get a little deeper intel on the Bloodletter.”

John gave her a sidelong look. “Using your civvie identity to lean on RCMP contacts?”

“Technically not illegal,” she said with a smirk. “Just… creative networking.”

“Just don’t get caught poking too deep. They might start asking questions you don’t want to answer.”

“I’m always careful.” She turned fully now, already halfway back into lawyer mode. “Besides, if the RCMP is scared enough to go quiet on this guy, I want to know why. If there's something buried in those case files, I’ll find a way to loosen it up.”

John nodded slowly. “That’s the Coraline I know—running down monsters by night, outmaneuvering bureaucrats by day.”

“Multitasking is a vital part of modern womanhood,” she said dryly. “I’ll be back before sundown. Save me the last of that nightmare brew you call coffee.”

“No promises.”

She tossed him a wink on her way out.

By the time the elevator doors slid closed behind her, she was already switching gears—mask tucked away, lawyer face loading, and a brand-new strategy beginning to take shape.

Of course, Coraline had downplayed the importance of work today. Brushed it off as routine.

But it wasn’t.

Today mattered.

Because today, she was working on Alice Little’s case.

Her friend. One of Coraline's best friends. The woman the press had branded Wonderland.

Coraline had moved heaven and earth to get involved with the defense—pulled strings until they frayed, called in favors owed to her father, leaned on contacts Arthur had spent decades building. She’d made herself indispensable to the case, bypassing every protocol that would’ve disqualified her for conflict of interest.

Because if she didn’t get involved, she wasn’t sure anyone else would fight for Alice the way she would.

Not in the way that mattered.

Not in the way that understood.

Alice wasn’t a monster.

Not even Wonderland, for all the chaos she caused.

She was hurt. Damaged. Broken by trauma, warped by stress fractures no one had treated, and now the system wanted to throw her in a supermax for Specials, label her dangerous and walk away.

But Coraline knew better.

She knew the girl who once laughed too loud at bad puns. Who always brought her tea when she was up late back in college

Alice didn’t need punishment. She needed help. And Coraline would be damned before she let her rot in a cell built for true predators.

She was going to make the court see that.

Make them understand.

This wasn’t about optics or precedent.

This was about loyalty. About compassion.

About not letting the system grind down another vulnerable person because it was easier to fear them than fix them.

Coraline stepped into the estate garage, letting the morning light wash over rows of polished chrome and painted curves. Her car collection wasn’t massive—not like her father’s—but it was hers. Carefully chosen. Carefully maintained.

A cool spring breeze drifted in from the open doors. The kind of day that made Toronto feel alive in a way it hadn’t all winter.

She ran her fingers along the hood of a deep green Jaguar E-Type, smiling faintly. Sleek, vintage, defiant. It wasn’t the fastest. Definitely not the most discreet.

But today?

She wanted to feel the road beneath her.

She wanted to drive.

To feel free—if only for a few blocks.

This wasn’t just about getting to work. This was about stepping into that courtroom and fighting for someone who mattered.

She opened the door, settled behind the wheel, and turned the key. The engine purred to life with the kind of purr that made men jealous and mechanics weep.

“Alright, Alice,” Coraline murmured under her breath. “Let’s go win you a future.”

And with that, the Vulpes put her mask away and drove into the daylight—not as a vigilante, but as a lawyer on a mission.

***

Detective Liv Benoit entered the station at the crack of dawn, moving with the crisp energy of someone who’d been up long enough to make peace with it.

She swept through the front entrance with a white paper box in hand and zero patience for attitude, setting it down on the front counter with a soft thud.

“Doughnuts,” she announced to the bleary-eyed officers coming off the graveyard shift. “Old-school bribe. Take one before they start growing teeth.”

Yeah, it was a stereotype. But damn it, who didn’t appreciate a sugar-and-carb-loaded pick-me-up after a long night of dodging paperwork and maybe bullets?

