Chapter Eleven

Leonardo’s Stolen car was hardly the Vehicle of choice for a prospective visionary such as herself but it got her where she needed to go. She pulled up to The Golden Arms apartments. It was a state of the art example of modern design and creature comforts to accommodate any modern Torontonian or at least it had been back in the early sixties when it had been built. 

The Golden Arms Apartments loomed before her like a relic of another era, an old monument clinging to a reputation long lost. The building’s facade was weathered, with faded bricks and grimy windows that hadn’t seen a proper wash in decades. What had once been state-of-the-art modernism was now a rundown, crumbling shell—its neon sign missing letters, casting an eerie, sputtering glow over the cracked pavement below.

Psychedelic grinned as she took it all in. This was a place of forgotten dreams, perfect for Mister K and his dingy little operation. The drug lab she was here to visit would be just as grimy, she imagined, likely filled with sketchy characters too jaded to imagine anything outside of the beige walls of the Golden Arms.

She strolled through the front entrance with all the swagger of a queen arriving at her palace. The worn carpet was dotted with cigarette burns, and the air carried a faint mustiness that clung to the outdated wallpaper. A glance around told her this was no fortress; security, if any, would be minimal, and she wasn’t worried about blending in here.

As she moved deeper into the building, she spotted a broken-down elevator at the end of the hall, its “Out of Order” sign hanging haphazardly. She chose the stairs instead, her footsteps echoing in the empty stairwell as she ascended, each step bringing her closer to Mister K’s operation.

She couldn’t help but feel a surge of excitement. She was here not just for the drugs or the money but to seize control, to put her own chaotic stamp on the dull little empire Mister K had likely carved out in this rundown complex.

As she sauntered toward the apartment office, Psychedelic hummed a cheery tune, her voice echoing in the dimly lit hallway. She could almost imagine herself as the building’s new queen, the first real spark of life this faded place had seen in years. Finding Mister K’s office was easy enough—near the mailboxes, tucked away in a corner, its door slightly ajar and marked by a peeling plaque that read “Manager.”

She peeked inside, grinning as she took in the scene: a cramped, cluttered room lined with filing cabinets, stacks of crumpled rent receipts, and a faint smell of stale cigarettes. The man hunched over his desk was a wiry figure, hair slicked back, his posture a mix of irritation and exhaustion. She assumed this was Mister K—just as slimy as she’d pictured.

Without a word, she rapped her knuckles on the door, catching his attention. He looked up, his expression shifting from annoyance to surprise and then to guarded suspicion as his gaze swept over her vibrant outfit and unmistakable grin.

“Evening, Mister K,” she purred, striding in and making herself comfortable on the edge of his desk. “Lovely place you’ve got here.”

He narrowed his eyes, his voice gruff. “I don’t know who you are, but this is private property. If you’re here for something, make it quick, and then get out.”

“Oh, I plan to make it very quick, darling.” She leaned in, lowering her sunglasses to meet his gaze. “I hear you run a little… business on the side. Something chemical, a bit of chemistry, as it were?”

Mister K’s expression tightened. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Sure you don’t,” she said with a smirk, patting his shoulder as if they were old friends. “Lucky for you, I’m in the market for a few items that I think you might be able to provide. Or maybe I could help you expand the business a little, give it some... flair.”

He scoffed, his eyes narrowing. “I don’t work with people I don’t know, and you’re not giving me any reason to start.”

Psychedelic chuckled, sliding off the desk and standing just inches from him. “How about I give you a reason you can’t refuse?”

Mister K or rather Mister Kensington as his name plate read, scowled and reached to one his desk drawers for a revolver. With a mad grin psychedelic drew a plastic water gun and aimed at his face. “Now now, don’t go and do anything stupid now, I’ve got the drop on you!”

“Listen you crazy...” he brought up the pistol or started to and she pulled the trigger of her gun spending a spray of liquid into his eyes. He screamed in pure agony as the contents of the water gun struck. Pure agony shoot through his eyes, pain like he had never felt causing him to drop his gun and howl falling back in a desperate attempt to get away from the crazed hippie girl who had just hit his eyes with something horrible and caustic. 

Mister K dropped his gun, clutching at his eyes as he staggered backward, his screams filling the cramped office. He stumbled, knocking over a stack of papers and sending them fluttering around the room as he tried in vain to wipe the searing liquid from his face.

