Vulpes considered her options carefully, scanning the darkened interior of Fleuve Froid Packing from her perch atop the old skylight.

The building was a labyrinth of rusted machinery, bloodstained floors, and hanging chains, a place where death was routine, whether for livestock or men.

She had already clocked the guards, marked their patrols, and committed the layout to memory.

The skylight was her best entry point—a clean, controlled descent into the rafters above the main floor. It would give her the high ground, let her assess before engaging.

No alarms, no unnecessary noise.

She took a slow breath, her heartbeat steady, her muscles loose—then she moved.

With the practiced ease of a seasoned predator, she unlatched the skylight, slipping inside without so much as a whisper.

She was inside the trap now.

She just didn’t know it yet.

Something tugged at the back of Vulpes’ mind, a whisper of instinct she couldn’t quite place, but it gnawed at her all the same.

This was too easy.

The guards were few and far between, their patrols loose, unfocused—not at all the kind of security she’d expect when hiding a high-value target like Alfonso Ruso.

Her boots touched down on the cold concrete floor, and immediately, a prickle ran up her spine, the fine hairs on the back of her neck standing on end.

Something felt wrong.

But waiting for backup?

That thought never even crossed her mind.

Vulpes was used to working alone.

She always had.

She didn’t rely on others, didn’t wait for permission—she acted, she adapted, she survived.

And that was exactly what Monsieur Minuit had counted on.

He had played the odds, understanding the nature of most lone vigilantes—the confidence, the self-reliance, the certainty that no one else could do the job better than they could.

And so, here she was.

Alone.

Right where he wanted her to be.

Her golden lenses flickered as she swept her gaze across the dimly lit warehouse, searching for any sign of Ruso.

But something was off.

The layout. The setup. The unnatural stillness.

Like a stage set before the curtain rose.

Odette "Vipère de Fer" Delisle was a vision of lethal elegance, a figure sculpted by both violence and artistry. The moonlight that filtered through the old skylight painted her in pale silver hues, highlighting the toned, athletic lines of her body—a dancer’s grace fused with a predator’s precision. She was dressed for war, but with a performer’s flair.

Her leather vest, studded with metal and clinging to her frame, was left open enough to tease the hint of a toned stomach beneath. The black corset she wore accentuated her figure, intricate stitching in the leather mimicking the twisting coils of the vipers tattooed across her arms and collarbones. Her leather pants, fitted and reinforced in places for flexibility and durability, bore the marks of past battles, faded scars from blades and bullets alike. Heavy combat boots, laced high, promised crushing force if they connected.

But what drew the eye—what truly made Odette a specter of controlled chaos—was her hair and the markings that told her story. Waves of deep crimson, streaked with black, cascaded down her back, loose but wild, the color a deliberate choice, a statement of defiance and passion. Her skin, olive-toned and inked, bore an array of snake-like tattoos, winding up her arms, slithering along her collarbone, and disappearing beneath her clothing like hidden fangs waiting to strike.

Then, there were her eyes.

Icy blue, sharp, piercing—hungry. They burned with the thrill of the hunt, the amusement of a cat toying with a mouse. Her gaze was lined with kohl, making them even more striking, even more impossible to ignore. They held Vulpes in place, even as the chain in her grip coiled like a living thing, waiting to strike.

"Bonjour, mon petit renard..." she purred, her accent thick with the smooth cadence of Quebecois French, her voice like silk draped over a dagger.

Her weapons were an extension of her being, moving as fluidly as her own limbs. The chain in her right hand, weighted and well-worn from years of combat, had already tasted the air between them, testing Vulpes’ reflexes. The meat hook in her left hand, wicked and sharp, gleamed in the dim light, swaying lazily at her side like a scorpion’s tail, waiting for its moment to strike.

And then she moved.

Not like a brawler. Not like a common street thug.

Like a dancer.

Her body twisted, spun, and flowed, every movement a part of some unseen rhythm, her boots barely touching the ground before she was airborne again. And with that same seamless grace, the chain snapped out, slicing through the air in a bladed arc, faster than before, hungry to coil around its prey.

Vulpes barely had time to react. This was no ordinary fighter. This was something else entirely.

Vulpes moved. She had no choice.

The chain lashed through the air, its wicked steel links hissing like the fangs of a striking serpent. She twisted, vaulting back with a powerful kick off the concrete floor, narrowly escaping the iron coil that snapped against the ground where she had just been standing.