As she passed the office coffee machine—a sad, wheezing beast that had likely survived three budget cuts and one war crime—she grabbed a chipped mug and poured herself a cup.

The smell alone was enough to make her wince. She added enough cream and sugar to offend a small nation of coffee snobs, gave it a tired stir, and took a sip that was more ritual than refreshment.

Then she headed for the morgue.

There were files to pull. Dead men to examine. And somewhere buried in all that mess? A clue.

Something sharp and surgical, just like the killer she was hunting.

Liv didn’t believe in monsters. But this one?

This one was trying real hard to change her mind.

The morgue was its usual shade of sterile—cold, gleaming, and faintly humming with fluorescent indifference. A place where the chaos of the outside world came to rest, catalogued in stainless steel drawers and medical jargon. Doctor Jerry McDonald moved like he was built into the walls, stiff from too many late nights, his gray hair slightly disheveled, thick glasses riding low on his nose. He pulled the latest victim’s drawer closed with the kind of weariness only decades of processing other people’s worst days could bring.

Then came the knock.

He looked up slowly, eyes narrowing even before the silhouette crossed the threshold.

Detective Olivia Benoit stood framed in the doorway, hands tucked casually into the pockets of her RCMP field jacket. She didn’t bother to flash her badge. She didn’t need to. Her presence was like a signature—professional, composed, and laced with the quiet intensity of someone who had seen far too much and still hadn’t looked away.

"You know you don’t need to knock, Detective," McDonald said, his voice gravelly with age and low caffeine. "Pretty sure you’ve got the run of this place by now."

Liv gave a faint smile. “Sorry, Jerry. Force of habit. My mother raised me with manners.”

He grunted, already turning back toward the autopsy report on his terminal. “Too bad more of your colleagues weren’t raised the same.”

She stepped further into the room, her eyes sweeping the space. "Anything new?"

“Depends on your definition of new.” McDonald gestured toward the latest body bag with a pen. “Another male, mid-to-late forties. Vitals suggest he was healthy as an ox before someone filleted him with surgical precision. Cause of death? Massive blood loss. Nearly drained.”

Liv exhaled through her nose. Her fingers twitched like they wanted to be holding a notepad—or maybe a sidearm.

"Same MO?"

McDonald nodded. “Cut with a cleaver or butcher’s knife. Deep, practiced incisions. No defensive wounds. No hesitation. Whoever did this knew exactly where to cut.”

"Jesus," she muttered. “The press is already calling him the Bloor Street Bloodletter.”

McDonald rolled his eyes. “Figures. Give a killer a name and suddenly they’re folklore.”

Liv crossed her arms, gaze narrowing on the closed locker.

"He's escalating, Jerry. Three kills in under a month. If he keeps this up, we’re going to be processing another one by next week. Or sooner.”

McDonald sighed and pulled off his glasses, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. “City’s drowning in gang shootings, metahuman standoffs, and masked lunatics with vengeance complexes… and now we get a goddamn Jack the Ripper tribute act.”

Liv offered a tired nod, her voice lowering as she added, “Toronto didn’t need another nightmare.”

There was a long beat of silence.

Then McDonald’s voice, quieter now: “What’s your gut say?”

She glanced toward the body drawer. “That he’s not finished.”

McDonald nodded grimly, arms crossed over his chest as he stared at the closed drawer like it might open again just to spite him.

He’d been in forensics long enough to know the difference between a one-off and a rising storm. And this? This had all the hallmarks of a killer just getting started.

“These are always the worst,” he muttered. “Serials. I’ve worked a few. First time’s usually rage or impulse. Second time’s cleaner. Third? Third, it means they’re planning to keep going.”

He glanced at Liv, his eyes tired but sharp.

“So, what’s your take? Jack the Ripper cover act, or this Bloodletter carving out his own niche?”

Liv didn’t hesitate.

“Nah,” she said, her voice steady. “Media loves a name, and Ripper gets attention. But it doesn’t track.”