Psychedelic grinned, watching him thrash with pure amusement. "Now, now," she cooed, twirling the brightly colored water gun with a satisfied flick of her wrist. "That wasn’t even the nasty stuff. Just a little homemade mix of vinegar, jalapeño juice, and a few other surprises. Effective, isn’t it?”

He gasped, dropping to his knees, his face twisted in anguish. “You… you’re insane!”

“Oh, honey,” she said, leaning down to whisper in his ear, “One requires a little chaos to birth a dancing star!’”

She crouched beside him, inspecting his red and watering eyes as if admiring her handiwork. “Now, here’s how this is going to work. You’re going to take me to your lab, and introduce me to your gang and we won't have to see this turn ugly!”

Through gritted teeth, he muttered, “Fine… basement… down the hall, second door on the left.”

“Good boy.” She gave his cheek a patronizing pat. “See? That wasn’t so hard.” She stood, straightening her jacket and flashing him one last dazzling smile. “Oh, do lead the way, I’d be insulted if you didn't give me a personal tour” Before he could answer she snapped up his dropped revolver and pressed it against his forehead.

With that, she sauntered out of the office leading mister K with his own gun pressed into his back, humming her cheerful tune once more as they made their way to the basement, her mind already buzzing with possibilities for what she might find inside Mister K’s little operation.

Mister K stumbled into the basement room, clutching his face, still reeling from the painful sting in his eyes. His crew froze, startled by the sudden intrusion and even more so by the sight of Psychedelic waltzing in behind him, her grin wide and dangerous. The brightly coloured water gun dangled from her wrist while his own revolver pressed firmly into his back, her gaze sweeping over the lab with undisguised glee.

“Hello, darlings!” she announced, her voice dripping with mock warmth. “I’ve heard such lovely things about this little operation of yours.”

The crew exchanged nervous glances, some of them taking an instinctive step back. Their makeshift lab was cluttered with beakers, burners, and an assortment of chemicals that lined the shelves. The space was dimly lit, giving it a dingy, almost claustrophobic feel—certainly not up to her standards for a proper lab.

“Now, don’t be shy!” she called out, her voice sharp enough to cut through the silence. “I’m the new management, you boys are now my boys and let me tell you there are going to be some changes around here!”

One of the gang members, bolder than the others, stepped forward. “Who the hell are you?” he demanded, trying to sound intimidating despite the nervous tremor in his voice.

Psychedelic let out a laugh, leaning in close enough that her face was only inches from his. “Oh, sweetheart,” she whispered, eyes gleaming with manic delight. “I’m your new boss, your muse, and if you’re lucky, the reason you’ll still be breathing by the end of the night.”

She gave Mister K another shove forward, forcing him deeper into the room. “You see, Mister K here and I have come to an understanding. Isn’t that right, dear?” She pushed Mister K forward onto the ground and he started to stammer out something, an order to attack but his words were cut off as he started to shake.

Psychedelic smirked and rose up her left hand showing off an empty syringe as the crew watched the man that had ruled them and they feared fall forward in convulsions as something horrible burned through his blood.

Psychedelic knelt beside Mister K, a gleeful glint in her eyes as he writhed on the ground, struggling to breathe through the pain. She held up the empty syringe between two fingers, giving it a little shake as she addressed the crew.

“Oh, don’t look so shocked!” she said, her tone clinical, almost as if she were lecturing a class. “You see, what I injected into our dear Mister K is a delightful cocktail—a mixture of tetrodotoxin, which blocks sodium channels and paralyzes the muscles, and capsaicin, the active component in chili peppers, for that extra spicy sensation. Together, they create a perfect symphony of paralysis and pain. His nerves are screaming right now, burning, and yet his body is frozen, helpless to do anything about it.”

She paused, letting her words sink in as the gang watched their former leader’s body twist in agony, his eyes wide with terror.

“And for those of you with a less educated vocabulary…” She leaned in, her smile widening as she looked at each of them in turn. “I poisoned him with something both slow and utterly agonising. If any of you think about questioning your new employer, well, trust me—a bullet to the head would be an act of mercy compared to this.”

The gang members exchanged horrified glances, their earlier bravado vanishing as they looked from Mister K to her, clearly shaken. One by one, they began to nod, each man instinctively taking a step back, conceding the change in power.

Psychedelic straightened, holstering the revolver with a dramatic flair. "Excellent! Now that we're all on the same page, let’s start talking about the improvements I’ll be making to this fine establishment. After all, we’re here to create something extraordinary, aren’t we?"