Odette was fast—too fast. The way she moved was unnatural in its precision, a rhythm that was not just trained, but perfected. Every step, every flick of her wrist, every calculated pivot was done with the fluidity of a dancer, the lethality of a predator.

Vulpes’ instincts screamed at her—don’t let her control the fight. Don’t let her dictate the pace.

But Odette was already dictating it.

The chain recoiled, snapping back into Odette’s grasp before it was already swinging again, this time low. Vulpes flipped up and over, her legs kicking against the air as she narrowly avoided having her feet swept from under her. She landed in a crouch, eyes darting around the dimly lit slaughterhouse. She needed options, needed cover, needed a way to throw this woman off her game.

"You dance well, ma belle," Odette cooed, circling her like a wolf playing with its meal. The way she smiled—languid, knowing, teasing—it set Vulpes’ teeth on edge. She was enjoying this.

Vulpes was used to criminals being afraid of her. Used to them panicking when she got too close. But this woman?

She was loving every second of it.

The chain whistled again, this time aimed high, trying to snare her arm, her throat, anything it could latch onto.

Not happening.

Vulpes ducked low, rolling into the dark, moving between the dangling hooks and old machinery that loomed around them like silent sentinels. She needed to turn the environment against her enemy—needed to disrupt the flow of Odette’s movements, needed to make it so that damn chain couldn’t swing as freely.

A sharp clatter rang through the space as the weighted chain clipped one of the rusted meat hooks. Odette didn’t curse, didn’t falter—she adapted, seamlessly redirecting her attack, the chain snapping around a different trajectory like it was an extension of her will.

But Vulpes was already moving.

She vaulted up onto a conveyor belt, gaining higher ground, forcing Odette to adjust to her. The Viper was good—too good—but Vulpes had learned a long time ago that even the best fighters had limits.

And it was time to find out where this woman’s limits were.

Vulpes had expected the lash of the chain, had braced for the telltale rattle of steel on steel. But there was no warning—only the muted sway of the dangling meat hooks around her.

Her hand shot toward her utility belt, fingers curling around the taser. Her opponent wasn’t heavily armored, and Vulpes knew from experience that a high-voltage shock could put down even the toughest of brawlers. Maybe, just maybe, she could end this quickly.

But Odette moved.

Not with the crude aggression of some barroom bruiser, nor the predictable rush of a street thug. She was too fast, too fluid—a dancer, a predator, and a master of momentum all at once.

Instead of lashing the chain, she had already coiled it around her arm, tightening the steel links into a brutal makeshift gauntlet. She surged forward, a blur of honed muscle and deadly precision.

CRACK!

The impact sent a shockwave of pain through Vulpes’ torso as the chain-wrapped fist slammed into her armor, rattling her ribs beneath the plating. The force alone drove her back, stealing the air from her lungs.

Then came the hook.

A wicked, gleaming arc of metal—fast, too fast.

SHRACK!

The taser flew from her grip, the sharp clang of shattered plastic echoing through the cavernous plant. Sparks flickered where the device had been, now nothing more than scrap on the concrete floor.

Vulpes staggered, her breath sharp between clenched teeth, her body already compensating, adjusting—but Odette was already smiling.

A soft, sultry laugh purred from her lips as she tilted her head, uncoiling the chain from her arm with a slow, almost languid ease, like a snake stretching after striking.

"non, non, non," she teased, voice dripping with amusement. Her piercing blue eyes gleamed in the dim light, sharp and hungry.

She rolled her shoulders, letting the steel links slide between her fingers, the weapon responding as if it were a living thing, an extension of the will of its mistress. Controlled. Fluid. Lethal.

"Now, now, mon petit renard… did you really think I wouldn’t expect a little trick like that?"

Vulpes’ hands curled into fists. This was bad.

She had faced enforcers before—brawlers, killers, trained executioners—but this woman wasn’t just muscle.

Odette was an artist, a predator, a warrior.

She hadn’t just countered the taser—she had anticipated it. She had baited Vulpes into drawing it, punished her for the attempt, and now stood there, utterly at ease, playing with her prey.

Vulpes shifted her stance, her mind racing.

This wasn’t a fight she could win by reacting.

Odette liked to dictate the pace, control the rhythm—which meant the only way to throw her off… was to break it.

No more testing the waters. No more second-guessing.

Without hesitation, Vulpes lunged.

A sudden, vicious burst of speed—closing the gap before Odette could crack the chain again.

If the Iron Viper wanted to play at range?

