Ethan McAllister's heart pounded against his ribs as he strained against the ropes binding him to the cold, metal chair. The warehouse was a cavernous, dimly lit expanse, filled with the smell of damp concrete, oil, and rust. He struggled to focus on his surroundings—the soft clink of dripping water, the low hum of machinery somewhere in the distance, and the ominous creaking of the building itself. Every sound carried the weight of a potential threat. His mind raced, replaying the moments that led him here—moments of desperation, betrayal, and a final act of defiance for the sake of his family. Was that a door creaking open? The sound made him freeze, his heart skipping a beat. Was it someone coming to finish the job, or—perhaps—help?
The gag in his mouth muffled his pleas as he watched the four Ruso Family goons, their eyes cold and unyielding, standing guard. Each second felt like an eternity, every faint noise amplifying his fear. Ethan clung to the hope that someone—anyone—would come to save him from the shadows closing in.
He was a squealer, a mafia accountant who had testified against Mike Ruso. His testimony had all but sealed the case, sending Ruso to prison and marking Ethan as a target for revenge by the Ruso Family, the heads of the Italian Mafia in Toronto.
Ethan McAllister took some solace in knowing that the Ruso code of honor meant they wouldn't touch his family. He slumped his shoulders in recognition that he had gambled and failed, and by morning, his body would likely be at the bottom of Lake Ontario. The thought was cold comfort, but it was all he had left. He closed his eyes, trying to hold onto the image of his daughter's smiling face—the one thing that had kept him going through all of this. A sudden, distant creak made his eyes snap open. His gaze flickered to the guards, hoping to see a hint of unease, but they stood firm.
The four goons were prime examples of Ruso made men, wearing long coats and cheap suits as if they thought they were a class above the street gangs. They stood around with an air of self-importance, their eyes flicking back and forth between McAllister and the warehouse entrance. They were here to watch him until their boss showed up to deal with him. Hired muscle with a taste for violence, they were here for more than just a paycheck—the family wanted a personal touch in making the treacherous accountant pay. As Ethan watched them, his mind drifted back to his family, and he prayed that his sacrifice would be enough to keep them safe.
"So this is the guy who had enough brass in his balls to cross Big Mike?" one of the thugs sneered, leaning against a rusted support beam.
"Balls? More like no brains," another replied with a derisive laugh. "This little shit had it good. All he had to do was keep his mouth shut!" He shook his head in mock disbelief, glancing at Ethan with a mix of disdain and amusement.
One of the goons—a younger man with a slight tremor in his voice—spoke up. "You ever wonder if it's worth it? I mean, going after squealers like this?"
The thug leaning against the beam turned to the younger one, his eyes narrowing. "You starting to feel soft, kid? You know what happens if we let rats like him walk away. Mike’s doing twenty years because of this punk."
The younger man looked away, fidgeting. "Yeah, yeah, I know. Just... feels different when you're standing here, y'know?"
Ethan's eyes flickered with defiance, but the gag stifled any retort. He knew better than to provoke them further. Instead, he focused on the hope that help would come, that the Vulpes, the mysterious vigilante who was cracking down on organized crime in Toronto, would somehow find him before it was too late.
The warehouse stood solemnly at the edge of Toronto's docks, its aged metal walls bathed in the crescent moon's silvery light. The structure was a relic of a bygone era, with rusted corrugated iron panels and faded paint, barely discernible under layers of grime and graffiti. Its large, grimy windows reflected the shimmering surface of Lake Ontario, stretching out into the distance like an endless, inky abyss.
The cool early spring breeze carried the scent of the lake, mingling with the industrial tang of oil and salt. The occasional sound of water lapping against the docked boats broke the eerie silence of the night. Shadows from the skeletal frames of nearby cranes and shipping containers cast long, distorted shapes across the pavement, adding to the warehouse's foreboding presence.
The moon's pale glow illuminated the path leading up to the warehouse, where cracked asphalt met the weathered wooden planks of the dock. Sparse patches of struggling grass and weeds clung to the edges of the structure, swaying gently in the night air. Despite the calm, there was an undeniable tension in the atmosphere, as if the very environment sensed the impending violence within.