She paused, casting an appraising glance down at Mister K, whose shuddering breaths were growing more shallow by the second. "Actually, class," she said, with a mockingly instructional tone, "before we get down to the business of sprucing this operation up, let’s have ourselves a lesson in evidence disposal."

Her gaze flicked over the terrified crew. "One of you, be a dear and find an oil barrel. I’ll also need lots of bleach and a skill saw. Chop-chop, as they say—time is of the essence!"

One of the men blinked, stammering as he registered her request. "Uh...a skill saw? An oil barrel?"

Psychedelic’s eyes narrowed, her playful tone hardening. "Yes, darling. Oil barrel, bleach, skill saw. They’re remarkably effective tools in our line of work," she said, then glanced down at Mister K. "And let’s hope you all take this lesson to heart. It could save you a world of pain."

The men scurried off, eyes wide and frantic as they began gathering the supplies, leaving Psychedelic to revel in her newfound command.

***

It had been a maddening week. Every instinct Coraline had told her that someone—especially someone like Lyra Sinclair, or whatever she was calling herself now—couldn’t simply vanish. The trail should have been easy to follow, particularly with someone as distinct as Lyra, whose behaviours once fit into recognizable, logical patterns. But this... this chaotic string of petty crimes and seemingly random acts threw Coraline off balance, leaving her with nothing concrete to analyse.

The students knew nothing, and there were no connections to her old life, no threads leading back to anyone or anything familiar. Coraline’s mind raced, her instincts were on edge. She relied on information to outthink her targets, but this? This was like trying to track a hallucination.

Coraline felt her patience waning. Every day without a lead only deepened her suspicion that whatever Lyra had become, it was not a criminal in the traditional sense. It was more like... she was following her own whimsical, unpredictable rhythm. How did you even begin to chase a person who might not know their next step, let alone have an endgame?

Coraline set her empty coffee cup down with a sigh, eyes narrowing as she mulled over the situation. Toronto’s usual problems—the gangs, the syndicates, the occasional turf war—were manageable. Predictable, even. But Lyra Sinclair... she was proving to be something else entirely. Sinclair didn’t fit the mould of the city’s typical criminals, who had motives she could anticipate, strategies she could counter. No, Sinclair seemed to have torn up the rulebook entirely.

She glanced at the notes she’d spread across her desk. Everything she had was fragmented, chaotic. A few small-time thefts, scattered sightings that went nowhere, a police tip about an unidentified woman at a rave—none of it added up. And despite the authorities’ efforts, Lyra’s trail had gone cold.

“Unique” didn’t begin to describe the problem Sinclair represented. Coraline knew criminals who relished chaos, but Lyra... Lyra seemed to embody it, wielding unpredictability like a weapon.

Absently, Coraline traced her finger along the rim of her cup, replaying their first encounter in her mind—the crazed delight in Sinclair’s eyes, the eerie way she’d referenced the sixties as if she belonged there. For the first time, Coraline felt an unfamiliar sense of apprehension. What if Sinclair wasn’t someone she could predict or plan for?

No, she resolved, forcing herself to sit up straighter. If Sinclair was unique, then she’d find a unique way to stop her. She had to, because she blamed herself in part for creating her. She replayed the events over and over, told herself if she had been more careful, acted a bit faster than the Doctor wouldn't have suffered the overdose of the gas that had destroyed her mind.

Coraline’s jaw tightened as the weight of her own thoughts pressed down on her. The night of the gas leak haunted her, a gnawing reminder of how, in those critical moments, she’d made the wrong choices—or at least not fast enough. She had faced plenty of criminals before, but none had left her with this kind of guilt, a nagging voice in her mind insisting that, in some way, she had set Psychedelic loose upon the city.

Every chaotic, violent act Sinclair had committed since then felt like an echo of that night. The bookmobile chase, the ambush, her bizarre reemergence into the criminal underworld... all of it had started with Coraline's mistake. If she hadn’t hesitated, if she’d been just a step faster...

She shook her head, clearing the thoughts. Blame doesn’t stop criminals, she reminded herself. But she knew she’d have to do more than rely on her usual techniques with Sinclair. Psychedelic’s fractured mind, her twisted sense of joy, her disjointed sense of purpose—all of it made her disturbingly unpredictable. Coraline needed more than just a plan; she needed a strategy that would let her see the world through Lyra’s distorted lens.