Then Vulpes would make damn sure she never got the chance.

Vulpes closed the distance fast, her body moving on instinct, flowing with the ruthless efficiency drilled into her since childhood. The lessons of Defendu, the old-school, brutally effective combat art her grandfather had instilled in her, took over. No wasted motion. No hesitation. Strike first, strike hard, end it quickly.

Her weighted gloves snapped forward, probing for an opening, testing Odette’s defenses. A sharp jab, a hook aimed at the ribs, a quick step in to control the fight.

But Odette was already smiling.

Not in shock, not in frustration—in exhilaration.

She was just as dangerous up close as she was at range.

Her chain and hook, once whipping through the air with deadly precision, now became a defensive shield, moving with her body in sharp, precise arcs to deflect Vulpes' strikes.

And then Odette countered.

Not just with her hands. Not just with her chain.

With everything.

Her leg shot out, a wicked snap kick aimed for Vulpes’ midsection, forcing her to shift. A sudden pivot, then a brutal knee strike, narrowly avoided as Vulpes twisted at the last second.

Odette wasn’t just her weapon.

Her entire body was a weapon.

And she wielded it with the grace of a dancer and the brutality of a street fighter.

The hook snapped out like a cobra, the steel catching around Vulpes' wrist with brutal precision. Before she could counter, a sharp yank wrenched her off balance, pulling her straight into the path of a devastating knee strike.

The impact slammed into her torso, the force reverberating through her armor. Without it, she was certain something would have cracked. Even with it, the sheer power behind the blow drove the wind from her lungs.

Odette pressed the advantage, her grip on the chain tightening as she leaned in, her voice a sultry purr of amusement.

"Not bad, mon renard," she cooed, twisting the chain just enough to keep Vulpes off balance. "But you move like a boxer. Too linear. Too predictable."

Vulpes clenched her teeth, ignoring the ache in her ribs. Linear, huh?

Fine. She’d just have to be unpredictable.

With a sudden twist, she rolled into the pull instead of resisting, turning the momentum against Odette in an instant.

Vulpes’ counterattack was swift, brutal, and utterly merciless. Her fists slammed into Odette’s shoulder, stomach, and ribs, each strike a hammering force that would have broken a lesser opponent. But Odette gritted her teeth and rode the pain, her body twisting with the impact instead of resisting it.

Then, just as Vulpes prepared to press the advantage, Odette spun hard on her heel—a perfect pirouette laced with deadly intent. The sudden, fluid movement broke Vulpes’ rhythm, forcing her to halt her momentum before she overextended.

Odette’s blue eyes sparkled with raw delight, her breath falling in sharp, excited gasps.

“A woman who knows how to dance…” she exhaled, a sultry, hungry undertone creeping into her voice. “That, I can respect.”

She rolled her shoulders, her body still loose despite the bruises already forming beneath her inked skin, and let out a soft, throaty chuckle.

She wasn’t fighting to win.

She was savoring every second of this.

Vulpes shifted her stance, adjusting, recalibrating. She was used to enforcers who fought with brute force, to trained killers who were clinical and efficient—but Odette Delisle was a different breed of beast.

This wasn’t just combat.

This was a performance.

And the Iron Viper loved the show.

Elsewhere…

The steel doors slammed shut, heavy locks clicking into place as shadows moved in the dim light of the slaughterhouse. Men armed with pistols and shotguns took their positions, covering every possible exit. Some crouched behind crates, others lingered in the dark corners of the facility, waiting.

The Iron Viper might have been the main event, but the Italian Mafia wasn’t leaving anything to chance.

They had no love for the Vulpes, no patience for her meddling, and no intention of letting her slip through their fingers again.

This wasn’t just a fight.

It was an execution.

And if Odette failed to finish the job?

Then the men waiting in the shadows would make damn sure the little fox never left this slaughterhouse alive.

Odette’s eyes gleamed with something dangerously close to admiration as she watched Vulpes move, the two circling each other like predators in a dance neither wanted to end too soon.

“It’s not often I meet another woman who can keep up with me,” Odette purred, prowling forward in a slow, deliberate motion, her chain coiling and uncoiling around her forearm like a serpent. Her voice was thick with something that wasn’t quite mockery—she meant it.

There was no need to lie.

Vulpes was fast. She was precise. And more importantly? She understood the language of battle.

Odette respected that.

Not many could stand their ground against her—especially not in a world where strength too often determined the winner before the fight had even begun. She had spent her life breaking men who underestimated her, who thought brute force was enough to control the fight. But Vulpes? She was the opposite. She adapted, she anticipated, she played the game.