A heavy sedan, its black paint gleaming under the moonlight, rumbled steadily down the deserted dock road toward the warehouse. The vehicle’s powerful engine purred with a menacing undertone, signaling the arrival of someone important. Inside the car, Leopold "Leo" Ruso sat in the backseat, his sharp eyes reflecting the cold determination of a seasoned mobster.
Leo was an imposing figure, dressed in a tailored suit that spoke of old-world sophistication. His graying hair was slicked back, and a neatly trimmed mustache framed his stern mouth. He was a man who prided himself on doing things the old-fashioned way—the correct way, as he liked to say. To his right and left sat his loyal bodyguards, men of few words but many scars, each a testament to their brutal efficiency. The driver, a burly figure in a leather jacket, kept his eyes on the road, steering the car with practiced ease.
As the sedan approached the warehouse, Leo's mind was set on the task ahead. The squealer had broken the code of silence, and there was only one way to deal with such betrayal. He intended to make an example of Ethan McAllister, ensuring that everyone in Toronto—and beyond—understood the price of crossing the Ruso family. Leo absentmindedly adjusted his cufflinks, a gesture that betrayed his need for control. He always checked his watch before taking action, an old habit, reminding himself of the preciousness of time and precision.
The car rolled to a stop in front of the warehouse, the headlights cutting through the darkness and illuminating the rusted facade. Leo stepped out of the sedan, adjusting his suit jacket, and glanced around the dock with an air of authority. He took a deep breath of the cool spring air, savoring the moment. This was how it was supposed to be done, he thought—the old ways, the right ways. With a nod to his bodyguards, he strode purposefully towards the warehouse entrance, ready to deliver the Ruso family's justice.
Unknown to the Ruso family or Ethan McAllister, a hunter prowled the night. She was lithe and nimble, a shadow among shadows, and Toronto was her hunting ground. The Vulpes, with her orange and black costume blending seamlessly into the darkness, landed on the warehouse roof without a sound. She patted her utility belt, her fingers brushing a small tracker thoughtfully. 'Always be prepared,' her grandfather's voice echoed in her mind—a mantra she lived by. She made sure everything was in place. Her padded boots muffled even the whisper of a noise as she moved with predatory grace. She was here for McAllister, but her reasons for targeting the Ruso family were deeply personal.
Ten years ago, a drive-by firefight between the Ruso and Malone gangs had cost her the life of her beloved grandfather. The staccato sound of sub-machine gun fire, the acrid smell of gunpowder lingering in the warm summer air, the sight of her grandfather's body falling—these memories haunted her. A senseless casualty in the gang wars ripping Toronto apart, his death had ignited a fire within her. The Vulpes had sworn to bring justice to those who forced their violence on Toronto, and tonight, she would exact a measure of that justice.
From her vantage point on the roof, she observed the scene below. The four goons, the dimly lit warehouse, the arrival of Leo Ruso—each detail registered in her mind as she planned her next move. The memories of her grandfather’s kind eyes and gentle smile fueled her resolve. This was more than just a mission; it was a step towards avenging the senseless murder that had claimed him.
With silent determination, the Vulpes crept closer to the warehouse's edge, her eyes locked on the door below where Leo and his men would soon enter. She was ready to strike, to rescue McAllister, and to remind the Ruso family that there was a new force in Toronto—one that would not rest until justice was served.
Her grandfather had been a master thief in his youth, a secret known only to her. He was none other than the infamous gentleman thief the world had called the Silver Fox. She discovered the truth when she was ten while exploring her grandfather's lake house. Her natural curiosity had led her to uncover the Fox Den, his secret lair, untouched since his retirement in the sixties to raise a family. She had expected anger, but instead, the old man had been delighted. He deemed her worthy of his legacy, sparking the beginning of her transformation into the Vulpes.
Under her grandfather’s meticulous guidance, she trained rigorously. The Silver-Fox was a master thief, skilled martial artist, stage magician, escape artist, and acrobat—all skills she eagerly absorbed. They bonded deeply during their training sessions, the old man’s twinkling eyes and patient instruction instilling in her a sense of purpose and honor. He had been more than just a grandfather; he was her mentor, her hero, and the person who shaped her into the formidable vigilante she had become.