And she couldn’t do that by sitting here, waiting.

A patrol, Coraline decided, was the best way to clear her head. She rose from her chair with a determined breath, stretching her shoulders despite the lingering ache from her encounter with Psychedelic. No matter how bruised her body was, she knew her resolve couldn’t afford to waver. Action was always better than sitting still and letting her thoughts spiral.

Donning her armor, she felt the familiar weight settle on her shoulders—a reassuring reminder of her mission. She ran through her usual pre-patrol checklist: gadgets charged, weapons secured, utility belt stocked. She double-checked the tracking system in the Silver Kit, ensuring it was running smoothly before sliding into the driver’s seat.

The car purred to life as she pulled out of the Den. The streets of Toronto stretched before her, glowing faintly in the amber haze of streetlights. Friday night was in full swing, the city alive with bustling nightlife and the ever-present undercurrent of trouble waiting to unfold.

The Silver Kit glided through the streets, its engine a low growl as Coraline kept her eyes on the pulse of the city. Every alley, every shadow was a potential lead, a piece of the puzzle that might bring her closer to Sinclair—or at least keep the rest of the city safe in the meantime.

She turned on the police scanner, tuning into the chatter of law enforcement as she navigated the city. Reports of minor disturbances, suspicious activity, and a few traffic stops buzzed in her ear. Nothing major yet. But she knew better than to expect a quiet night; Toronto always had something brewing beneath the surface.

Though it seemed tonight was oddly quiet for Toronto, a calm before the storm she thought to herself. Or perhaps not she thought as she spotted fresh graffiti on the wall of a side alley. It was a crude image of a foxs profile with an arrow that pointed to another similar one.

The Vulpes parked the Silver Kit in a shadowed corner of a nearby alley, out of sight from casual observers. She double-checked the car’s security system before stepping out, her boots crunching softly against the asphalt. Her gaze lingered on the crude graffiti for a moment longer, then lifted to the rooftops above.

"Subtlety isn’t their strong suit," she muttered to herself, adjusting her gauntlets and ensuring her grappling line was secure. "If it’s a trap, it’s not a very creative one. But then again, creative isn’t always the point."

She fired the grappling line with a quiet hiss, the mechanism catching on the edge of a rooftop with precision. The ascent was smooth, and she landed silently, crouching low to avoid detection. The chill night air swept past her as she scanned the area from her elevated vantage point.

The graffiti trail continued, arrows and crude fox images leading deeper into the alleyway labyrinth below. Vulpes smirked at the amateurish attempt. It screamed of someone trying too hard to lure her in—bold and brash, but lacking the finesse she expected from a seasoned criminal. Still, it could mean something, or lead her to someone who knew more than they realized.

Sticking to the rooftops, she moved cautiously, her steps light and deliberate as she followed the trail from above. Her eyes darted from shadowed alleyways to the dimly lit streets, always aware of her surroundings. The city’s usual hum seemed quieter, almost too quiet, amplifying the sound of her own breathing and the distant echo of her movements.

As she closed in on the next piece of graffiti, a small voice nagged at the back of her mind—was this really just sloppy bait, or was someone counting on her thinking that? She halted for a moment, scanning the area ahead. Her sharp eyes caught a glimpse of movement below: a shadow slipping quickly out of sight.

The Vulpes crouched lower, her enhanced hearing picking up the faint but unmistakable voices from below. She tilted her head, filtering the ambient city noise to focus on the conversation.

The Vulpes crouched lower, her enhanced hearing picking up the faint but unmistakable voices from below. She tilted her head, filtering the ambient city noise to focus on the conversation.

“You sure this is such a good idea? It feels so stupid,” one man grumbled, his voice tinged with unease.

“You seen what she did to Mister K?” another shot back, sharper and more nervous. “Do you want to end up like that? No? Then we do whatever dumb shit she tells us to.”

“Dumb? Nah, I get it. Unlike you guys, the get-ups, the tags—it’s all about branding. There’s a certain, ya know… style to it,” a third chimed in, his tone casual, almost admiring.

“Whatever,” the first man muttered, his disdain barely concealed. “So long as she gives us the good stuff, I don’t care if she makes us dress up like clowns and throw rubber chickens at the Vulpes.”