And Odette, for all her ruthlessness, recognized a kindred spirit when she saw one.

A fine line.

That’s all there was between them. The difference between vigilante and villain. If circumstances had been different, if fate had dealt them different hands, who was to say they wouldn’t be standing in each other’s place?

But philosophy didn’t win fights.

The chain snapped.

A whip-crack of steel lashed out toward Vulpes with deadly precision.

Vulpes moved—just barely. She twisted, dodging back by inches, the links slicing through empty air where her head had been a heartbeat before.

Odette turned with the motion, fluid as a dancer, her body twisting with the momentum—and the hook flew like a scorpion’s stinger.

Fast. Too fast.

Vulpes dropped.

Her instincts screamed, her body moved before thought, and she rolled beneath the arc of the strike, tucking and coming up on the other side in a low crouch.

Odette smiled.

A wide, wicked grin that was anything but disappointment.

“Oh, you are good,” she murmured, dragging the chain back, resetting her stance.

And in that moment, Vulpes realized something.

This wasn’t just a fight to Odette.

This was fun.

This was thrilling.

Odette wasn’t just trying to kill her—she was enjoying every second of this.

And that was the most dangerous part.

Vulpes was focused on the fight, but reading the woman trying to kill her was just as important as dodging her attacks.

Odette Delisle wasn’t just fighting.

She was testing herself.

She was a martial artist first, a killer second—her passion was in the challenge, the push, the thrill of a worthy opponent.

And that told Vulpes everything she needed to know.

Under different circumstances? Odette might have actually been a fun sparring partner—someone she could trade techniques with, test limits against.

The whole biker-gang-enforcer-for-the-Mafia thing aside, of course.

But right now?

That mindset—that desire to draw this out, to push both of them to their limits—that was Vulpes’ opening.

It gave her time.

Time to study Odette’s movements, time to analyze weaknesses, time to figure out exactly how to end this before the fun ran out and things got truly deadly.

And more importantly?

It meant no one would interfere.

Not the goons in the shadows, not the Mafia thugs waiting to make sure the job got done.

Because if any of them even tried to step in?

The Iron Viper would kill them herself.

This wasn’t just an ambush anymore.

This was a fight between a Fox and a Snake.

And Vulpes had to make damn sure she was the one who won it.

Vulpes had been giving ground with each dodge, retreating with calculated intent, her mind constantly calculating—the limited reserves in her utility belt, the environment, and most importantly, her enemy.

Snakes were lethal, fast, powerful.

But foxes?

Foxes were cunning, quick, adaptable.

And Odette?

She was all about momentum.

Her style was a flowing dance, a rhythm of motion and power, each attack an extension of her passion for the fight itself.

Vulpes had felt that rhythm now, studied it, learned it.

And that meant she was ready to break it.

Odette stepped in, her weighted chain snapping forward, a streak of metal slicing through the air with deadly intent.

But this time?

Vulpes wasn’t just dodging.

She had been leading Odette, guiding her toward something specific—

An old conveyor belt, bolted securely to the concrete floor.

Odette’s chain lashed out—and missed.

And that was exactly what Vulpes wanted.

The momentum carried the weighted end past her, looping around the steel frame of the conveyor belt.

Perfect.

Vulpes moved instantly, snapping her retractable baton from her belt—not to fight, but to trap.

With a single swift motion, she threaded the baton between the coiled links, locking them in place, tangling the weapon against the frame.

Odette’s eyes widened—but not in panic.

In delight.

The Iron Viper was surprised—and she loved it.

Where lesser fighters would have wasted precious seconds struggling to yank their weapon free, Odette made the pragmatic choice of a true combatant.

She dropped the chain without hesitation, stepping back into a solid unarmed stance, body fluid, poised, ready.

A lesser opponent might have hesitated, might have faltered at losing their weapon.

But Odette Delisle wasn’t a lesser opponent.

Vulpes had been hoping she’d waste time trying to free the chain, but she hadn’t counted on it.

She knew better.

This woman wasn’t some two-bit hood swinging a chain for intimidation.

No—Odette was the real deal.

But at least, her primary force multiplier was gone.

Vulpes adjusted her stance, ignoring the bruises forming beneath her armor, her gloved fingers flexing as she took stock of her opponent.

The Fox had armor.

Had her weighted combat gloves.

