“Bloodletter,” Vulpes said first—the name hanging heavy in the air.

Liv gave a slow nod to the vigilante across the desk.

“I don’t have much,” Vulpes continued. “The blood on my piton driver is his. I can confirm he’s male. Height roughly one-eighty to one-ninety centimeters; weight, eighty-five to ninety-five kilos. Ambidextrous. Knows his way around a fight—he’s not just an ambush predator. Favors blades, keeps them immaculate, and only drew a gun as a last resort.”

Liv let it sink in. She was already slotting the details into the profile—height, weight, handedness, weapon discipline—while another part of her brain kept circling the risk of this meeting. She shifted in her chair, schooling her face to neutral.

“And what exactly do you expect in return?” she asked, voice even.

“I don’t expect anything,” Vulpes said. “You’re not beholden to help me.”

Liv weighed the words. “And if I don’t?”

“If you don’t,” Vulpes replied, inclining her head, “I’ve given you what I have and I walk away. Nothing changes for me. You’re still closer to putting Bloodletter away.”

Liv shut her eyes for a beat and drew a slow breath. “I can’t just hand you RCMP case files. Talking to you is dangerous enough—sharing information crosses a line that could end my career.” She opened her eyes again, steady. “I won’t compromise the investigation, or the chain of custody. Not for anyone.”

Thought for 13s

Vulpes gave a small nod, but before either of them could speak, Liv’s desk phone rang—shrill in the quiet. Liv held up a hand. “I need to take this.”

Vulpes stayed silent as Liv picked up. “Yes—hello, Doctor.” She listened, eyes fixed on nothing. As the voice on the other end went on, her expression tightened; her shoulders sagged a fraction.

“I see. Thank you for keeping me informed, Doctor. Yes—call me if there are any new developments.”

She hung up. Vulpes noted the change—subtle cues written in Liv’s face and posture, the kind of heaviness bad news leaves behind.

“You know the cop you saved from Bloodletter?” Liv asked, swallowing once.

Vulpes inclined her head. “McDonald.”

“Things are… touch and go,” Liv said. “Doctors aren’t sure he’ll make it to sunrise.”

Vulpes didn’t react—at least, not in any way Liv could read.

Liv stood, crossed to a filing cabinet, and spoke while she searched. “I can’t give you anything. I won’t give you anything…” She found what she wanted and set a heavy case file on the desk with a dull thud. “…So I’m going to trust you alone in my office for the next fifteen minutes with the Bloodletter file while I deal with the mental fatigue of a very long day—and the possibility a good cop won’t make it.”

She met Vulpes’s gaze. “When I come back, it’ll be exactly where I left it.”

Vulpes gave an understanding nod, and Liv slipped out of the office.

The vigilante stood still for a heartbeat, weighing what Detective Benoit had just risked. Then she drew a compact digital camera from her utility belt, opened the case file, and began methodically photographing its contents.

Meanwhile, Liv made her way down the hall, each step heavy with the choice she’d just made. It might be a mistake—one that could wreck her career. But if the Vulpes could do what the RCMP couldn’t, if she could track Bloodletter and drag him into the light, then it was worth it. Worth the grilling, the demotion, even the boot, if it came to that. Bloodletter had to be stopped.

She repeated that to herself as she pushed into the break room, bracing for the long night ahead.

Liv was a step from the break-room door when a voice stopped her cold.

“Detective Benoit.”

Leblanc. Clear, crisp—every syllable delivered like he’d rehearsed it in a mirror.

A quiet part of her panicked. He was the last person she wanted within shouting distance of her office while an unlicensed crimefighter was in there with her case files. She smoothed her expression, buried the alarm, and turned.

“Leblanc,” she said, professional and flat. “What can I do for you?”

She turned and noticed that Leblanc didn’t look much better than she felt. He hid it well, but the sheen had worn thin; a day of sparring with the media had sanded down his polish.

“Your shift ended hours ago,” he said. “Go home. Get some sleep. You’re no good to any of us half-dead.”

Liv blinked—taken aback not by the words, but by the trace of sincerity in his voice. That was unfair. Leblanc was a snake in a suit. He wasn’t supposed to sound human. He wasn’t supposed to be human.

“Yeah, well—justice never sleeps, right?” she said, shouldering into the break room and beelining for the coffee maker.

“That’s what they say, Detective,” Leblanc answered. “But you and I both know we’re still human. Even you.”

Liv was grateful he couldn’t see her face. With her back turned, she hid the flinch his tone almost pulled from her. Her instincts had pegged him as a mouthpiece from Ottawa—polish over principle. Hearing anything that sounded like concern felt unfair, like he’d changed the rules mid-game.

“Plenty of time to sleep when I’m dead,” she muttered, jabbing the brew button. The machine coughed and gurgled to life, filling the room with the bitter smell of instant coffee. She watched the stream hit the paper cup, jaw tight, letting the noise cover the part of her that hated giving him even a split second of ground.