She adjusted her gauntlets, her movements precise and quiet as she crept along the fire escape, positioning herself just above the three men. They were too busy arguing to notice her presence, which suited her just fine. From her vantage point, she could take their measure without interruption.

They looked like rejects from a low-budget post-apocalyptic movie. Their armor was a mishmash of materials: warped street signs fashioned into crude chest plates, old tires strapped to arms and legs, and leather jackets adorned with uneven spikes and studs. The look was crude but functional, suggesting someone had put thought into their designs.

Vulpes' sharp eyes zeroed in on their weapons, equally improvised and brutal. One carried a baseball bat wrapped tightly in barbed wire, its jagged edges glinting menacingly under the dim streetlights. Another swung a heavy sack filled with what sounded like metal debris—a makeshift flail that could shatter bones with a single swing. The third sported a pair of crudely made gauntlets, each fitted with box cutter blades bolted into the knuckles like vicious claws.

No guns. That caught her attention. It wasn’t uncommon for street-level thugs to go without firearms, especially in Canada where access was limited, but their other gear was clearly deliberate. This wasn’t the random collection of tools a gang might grab in a hurry. Someone had outfitted these men with care, designing their look to evoke a twisted cinematic aesthetic.

“Post-apocalyptic chic,” Vulpes muttered under her breath. “Someone’s got a flair for theatrics.”

The aesthetic wasn’t random. Whoever was behind this wanted these thugs to make an impression. The crude designs and aggressive look were intimidating, but the effort to evoke the vibe of a dystopian movie was undeniable. They were like extras in a film with a cheesy tagline like, “In a world ravaged by nuclear fire, where gasoline is worth more than gold…”

Vulpes shifted her weight, her gauntlets ready. She could drop down and confront them, but there was no harm in listening a little longer. They had her attention, and she wanted to know just how much they knew about the woman they worked for.

"You think the Vulpes will really show up? She ain't stupid," one of them muttered, shifting the grip on his barbed-wire bat.

"If she's even real," the one with the sack flail scoffed, his voice dripping with skepticism. "I think the cops made her up to scare people, like some kinda boogeyman."

"I dunno," chimed in the third, his box-cutter claws clinking faintly as he gestured animatedly. "I know a guy—well, my cousin knows a guy—who says she’s some kinda fox monster that drinks people’s blood and eats their liver."

The other two stared at him, their disbelief palpable even in the dim alley light.

“Nah, nah, for real!” he insisted, waving his clawed hands. “She’s got these glowing eyes, and claws like knives! She hunts criminals and, like, feeds on 'em after she’s done!”

“That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard,” the bat-wielder shot back, rolling his eyes. “She’s real, but she ain’t some kind of monster. She’s a mutant fox ninja who escaped a government lab, and there’s, like, a whole team of ‘em.” He leaned in conspiratorially. “They’re like… super-fox assassins.”

"Super-fox assassins?" the flail guy groaned, shaking his head. “You idiots watch way too many cartoons when you’re high.”

"At least I don’t think she’s the damn chupacabra or something," the bat guy fired back defensively.

Above them, Vulpes suppressed the urge to laugh. Mutant ninja fox? Monster that eats livers? Super-fox assassins? She rolled her eyes behind her mask. It was amazing how urban legends spiralled out of control, even when they were about her. Still, she wasn’t about to let them keep making guesses. She adjusted her stance, ready to make her entrance, deciding that perhaps she’d lean into the mystique just a little bit.

  If this was an ambush, it was poorly executed—three goons with makeshift armor and weapons, no snipers, no backup, no guns, and positioned in a dead-end alley. Either they were monumentally stupid, or dangerously confident. Maybe both. Vulpes perched silently on the fire escape, taking her time to assess the area for any hidden threats, but found none. Satisfied that these three were likely all she’d have to deal with, she decided to handle it by the book. A textbook takedown might even provide some answers if she played it right.

She leapt silently from the fire escape, landing in a crouch behind the men. The one with the barbed-wire bat spun at the faint sound of her landing, but too late—her reinforced gauntlet smashed into his gut. He staggered back, the wind knocked out of him. The others reacted quickly, clawed gauntlets and the flail swinging wildly as they closed in on her.

Her next strike was aimed at the clawed one’s shoulder, but his makeshift armour absorbed much of the impact. Her eyes narrowed as she realised the tire treads and warped steel plating weren’t just for show—they provided genuine protection. Before she could regroup, the flail-wielder swung his weapon, forcing her to dodge back.