She moved closer to the whiteboard McDonald had set up beside the examination table, where he’d pinned victim photos and autopsy summaries like puzzle pieces still refusing to fit.

“Victims aren’t sex workers. No consistent demographic. One was a failed real estate agent. One worked for the city. Last guy ran a convenience store. Gender doesn’t seem to matter. Profession doesn’t matter. It’s not about message—it’s about method.”

McDonald scratched his chin. “So not symbolic… just ritualistic.”

“Exactly.” Liv tapped one of the files with her index finger. “There’s precision. Intimacy. He’s close when he kills. Knows exactly where to cut, exactly how to bleed them out. No panic. No hesitation wounds. That takes more than practice. That takes control.”

“And control,” McDonald said, “means he’s not unraveling. He’s refining.”

“Which is worse,” Liv muttered. “Because it means he has a plan.”

McDonald let out a breath and turned back to his computer. “I’ve got tox screens and organ analysis running, but it’s slow going. RCMP labs are backed up and my equipment’s two budget cycles from obsolete.”

“Push it through under Task Force priority,” Liv said. “Tell them I signed off.”

McDonald gave her a knowing look. “That badge of yours gets shinier every year.”

Liv smirked, but it didn’t reach her eyes.

“I just want to catch this guy before we have a fourth drawer to open.”

McDonald nodded, though he didn’t voice the weight sitting in his chest.

His instincts were screaming.

And they told him this was going to get a hell of a lot worse before it got better.

He tapped the autopsy file on the metal tray beside him, then turned slightly to face Liv, his expression hardening with quiet certainty.

“Here’s what I can tell you,” he said. “Whoever this guy is—he knows anatomy. Knows how to fight. Might not be military, but it wouldn’t surprise me if he’s combat trained. Could be ex-military, a butcher, a surgeon. Maybe just really educated with a scalpel.”

Liv’s brows knit slightly. She didn’t interrupt.

“This wasn’t some rage kill. It wasn’t messy. Hell, it was barely emotional. There were no wasted strikes, no hesitation, no panic patterns. Every single cut was deliberate—major bleed-out points only. Femoral, carotid, subclavian. Arteries, not organs. He wasn’t trying to hurt them…”

McDonald looked back toward the cold drawer.

“He was trying to drain them.”

Liv's jaw tightened. “So we’re not just dealing with someone with impulse and a blade—we’re dealing with someone trained, patient, and methodical.”

McDonald gave a single, grave nod. “Someone who sees this as procedure. Not passion.”

She let out a long, quiet breath. “Which makes him harder to catch.”

“Worse,” McDonald said, turning back to his notes, “it makes him comfortable.”

McDonald turned back toward his computer, fingers clicking quietly as he updated the autopsy file. His tone stayed even, like he was dictating a grocery list instead of a killer’s pathology.

“What’s your take on the missing organs and tissue?”

Liv leaned back against one of the cold, steel prep tables, arms folded across her chest. She didn’t answer right away. She thought about it, the way she always did—carefully, methodically, sifting through facts and instincts like evidence bags.

“Knee-jerk reaction?” she said finally. “Cannibalism. Not ruling it out.”

McDonald let out a faint grunt. The kind that said yeah, same thought here too.

“But…” she continued, gaze drifting toward the whiteboard covered in photos and annotations, “that feels a little too on the nose. A little too media-ready. ‘Bloodletter Eats Victims’—it’s sensational. Makes for headlines. But it doesn’t line up with the rest of the profile.”

McDonald glanced at her over his glasses. “You’re thinking ritual.”

“Ritual or trophy,” Liv said, nodding. “The way the bodies were posed—every one of them laid out deliberately, arms folded or positioned with intent. Nothing dumped. No panic. No rush to get away.”

She pushed off the table and took a slow step closer to the board.

“Feels more like… art to me. Not ‘I eat people’ vibe—more ‘this is my gallery’ vibe.”

McDonald stopped typing.

