The whetstone hissed softly as it drew across the blade, metal whispering against stone in long, measured strokes.

That sound—that perfect metallic scrape—was enough to make the person holding the knife pause, just for a breath.

Not out of caution. Out of pleasure.

They enjoyed this part. The ritual of it. The preparation.

Cleaning and honing the tools that would soon make art.

They didn’t believe in cheap factory blades. No soulless, mass-produced steel ground out on an assembly line. No, their work demanded something finer—hand-forged carbon steel, balanced, strong, precise. Each blade was a masterpiece before it ever tasted blood.

And like any true artist, they had a tool for every stroke.

The walls around them were lined with their collection—long, slender stilettos, broad butcher’s cleavers, curved bowie knives, hatchets, skinning blades, fillet knives.

All cleaned, sharpened, oiled, and arranged with obsessive care.

A brush for every cut. A blade for every canvas.

The freshly honed knife was lifted, its edge glinting in the low light. It was inspected—turned slightly, admired—then gently returned to its place on the wall, nestled beside its siblings in quiet, lethal harmony.

And as it clicked into place, a small smile crept across a face that was more handsome than one might guess—sharp, angular, but colder than the steel they revered.

The artist was ready.

The canvas would come soon.

***

To say Coraline was sleeping poorly would’ve been a gross understatement.

Between the upcoming trial for Alice, the lingering unease from Montreal, and now a senseless killer leaving corpses across her city like gallery pieces, her nerves were frayed thin.

Add a full docket of legal work, media scrutiny, and the pressure of keeping her other life hidden from the world, and she was dancing on the edge of burnout with her usual grace and grit.

It didn’t help that she had a meeting today—official, on the books—with a member of the RCMP.

Detective Olivia Benoit.

A forensic expert, decorated investigator, and—if the records were to be believed—a by-the-book professional with very little patience for shortcuts. Coraline had read the file. Twice.

Education from McGill. Commendations. Dozens of solved cases, some of them involving Specials, some of them more human but just as horrific. She had the look of someone who had seen the dark and kept walking.

Impressive.

But Coraline didn’t do impressed without follow-through.

Paranoia and experience had taught her better.

She’d run her own background check before the meeting. Cross-referenced Benoit’s name against corruption reports, internal affairs leaks, and every tip her mask had uncovered over the past year. Coraline had seen too many badges bought and sold like casino chips.

If trust was going to be on the table, it would have to be earned.

And today might be the start of that. Or the end of it.

She adjusted the collar of her black suit, smoothed her lapel, and took one last look in the mirror. The sharp, confident lawyer looked back at her.

Polished. Poised. Powerful.

But beneath it, the Vulpes watched and waited.

Always ready to move. Always ready to fight.

Coraline stepped into the RCMP office with the kind of presence that turned heads—even among people trained not to flinch.

She drew a few looks. Not hostile. Just wary.

The kind of glances seasoned officers gave to people who didn’t belong in their world. Like they could smell a lawyer from a hundred yards out—expensive perfume, perfect tailoring, liability paperwork tucked in her briefcase like a loaded weapon.

Not that Coraline did much to hide it.

She practically screamed high-class Toronto lawyer—a tailored black suit, patent heels that clicked with precision on the tile floor, and a posture that said I bill by the hour, and your budget can’t afford me.

She walked with intent to the front desk, where a tired-looking woman with faded roots and a coffee-stained uniform blinked up at her. The receptionist looked overworked, underpaid, and just barely caffeinated enough to function.

Coraline offered a polite but professional smile.

“I have a ten o’clock with Detective Benoit,” she said calmly, her voice smooth as a courtroom objection.

The woman blinked again, then checked her monitor with fingers that moved like they hadn’t gotten enough sleep in a week.

“Right… Penrose, was it?” she asked, already typing.

“That’s correct.”

“Take a seat,” the woman said, nodding toward the sparse waiting area. “She’ll be out to get you shortly.”

Coraline nodded in return, stepped aside, and took the nearest open chair.

And waited—cool, collected, perfectly still.

But behind her steady gaze, the Vulpes was watching.

Assessing. Measuring. Waiting for the real game to begin.

Coraline didn’t have to wait long.

Detective Olivia Benoit was, as Coraline had expected, punctual to the minute. The kind of woman who made timetables a personal code rather than a suggestion.

She appeared from the far hallway with a quiet confidence—her stride unhurried, her presence composed.

No nonsense. No pretense. Just focus in motion.