The barbed-wire bat thug recovered, fumbling with something in his pocket. He pulled out an inhaler and took a deep hit, his eyes going wide and dilated. A manic giggle bubbled from his throat as his posture shifted, more unhinged and erratic.

The others followed suit, each taking a hit from their own inhalers. Their collective demeanour changed instantly. Their movements became jittery, their breathing heavier, and an eerie, synchronised laughter filled the alley. Vulpes tensed as she watched them shake off the initial blows she’d landed as if they’d been nothing. Whatever was in those inhalers was dulling their pain and sending their aggression into overdrive.

The bat-wielder charged her, swinging wildly with reckless abandon. She sidestepped, grabbing his wrist and slamming an elbow into his ribs. He barely flinched. Instead, he swung again, faster and harder, his giggling escalating into full-blown hysterics.

The clawed thug lunged at her from the side, his crude weapons slashing toward her head. She ducked low, sweeping her leg out to trip him. He fell, but even as he hit the ground, he scrambled back to his feet, laughing like a madman.

The flail-wielder came in next, swinging with brutal force. She dodged, but not fast enough—his weapon grazed her side, the impact rattling her. The pain was sharp but manageable, her armour taking most of the blow. .

Whatever cocktail of drugs they were on, she thought, dodging another swing. It’s something made by an expert, something designed to turn them into berserkers.

She adjusted her tactics, focusing on exploiting their lack of precision and coordination. These thugs were fast and aggressive, but they were also sloppy, their movements driven by the drug rather than skill. If she could outmanoeuvre them and wear them down, she might just gain the upper hand.

She rolled back and her bolas flew snapping around the ankles of baseball bat thug with a satisfying clack. Followed by the toss of a micro-Grenade into the face of box-cutter claw’s face, a tiny flash bang that she hoped was going to fry their dilated pupils. 

Vulpes rolled back in a fluid motion, her bolas snapping out with practiced precision. The weighted cords whipped around the ankles of the baseball bat thug, tangling his legs and sending him sprawling to the pavement with a satisfying thud. His barbed weapon clattered against the asphalt as he flailed in an attempt to free himself.

Without missing a beat, she reached for her utility belt and tossed a micro-grenade directly at Box-Cutter Claw. The tiny device exploded in a blinding flash, a sharp crack reverberating through the alley. The thug screamed, clawing at his face as his dilated pupils were overwhelmed by the searing light. He stumbled back, crashing into a stack of crates with a heavy crash.

“That should keep you quiet for a minute,” Vulpes muttered, adjusting her stance as she pivoted toward the third thug, who had armed himself with the heavy sack flail. He grinned through the haze of whatever he’d inhaled, his movements erratic yet deceptively fast as he swung the makeshift weapon toward her.

She ducked just in time, feeling the rush of air as the sack whooshed past her head, smashing into a nearby dumpster with a loud clang. The thug cackled, clearly unfazed by the missed strike. The drugs coursing through his system made him unpredictable, his aggression fueled by an unnatural cocktail of mania and pain tolerance.

“You’re not gonna like what happens next,” Vulpes said coldly, narrowing her eyes as she prepared to face him head-on.

Whatever they’d inhaled, it was clear that pain wouldn’t slow them down. Vulpes took a calming breath, shifting the steel cuffs in her off-hand as she quickly scanned the alleyway. A stack of crates, the scattered remains of a broken pallet, and a trash bin caught her eye—improvised tools in her battle against this drug-fueled trio.

"One at a time," she muttered under her breath, her grandfather's voice echoing in her memory: Divide and conquer. And never, ever fight fair.

The thug with the sack flail charged at her again, his swing wild but forceful. Vulpes sidestepped, letting the heavy weapon collide with a stack of crates. The impact sent wood splinters flying, and before he could recover, she darted forward, hooking one of her cuffs around his wrist. With a swift twist and a step back, she yanked him off balance, slamming his arm against the metal dumpster and snapping the other cuff around a pipe jutting out from the wall.

"That’s one down," she muttered, narrowly dodging a blind swing from Box-Cutter Claw, who had recovered enough to charge her. His clawed gauntlets gleamed in the dim light, slashing through the air with reckless abandon.