As she prepared to rescue Ethan McAllister, the memories of their time together steeled her resolve. She was here to honor his legacy, to protect the innocent, and to punish those who thought themselves above the law. The Vulpes took a deep breath, her senses sharpened, and her mind clear. She was ready to strike, to show the Ruso family and all of Toronto that the spirit of the Silver Fox lived on through her.
She slid a pair of night vision goggles over her cowl, the green tint illuminating the dim warehouse below. Among the array of gadgets on her belt, her fingers briefly brushed against the small tracker she had felt earlier. 'Always plan ahead, and always leave a trail,' her grandfather used to say. She would do just that tonight.
Her grandfather had always said, "Fair fights are for suckers," and she had no intention of giving any of the mafia goons inside a fair fight. Seven to one wasn’t fair to her anyway, especially since they had guns, a weapon she refused to use. The staccato sound of sub-machine gun fire had heralded her grandfather's violent death one warm summer day, and since then, she held a deep disdain for firearms.
Meanwhile, Leo Ruso was approaching the bound Ethan, his footsteps echoing ominously in the vast space of the warehouse. Ethan couldn't help but be intimidated by the presence of Leopold Ruso. Leo cut a figure of classic mafia power, exuding an air of authority and menace that seemed to fill the room. Even in the dim light, his sharp, calculating eyes and the confident set of his jaw made him appear larger and more dangerous than the bodyguards who flanked him.
Leo's tailored suit and polished shoes contrasted starkly with the rough, grimy setting, underscoring his status and power. He stopped a few feet from Ethan, looking down at him with a mixture of disdain and amusement. Ethan felt a shiver run down his spine, knowing that this man held his fate in his hands. Leo’s reputation for ruthlessness was well-earned, and there was no doubt in Ethan's mind that Leo intended to make an example out of him.
As Leo spoke, his voice was low and steady, carrying the weight of someone used to command. "You thought you could betray me and walk away unscathed, McAllister?" he said, a hint of a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. "You should have known better. No one crosses the Ruso family and lives to tell the tale."
Ethan’s heart raced, but he kept his gaze steady, refusing to show the fear coursing through him. He tried to flex his wrists, subtly twisting them in the tight ropes binding him to the chair. He needed to do something, anything that would give him a chance if help arrived. He glanced at the guards out of the corner of his eye, making note of where they stood, the guns they carried. Even in his position, he refused to be entirely helpless.
Leo gestured to the four made men on guard and gave them a curt order. "Get a couple of boxes and a bag of cement! We are gonna do this like our grandfathers did, boys, and give him a set of Chicago overshoes!"
The men sprang into action, their footsteps echoing as they moved to gather the supplies. The ominous sound of shifting boxes and the shifting of cement bags filled the warehouse, adding to the heavy atmosphere. Ethan's heart sank further as he realized the brutal fate that awaited him, the weight of his situation pressing down like a physical force.
Leo turned his attention back to Ethan, his expression cold and unyielding. "You wanted to be a squealer, now you'll be fish food," he said, his voice dripping with contempt. "This is what happens to those who forget their place."
Ethan despaired and resigned himself to his fate, what little hope he had draining away as they mixed the concrete that would drag him to the bottom of Lake Ontario. He caught sight of a shadow moving above, a flicker of something that made him dare to hope. He shifted in his chair, trying to position himself so that, if the moment came, he could make a move. If this was the Vulpes, he wouldn't sit idle.
As they were starting to pour his cement shoes, the dim flickering lights in the warehouse suddenly went black. Only the crescent sliver of the moon and the background light of the city shone down through the skylights, casting eerie shadows across the scene.
The sudden darkness caught the men off guard, their murmurs of confusion and annoyance breaking the tense silence. Leo's voice cut through the darkness, sharp and commanding. "Stay sharp, boys. Someone's messing with us."
In the pitch black, Ethan's senses heightened, and he strained to hear anything over the pounding of his own heart. Then, almost imperceptibly, he heard the softest whisper of movement above. The Vulpes had arrived.