She had to press her advantages, end this quickly—then figure out how the hell she was going to get out of here alive.

Her keen eyes locked onto Odette’s stance, taking in the subtle shift in her posture, the angle of her weight, the way her muscles coiled.

A kickboxer.

Savate, French kickboxing to be precise.

It made perfect sense.

Vulpes had already felt the power in her legs, had been forced to dodge those brutal, whip-fast strikes.

And now, without her chain, Odette would fully lean into that advantage.

For someone who relied on weapons that occupied her hands, a style that emphasized kicks wasn’t just a secondary skill—

It was a deliberate part of her combat philosophy.

Vulpes tensed, steeling herself.

The Iron Viper had lost her chain.

But she was still just as deadly.

And now?

This fight was about to get even more dangerous.

Odette snarled, a sharp, pained sound as her body slammed against the concrete, her bruises screaming from the impact. The Fox had her, had her good, and she could feel it—the pressure, the slow, brutal tension as Vulpes twisted her leg, threatening to tear at the joint.

But Odette wasn’t just a dancer, wasn’t just a chain fighter—she was a brawler.

And a good brawler knew how to get down and dirty.

Vulpes had been prepared for the counter, braced for it, and it came hard.

Odette brought her free leg up with a vicious snap, her heel slamming into Vulpes’ side, once, twice, relentless and savage.

Another fighter might have let go.

Might have given her space to escape.

But Vulpes wasn’t another fighter.

She knew she was going to get punished for dragging the snake down—

But she was going to be punished on her terms.

She shifted her weight, rolling just enough to let her armor absorb the worst of the blows, taking them where the reinforced plating was thickest.

Odette wasn’t letting up, but neither was Vulpes.

She clamped down harder, gritting her teeth, adjusting her grip, tightening the hold—if Odette wanted to fight dirty, Vulpes would make damn sure she paid for it.

Vulpes had to admit—Odette’s lower body strength was no joke.

Her legs and hips were built for raw power, and it made perfect sense.

Chains, whips, flexible weapons—their force didn’t come from the arms alone. It was all in the core, the hips, the precision of movement. Odette had spent a lifetime perfecting that control, and now, even pinned, even locked in a bad position, she was still fighting like a storm barely contained.

But Vulpes was ready.

She felt it—the sudden surge of adrenaline-fueled power as Odette tried to break free, the violent thrash of a woman who refused to be caged.

Instead of resisting, Vulpes did what she did best—she adapted.

She rolled with the movement, letting Odette waste her strength on a futile escape attempt that never reached its full execution.

And then?

She moved.

Vulpes flowed like liquid shadow, twisting to the side just as Odette started to recover, slipping behind her in a blur of motion.

Before the Iron Viper could fully regain her footing, before she could lash out again, Vulpes struck.

Her arms snapped around Odette’s throat.

A sleeper hold.

Locked in. Tight. Unrelenting.

Odette’s eyes widened in realization, her body thrashing as she immediately tried to buck free—

But Vulpes held firm.

This fight had been a dance, a performance of power and technique, but now?

Now it was over.

Vulpes wasn’t here to entertain.

She was here to win.

It was almost intimate in its brutality—the way Vulpes held the Snake by the throat, feeling every strained breath, every weakening struggle.

Odette fought until the very last second, her muscles tensing, twisting, resisting, but Vulpes could feel it—the slow, inevitable drain of the fight, the way her body betrayed her, losing its strength with each second the hold remained locked in.

Vulpes leaned in slightly, her voice low, a whisper just for her fading enemy.

"You’re better than most… shame you wasted it fighting for the wrong side."

Odette shuddered once, sharply—then went limp.

Her body stilled, her breathing shallow but steady.

Vulpes exhaled, her grip relaxing, shifting from opponent to captor as she gently lowered the unconscious Iron Viper to the ground.

For a brief moment, just a moment, she studied her fallen foe, feeling something akin to respect.

This hadn’t been an easy fight.

Odette Delisle was one of the deadliest opponents Vulpes had ever faced in close combat, and even unconscious, she radiated danger.

With a small nod—a silent acknowledgment of a worthy adversary—Vulpes snapped a pair of reinforced cuffs around her wrists, securing her to the heavy machinery.

She couldn’t risk Odette waking up too soon, not when her own body ached, not when she still had an entire small army of gun-toting mobsters waiting for her beyond these walls.

The ambush had been too precise, too well-planned—she'd figure out the how and why later.

Right now?

She had to get the hell out of here.

And fast.