Vulpes danced back, positioning herself near the fallen pallet. She waited for the perfect moment, then kicked the loose wood toward him. The jagged slats splintered under his feet, causing him to stumble. In the split second he faltered, she lunged, grabbing his arm and twisting it sharply, disarming one of the gauntlets and shoving him hard into the side of the dumpster. Before he could regain his footing, she cuffed his wrist to the handle of the dumpster, leaving him flailing and cursing.

The last thug, baseball bat still tangled in his legs, had managed to wriggle free of the bolas and was now advancing, his bat raised high. Vulpes rolled her shoulders, the ache from earlier hits making itself known, but she didn’t let it slow her.

“Third time’s the charm,” she said, bracing herself as he charged.

The thug with the bat barreled toward her, laughing maniacally, his drug-fueled frenzy making his every move erratic and wild. For a moment, Vulpes’ mind flashed back to one of her grandfather’s stories—about bullfighting, the way matadors used their capes to bait and misdirect. A smirk tugged at her lips as she adjusted her cape, letting it billow slightly to obscure the small pile of cinder blocks she’d spotted nearby.

“Olé,” she murmured under her breath, stepping deliberately to one side as the thug bore down on her, his bat raised high.

At the last second, she spun, sweeping the cape dramatically out of the way and exposing the cinder blocks. The thug’s momentum carried him forward, his boot catching on the edge of the pile. He stumbled, flailing, his arms pinwheeling as he tried to regain balance—but it was too late. He toppled forward, hitting the pavement with a heavy thud, his bat clattering out of his hands and skidding across the alley.

Before he could recover, Vulpes was on him. She planted a knee firmly in his back, using her weight to pin him as she grabbed one of his arms and snapped a zip-tie restraint around his wrist. He thrashed beneath her, howling with rage, but she quickly secured his other arm, binding him tightly.

She stood, catching her breath as she surveyed the alley. All three thugs were down, restrained, and out of commission. Her heart was pounding, but a sense of grim satisfaction settled over her.

"Three for three," she muttered, flexing her sore fingers. Divide and conquer. Grandad would’ve been proud.

Vulpes examined the inhaler in her gloved hand, her mind racing as she pieced together the clues. The design was crude but effective—similar to the one Lyra Sinclair had provided her student, modified for easy, rapid doses. Her stomach twisted as she turned it over, studying the faint chemical residue clinging to the mouthpiece. The cocktail of drugs these thugs had taken wasn’t just about aggression or pain tolerance; it was a signature, a calling card.

Then her eyes fell on the crumpled poster one of the thugs had dropped. She picked it up, smoothing it out to reveal a vibrant swirl of pastel hues and psychedelic patterns. The bold lettering read:

Retro Rave! This Friday! Come Get Your Groove On!

Her eyes narrowed as she scanned the garish design. The tie-dye patterns, the retro fonts, the blatant callback to the counterculture movement of the 60s and 70s—it screamed Doctor Lyra Sinclair. Or, rather the chaotic persona she had become. This wasn’t just a coincidence. This was deliberate. A setup.

Vulpes clenched her jaw, her mind racing as she replayed the events of the last week. She must have been trying to neutralise me before I caught on. Trying to keep me distracted with these thugs while she set her plans into motion.

She made her way back to the Silver Kit, the poster and inhaler clenched tightly in her hands. But why a rave? she asked herself, sliding into the driver’s seat and starting the engine. The rhythmic hum of the car barely registered as her mind churned with possibilities.

Moving drugs? That’s the obvious answer, she thought grimly. Sinclair was a chemist, after all, and raves were the perfect breeding ground for trafficking psychedelics and other party drugs. But that felt too simple, too ordinary for someone like Sinclair. The woman who had tried to gas an entire boardroom full of executives wasn’t content to merely peddle drugs for cash.

Then it hit her, a chilling realisation sinking in as she gripped the steering wheel.

Psych-D. It’s a gas.

She inhaled sharply, the implications dawning on her like a punch to the gut. What if she’s planning to gas an entire rave full of people? An enclosed warehouse, packed with bodies, all breathing in her concoction... the chaos, the destruction. The experiment.

It wasn’t just about making money. It was about scale. About power. About unleashing her twisted vision on as many people as possible.

Vulpes slammed the car door shut and revved the engine, her determination solidifying. She didn’t know the full extent of Psychedelic’s plan, but one thing was clear: she had to stop it before it unfolded. Friday wasn’t far off.

“Not on my watch,” she muttered, the Silver Kit roaring to life as she tore out of the alleyway. Time to crash a rave.