From her perch in the rafters, she watched the scene unfold below. The blackout was her doing, a calculated move to disorient the mobsters and tip the scales in her favor. She took a deep breath, her night vision goggles piercing the darkness, and prepared to strike.
With the stealth of a predator, she descended silently. She moved like a wraith, targeting the men one by one. In the pitch-black warehouse, the goons had no chance to see her coming. A swift chop to the neck here, a well-placed kick there, the crackle and flash of a high-powered taser, and the hiss of a device spraying a dose of knockout gas. Four of their number dropped to the floor one by one, unconscious before they even realized they were under attack.
Now only Leo and his two guards stood, while his driver sat unaware outside in the sedan. Vulpes admitted to herself that she had expended a fair bit of her resources to reduce the numbers of the Rusos, but in a fight with odds stacked this heavily against her, she couldn't afford the luxury of letting any skirmish drag out.
Leo's eyes darted around in the darkness, his guards shifting uneasily beside him. "What the hell is going on?" one of the guards muttered, his voice betraying a hint of panic.
"Stay calm," Leo ordered, though his voice wavered slightly. "She's here. The little bitch in the fox costume that broke DeMarco's arm last week! Spread out and find her. Pump her full of lead!"
The guards moved cautiously, their eyes straining to see in the darkened warehouse. The Vulpes knew she had to act quickly. She moved silently through the shadows, her night vision goggles providing a clear view of her targets.
She didn't want to expend all of her utility belt's tools, not when she had a long night ahead of her. Her grandfather had taught her Defendu, a somewhat obscure martial art he had picked up in World War II. While it was the first style of fighting she learned, she had expanded on it, forming a mixed martial arts style that combined Defendu with elements of Jeet Kune Do, Taijutsu, and Krav Maga.
Her first move was swift and precise. She kicked the heavy revolver from the first bodyguard's hand, the weapon clattering to the ground. Before he could react, she hit him with a series of strikes—an elbow to the temple, a palm strike to the jaw, and a knee to the gut—each movement fluid and powerful, designed to incapacitate quickly and efficiently. The guard crumpled to the floor, unconscious before he knew what hit him.
With one down, she turned her attention to the second guard, already moving with the silent, deadly grace that had become her trademark.
The second bodyguard had opted for an automatic, a heavy .45 caliber pistol that she had no intention of letting him fire. With a swift snap of her wrist, she sent a throwing star whizzing through the air. The guard snarled as it struck his hand, forcing him to drop his gun. The weapon clattered to the floor, and Vulpes capitalized on the fallen gun instantly, dashing into combat with another rapid series of mixed martial arts attacks.
She closed the distance in a heartbeat, her movements a blur. A powerful roundhouse kick to the side of his head sent him staggering, followed by a rapid combination of strikes—a jab to the throat, an elbow to the ribs, and a crushing knee to the solar plexus. The guard gasped, his breath knocked out of him, and crumpled to the ground.
She paused for a moment, her breath catching. The memory of her grandfather's death flashed in her mind—the helplessness, the rage. Was she doing enough to honor him? Was all this violence really what he would have wanted? She hesitated, her fists tightening, before pushing the thoughts away. There was no room for doubt now, not when Ethan's life hung in the balance.
Where was Leo? The realization that the big fish here hadn't come at her or so much as drawn a gun and shot at her was a worrying prospect. She quickly discovered why. Leo had one of his burly arms around Ethan's throat and a gun pressed to his head. "Take one more step, and I will paint this filthy rat's brains all over the place!" he snarled.
The Vulpes froze, her mind racing as she assessed the situation. Leo's grip on Ethan was tight, his eyes wild with desperation. The gun, a heavy revolver, was pressed hard against Ethan's temple. One wrong move, and it would be all over.
"Let him go, Leo," she said, her voice calm and measured.
Leo's laugh was harsh and bitter. "You think you've won? Do you think you can just waltz in here and take out my men without consequences? You're just a freak in a costume. Now back down, or he gets it!"
Ethan's eyes met the Vulpes', filled with fear but also a flicker of hope. She had to act fast, but she needed to be smart. Every second counted. She slowly backed away, a plan forming in her mind. "Always be three steps ahead," her grandfather had taught her, "and remember, it's not over until it's over."