“Art.”

Liv nodded. “He’s not just killing. He’s curating.”

McDonald gave a slow exhale through his nose. “I hate how much sense that makes.”

“Yeah,” Liv muttered. “Me too.”

“Detective Benoit.”

The voice that floated in from the morgue doorway was smooth, measured, and immediately unwelcome. The kind of voice that belonged in boardrooms, not body lockers.

McDonald didn’t look up from his computer. He just rolled his eyes, slow and deliberate.

He didn’t say anything, but Liv could practically hear the word in his head: 

Necessary evil.

She turned, recognizing the silhouette before the man fully stepped in.

Richard Leblanc.

Impeccable suit. Perfect smile. Not a single hair out of place. The kind of man who always looked like he belonged in a high-rise elevator or an ad for luxury scotch.

Handsome, polished, snake-like. Not unlike the devil, if the devil carried a leather-bound planner and answered directly to Ottawa.

“Morning,” Liv said, her tone casual but laced with thorns. “What brings you down to our level, Richard?”

Leblanc adjusted his cufflinks with the poise of someone who didn’t feel the need to engage in trench-level banter. He offered his best diplomatic smile—calculated, noncommittal.

“I’m here personally,” he began, “because I’ve taken the liberty of clearing part of your afternoon schedule.”

Liv arched an eyebrow. “That right?”

“A lawyer from Penrose & MacLeod requested to speak with you about your profile on Alice Little. And right now, we could use a little good press. Three bodies drained like wine glasses and not a single suspect doesn’t exactly look stellar on the Mounties.”

McDonald muttered something under his breath. It might have been “vultures.”

Liv didn’t move. Her expression didn’t change.

“You clear my calendar,” she said evenly, “without asking.”

Richard offered a tight, practiced chuckle. “I made a judgment call. Besides, this lawyer’s someone with weight. You might’ve heard of her—Coraline Penrose.”

That landed. Just a twitch at the corner of Liv’s mouth. Yeah Penrose was a big name in Canadian legal circles and his girl was supposedly a rising star everything her father had been but better.

Richard noted it, of course. He never missed a cue.

“So be polite,” he added with a nod. “And maybe try not to be a bitch?”

He turned on his heel, already halfway gone, but tossed one more smile over his shoulder.

“Always a pleasure, Detective.”

Liv watched him disappear down the hall, then sipped the last of her awful, over-sweetened coffee like it was whiskey.

“You ever notice how he manages to wear a suit without a spine?” she asked.

McDonald didn’t look up. “Like a jellyfish in Gucci shoes.”

“Great,” Liv muttered, her voice low but laced with irritation. “I’ve got a body count piling up and now I’ve gotta waste my afternoon talking to some young, try-hard lawyer about a case that’s open and shut.”

She set her coffee down with just a little too much force.

“Alice Little belongs at Erie House. I’ve said this before. The woman has a documented, severe case of Dissociative Identity Disorder—and one of those alters has no moral framework. Just a compulsion to keep Alice safe, no matter the cost. She doesn’t need a prison cell. She needs stability. Medication. Long-term therapy. Not a bunk in a padded wing at Site 404.”

McDonald didn’t look up from the file he was updating. He just nodded once, slow and thoughtful.

“You’re preaching to the choir, Liv. But… as much as it pains me to say it, if Penrose is on her case…”

He glanced at her now, more seriously.

“…might be worth having that conversation. Could do you, her, and Doctor Little some good to actually be on the same page.”

Liv arched an eyebrow. “You saying not all lawyers are terrible?”

McDonald gave a tired grunt, the closest thing he gave to a laugh. “Just most.”

She sighed and ran a hand through her hair. “Fine. I’ll play nice. But if this turns into some PR stunt, I swear to God—”

“Then I’ll help you bury the press release,” McDonald offered dryly. “Next to my retirement plans.”

Liv just signed and folded her arms “I’m gonna need more coffee before this day is over”