Coraline stood smoothly as Benoit approached, heels clicking softly against the tile. The two women met halfway—two professionals, two predators, who were unknown to each other, circling the Bloodletter case from opposite ends of the legal spectrum.

“Good morning, Miss Penrose,” Benoit said, extending a hand. Her tone was polite, neutral, carefully measured. “Please, come into my office.”

Coraline took the offered handshake—firm, dry, no wasted movement. A law school professor once told her you could learn everything you needed from someone’s grip.

Benoit’s? Controlled. Assured. Unyielding.

So that’s how this will go, Coraline thought.

She gave a slight nod. “Detective.”

They moved together, the subtle rhythm of two women used to being the sharpest mind in the room.

And behind their polite exchange, mutual appraisal buzzed beneath the surface.

Neither trusted the other yet. But both were here for Alice Little. And that, for now, was enough.

Coraline stepped into Detective Benoit’s office and did what she always did when entering someone else’s domain:

She read the room.

Not just the woman sitting behind the desk—but the space itself.

Because what a person chose to surround themselves with, how they kept their world—that told you just as much as anything they said.

The office was neat, orderly, no clutter to speak of. A place of discipline. Files aligned with military precision. Stationery placed just so. A mug—plain, ceramic—rested next to a closed laptop, its handle turned inward, not absentmindedly but intentionally.

The walls offered more.

A framed diploma from McGill. A handful of accolades and service medals. Newspaper clippings, some yellowed with age, celebrated breakthroughs and arrests. Faces blurred, names redacted—but the stories spoke of a woman who had earned her respect the hard way.

But then there were the softer details.

A photograph: Liv in uniform, smiling—not the formal kind, but real and bright—standing beside a little girl holding a banner that read:  RCMP Charity Run – For the Kids.

It wasn’t center stage, but it wasn’t hidden either.

On her desk, tucked beside the monitor, was a smaller frame. A photo of a German Shepherd, tongue lolling happily, fur windswept like he'd just finished a sprint. In the corner was a paw print, and beneath it:

Marko 1980 – 1992

Coraline’s gaze lingered on that one a moment longer.

The quiet grief of a lost K9 partner—preserved, not flaunted. A mark of sentiment, not performance.

She’s not just a hardnose, Coraline thought. She gives a damn.

And that, more than the medals or media praise, told her the most.

Detective Olivia Benoit was not just a cop who followed procedure. She was a woman who believed in duty.

Coraline sat down, coolly composed, crossing one leg over the other as her mind catalogued every detail like a crime scene.

Quietly, a map began to form.

Of the space. Of the woman. Of the terrain ahead.

Coraline had hope.

Hope that the woman across from her—the one with medals on the wall and a paw print on her desk—was the kind of person who could help.

Alice needed people who cared. And those were getting harder to find.

After the incident at Macentyre Systems, the media had gone into a frenzy. Headlines screamed “WONDERLAND STRIKES, MADDNESS AND MAYHAM AT MACENTYRE SYSTEMS”, calling Alice everything from a supervillain to an unstable public menace.

It didn’t matter that the facts were messy. That Alice hadn’t meant to hurt anyone. That the damage came from a fractured mind trying to protect itself the only way it knew how.

People didn’t want nuance.

They wanted monsters.

And once they branded you a supervillain, they didn’t have to ask if you were human anymore.

Coraline wasn’t going to let Alice become another name scratched onto a cell wall. Not if she could help it.

She knew Alice would never walk free. That time had passed.

But freedom wasn’t the goal.

Mercy was.

A cell in a maximum-security facility—Site 404, the infamous lockbox for Canadian Specials—would destroy her.

Alice needed treatment, not punishment. Compassion, not chains.

And if that meant Coraline had to play every card in her legal deck to make someone listen, she’d do it twice and smile.

Across the desk, Detective Benoit opened a brown file folder, flipping it open with professional ease.

“So,” Liv asked, her voice calm but direct, “I have to ask—how did Alice Little’s friend manage to swing getting her case? Seems like something the bar would frown on.”

Coraline met her gaze evenly. No deflection. No hesitation.

“A few strings,” she said simply. “And the fact that no one else wanted it.”

She leaned forward slightly, not aggressive—invested.

“I stepped up because she’s my friend. And I wasn’t about to let her be assigned some overworked Crown-appointed attorney who didn’t want to be there, didn’t believe in her, and would treat this like just another name on a plea deal stack.”

Liv’s eyes stayed on her. Sharp. But no longer skeptical.