He sighed—and there it was: the human underneath the polish. Tired. Frayed. The mask slipping. It annoyed her more than the slick version ever did. She was a profiler, trained in forensics, a detective who trusted instinct and intuition—and Leblanc was proving that even she could get a live read wrong.

“May I call you Liv?” he asked.

That made it worse, because he asked. Permission as a tactic—rapport dressed up as courtesy. A soft push at boundaries.

She kept her back to him, lifted the cup, and bought a second with a careful sip of scalding coffee.

“Detective Benoit is fine,” she said.

“Detective Benoit it is,” he conceded. “This case is weighing on everyone. After last night—an attack on a city officer, a vigilante interdiction—tensions are high. Just don’t let it drag you under. You’re one of the best we’ve got, and we need you sharp.”

Liv felt the compliment land like a probe, part sincerity, part strategy. She kept her tone neutral. “Flattery noted. What do you actually need, Superintendent?”

“Two things,” he said. “An update if McDonald’s status changes, and strict radio discipline. City Hall’s bracing for another round with the press in the morning. I don’t want leaks feeding the wolves.”

“Understood.”

He studied her for a beat, then gave a small nod toward the coffee maker. “Get some sleep, Detective.”

“I’ll pencil it in,” she said.

Leblanc took his leave, shoes whispering down the hall. Liv waited until his footfalls faded, then dumped the too-hot coffee and headed back toward her office, pulse ticking faster with every step. Fifteen minutes was suddenly feeling very short.

Liv watched him go and, once he was out of sight, let out a slow, steady breath before retrieving her coffee. She didn’t want Leblanc’s attention—didn’t need it—but she was stuck with it. At least he hadn’t tried to follow her back to the office or press the point any harder. Small mercies.

Elsewhere, the Vulpes finished photographing the files. She’d only skimmed the contents, but it was promising: the RCMP had pieces she didn’t, and Detective Benoit had already stitched together patterns Coraline could put to use with resources the RCMP didn’t have—or couldn’t deploy.

Under the mask, Coraline let her mind drift as she worked—click, flip, click—the camera capturing page after page. She hadn’t expected this much access. Part of her had braced for a hard “get out,” or even cuffs. Instead, Detective Benoit had handed her a risk wrapped in manila and twine.

That changed things.

Help like this came with weight—at least for Coraline. If she couldn’t turn RCMP forensics and Benoit’s profile into something actionable, then the detective had stuck her neck out for nothing. And if that happened… Coraline wasn’t sure she could keep wearing the mask and call it anything but vanity.

She forced the doubt down and got practical. Use what Benoit saw that others missed. Cross-reference the attack sites with ingress/egress routes, camera blind spots, and likely staging areas. Overlay the times, the weather, the patrol patterns. Map the logistics—the kind of details a planner like Bloodletter would rely on. If Benoit’s file hinted at routine, Coraline would find the seam.

The last page clicked into memory. Coraline eased the folder closed, set it back in the exact position—square to the blotter, edges aligned—and wiped a faint smudge from the desk lamp’s base. The evidence bag sat where Vulpes had placed it. No prints, no stray fibers, no sign she’d been anywhere but in the doorway.

She took one last look around the office, then slipped toward the window’s shadow, cloak gathering the dark like a second skin.

Time to make the trust count.

Coraline hesitated a beat, then slid the camera back into her utility belt. The door handle rattled—just enough warning. She was gone in a whisper of cape and night air.

The office door swung open.

No one.

Just Liv’s desk. Her chair. The case file sitting exactly where she’d left it. The room held the stillness of a secret just kept.

It’s done, she told herself. For good or ill, she’d bent rules in service of oaths she considered more sacred. She only hoped she hadn’t made a deal with the devil.

She closed the door behind her and listened—silence, save for the faint draft slipping through the window frame. The bullet charm at her collarbone felt heavier than it should.

Gloves on, she checked the file’s position, cracked it open to a random page, then set it back precisely. The sealed evidence bag sat where Vulpes had placed it, the blood spattered piton driver catching a sliver of lamplight.

“Alright, Fox,” she murmured, more to the room than anyone. “Let’s see if this pays off.”

Liv pulled an evidence envelope from the drawer, logged the time and her initials, and sealed the bag for transport. Then she reached for the phone.

“Jerry, it’s Benoit. I’ve got a sample that needs a rush workup—DNA, tox, any trace you can wring out of it. Quiet channel.” She paused. “This one doesn’t leak.”

The Vulpes slipped into a dark alley where the Vixen waited under an urban-camo tarp that made it look like a heap of trash. She pulled the cover free, stowed it, and swung a leg over the bike. A thumb to the starter and the engine purred to life.

She rolled out, then opened the throttle and vanished into the night.

The Fox had a to-do list: get the new armor—and hunt a rat that the city called Bloodletter.