Leo pulled Ethan, his feet still coated in wet cement, off his chair and slowly backed towards the waiting sedan. The Vulpes watched, seemingly unable to act, but her mind was racing through the possibilities. She knew she needed to create a distraction, something to shift the balance in her favor without endangering Ethan further.
Leo shoved Ethan into the back of the sedan before getting in and barking an order at his driver to get the hell out of there and floor it. The sedan's wheels squealed, and rubber burned as it pulled out. Leo smirked arrogantly, satisfied he had outfoxed the fox.
Fast and quiet—that was how the Vulpes operated, and her motorcycle was both of those things. It was a custom job that combined an advanced system to muffle its engine sounds with dangerous top speed and acceleration rates. Of course, it was painted and styled like her superhero persona, a red fox. The driver was unaware as she sped up alongside him, easily catching the big black sedan.
The Vulpes crouched low over her bike that she had affectionately dubbed the Vixen, her mind focused and her heart steady. The city lights blurred past her as she matched the sedan's speed, her eyes locked on her target.
The sedan swerved slightly as the driver noticed something amiss, but it was too late. The Vulpes accelerated, pulling herself closer to the vehicle. She positioned her bike beside the car, the muffle of her engine keeping her approach silent. Leo glanced out the window, his smirk fading into shock as he saw her beside them.
With a burst of speed, the Vulpes launched herself from the motorcycle, landing on the roof of the sedan with cat-like agility. As she moved, her hand instinctively checked her belt, confirming the presence of one of her gadgets. 'A good fox always leaves a trail,' she thought, a faint smile forming as she prepared to engage. The driver panicked, the car swerving violently, but she held on, moving quickly to the driver's side. She smashed the window with her reinforced glove, dropping a small orb into the driver's lap.
The smoke pellet burst with a hiss of dark grey smoke, filling the front of the sedan. The driver reacted with panic, hitting the brakes hard. The heavy car lunged and groaned in protest at being forced to stop so abruptly. The Vulpes held fast, her bike continuing forward; she had invested in some special stabilizers so it could coast on its own for a while before it fell over.
The sudden stop had thrown Leo off balance. “Guess he should have worn a seatbelt”, she silently mused as she hauled open the passenger side door. Leo was still trying to reorient himself, coughing and waving away the smoke. Seizing the opportunity, she reached into the smoke-filled sedan and grabbed Ethan.
"Come on!" she shouted, pulling him out with all her strength.
Ethan stumbled out of the car, coughing and gasping for air. The Vulpes flicked out a utility knife and freed his hands in one quick cut. She steadied him, glancing back to see Leo scrambling to get out of the car, his eyes filled with rage.
"We need to move, now!" she urged, guiding Ethan towards her bike.
They ran towards the motorcycle quickly getting onto the bike. She revved the engine, the sound of it was a low throaty purr in the night.
"Hold on tight!" she instructed, feeling Ethan's arms wrap around her waist.
The bike surged forward, leaving the smoke and chaos behind. The sedan, now filled with disoriented mobsters, was a rapidly shrinking silhouette in the distance. As they sped through the city streets, the Vulpes couldn't help but feel a sense of triumph. Tonight, justice prevailed.
“But, but you let Leo get away!” Ethan had managed to pull the duct tape gag off his face, his voice understandably distressed.
The Vulpes said nothing, her eyes fixed ahead as she sped through the city streets. She didn’t feel she needed to explain. They arrived at the police station, where she swiftly dropped Ethan off, ensuring he was safe. As the police officers approached, she melted back into the night, disappearing into the shadows.
Ethan watched in awe, realizing she had planned every step of the escape. As he was led inside by the officers, he could still see the faint glow of the moon reflecting off the tail end of her bike as she disappeared into the city, her silhouette a testament to her resourcefulness and determination.
She wasn't worried about Leo getting away. In the chaos, she had deftly slipped a tracker into his jacket—one of the many tools she always kept at the ready. Her grandfather's lessons had paid off once again. Her night was far from over, and this fox was far from done hunting.
The Vulpes rode off, her mind sharp and focused. The hunt continued, and she would not rest until justice was fully served.