Just quiet.

Measuring.

Coraline didn’t flinch. “I know it’s a conflict of interest. But if being close to her is what it takes to make sure she isn’t thrown into a padded hole and forgotten, then I’ll take the heat.”

For a moment, there was nothing but the faint hum of the fluorescent lights and the distant murmur of the station outside.

Then, Liv nodded once. A small thing. But it meant something.

Olivia opened the file, her expression calm and clinical as her eyes skimmed the familiar pages. She didn’t need to reread it—she knew Alice Little’s case inside and out by now—but professionalism demanded the ritual.

“So,” she said, voice measured, “you asked for a profile. My expert assessment, as someone who’s consulted on cases like this before?”

Coraline nodded gently. “You came highly recommended by several people I trust.”

That earned a subtle raise of the brow from Liv, but she didn’t comment. She closed the folder halfway and rested a hand on it as she spoke, her tone still steady, but now with just a shade more weight.

“Well then, I’ll be blunt,” Olivia said. “I don’t believe Doctor Little belongs in a standard reform institution. And certainly not Site 404.”

She let the words hang a beat. Coraline didn’t interrupt.

“She’s harmless without her equipment,” Liv continued, “and the psych-eval history doesn’t point to a woman acting out of malice, or even intentional violence. From everything I’ve read—and from my experience—this wasn’t about power. Or vengeance. This was about pain. And a fractured psyche doing its best to survive.”

Coraline’s fingers curled slightly in her lap. She breathed just a little easier.

Liv tapped the file once, softly. “What happened at Macentyre Systems was a tragedy. But not a premeditated assault. Not some criminal mastermind flexing muscle. The Wonderland persona is a trauma response—violent, yes, but not self-directed. And Alice Little, the woman underneath it all, doesn’t belong in a cage. She belongs in treatment. Intensive, long-term care. Not punishment.”

There was a long silence between them—one full of gravity, but not tension.

Coraline looked across the desk and met Liv’s gaze with calm intensity.

“That,” she said, “is the first thing anyone in this process has said that gives me hope.”

Liv nodded, just once—subtle, thoughtful. Then she slid the folder across the desk toward Coraline.

“If you ask me, it’s cut and dry,” she said, voice low but firm. “She needs help. And I don’t think she can be held fully responsible for what happened—not with everything in her psych profile. Not with what I’ve read in her file.”

Coraline took the folder, her fingers brushing against the desk’s cool surface as she slipped it into her briefcase with practiced care.

Liv leaned back slightly in her chair. “Problem is, a lot of people were scared. A lot of people got hurt. And now they’re drinking every drop of the Kool-Aid the media’s selling. ‘Supervillain gone mad,’ ‘unstable genius,’ ‘public threat.’ It’s easier for them that way. Easier to hate a headline than understand a person.”

Coraline’s lips pressed together in a faint, wry smile—more weary than amused. She let out a small, quiet sigh through her nose. Not defeated. Just... tired.

“I know,” she murmured. “But nothing worth fighting for is ever easy.”

Their eyes met across the desk—two women who’d been burned by the system more than once, and kept coming back anyway.

For justice. For principle. For people like Alice.

In that moment, the room was quiet. But something had shifted.

Not in the case.

In the trust.

“Thank you, Detective Benoit,” Coraline said, and she meant it.

There was no edge to her voice now. Just calm sincerity.

She rose from her chair with quiet grace and extended her hand across the desk.

“I’ll get out of your hair,” she added lightly. “I’m sure you’ve got more important work to do.”

Liv shook her hand—firm, steady, professional. “You know what they say,” she replied with a faint smirk, “a Mountie always gets their man. And I rarely have a shortage of them that need getting.”

That earned a small, tired smile from Coraline.

“Have a good day, Detective.”

She turned to leave, hand already brushing her blazer straight—back into lawyer mode, mask on.

But just before she reached the door, Liv’s voice followed her.

“Call me Olivia, Miss Penrose.”

Coraline paused, looked back over her shoulder. Her smile softened—just a touch.

“Only if you call me Coraline.”

And with that, the lawyer stepped out, the door clicking gently behind her.

For Coraline, it was like a weight had eased—one less burden to carry, one less unknown to worry about. Not a solved case. But an ally.

And for both women, as they turned back to their respective work, their thoughts drifted to the same shadow.

The one haunting the alleys. The one painting the city in blood. The one they had started calling the Bloor Street Bloodletter.