Epilogue

The morning news blared from the television, frantic reporters recounting the chaos of the previous night. Headlines like “Rave of Terror: Psychedelic’s Mad Reign Ends” and “Masked Vigilante Vulpes Saves Hundreds” scrolled across the screen. Coraline sat on her couch, her body sore from head to toe, a steaming cup of coffee in one hand and a fork in the other. The plate of bacon and scrambled eggs in her lap was rapidly disappearing as she devoured her breakfast, trying to replenish the energy the night had drained from her.

The anchor spoke over shaky footage of the ruined Disco Queen’s Court, focusing on the garish wreckage of Psychedelic’s muscle car. “Law enforcement officials have confirmed that the woman behind the chaos, identified as former psychologist Doctor Lyra Sinclair, is in custody. Dubbed Psychedelic by the press, Sinclair’s bizarre crimes have shocked the city. Sources say she is being evaluated for mental fitness to stand trial.”

Coraline raised an eyebrow at that. She doubted there was a prison or hospital prepared to handle someone like Psychedelic. She took a sip of her coffee and winced as a dull ache flared in her shoulder. The reporters shifted to discussing Vulpes’ role in stopping the chaos.

“While authorities have yet to officially comment on the masked vigilante known as the Vulpes, eyewitness accounts praise her efforts in preventing what could have been a massive loss of life,” the anchor continued, her tone one of awe. “But the question remains: Who is this mysterious fox?”

Coraline smirked faintly, stabbing a piece of bacon with her fork. "Just someone who doesn’t like seeing her city turned into a circus," she muttered to herself.

The footage shifted to the reporters interviewing ravers who had escaped. The accounts ranged from exaggerated heroics to wild speculations about Vulpes’ abilities and origins. One particularly excited attendee described her as “part ninja, part fox, part superhero,” and Coraline couldn’t help but laugh at the absurdity.

John entered the room, holding a morning paper. “You’re famous,” he quipped, tossing it onto the couch next to her. It displayed articles dissecting the night’s events, filled with blurry images of her in action.

Coraline sighed, setting her empty plate aside. “Fame isn’t exactly what I’m after.”

“No, but it does mean you’re making an impact,” John said, sitting across from her. He nodded toward the TV. “Psychedelic’s out of commission for now. That’s a win, even if it doesn’t feel like it.”

She leaned back, staring at the ceiling. “It’s a win, but it’s not the end. Lyra was... different. Smart, unpredictable. She won’t stay down for long.”

John crossed his arms, a serious expression replacing his usual easygoing demeanour. “Then we make sure we’re ready for her next time.”

Coraline nodded. “Next time.”

The news continued in the background, the anchors speculating on whether Psychedelic’s capture was the start of a wave of new supervillains or just an isolated incident. Coraline turned off the TV, the room falling silent. She’d fought hard, harder than ever before, but she knew the city’s fight against chaos was far from over.

For now, though, she allowed herself a moment of peace, knowing she’d done everything she could to keep Toronto safe.

Elsewhere...

The heavy metal door of a holding cell creaked open lazily, swaying slightly on its hinges. The faint smell of burnt metal and chemicals hung in the air, mingling with the sterile scent of the detention center. On the floor, a pair of melted handcuffs lay discarded, their once-strong chain links reduced to twisted slag. The dim hallway was eerily quiet, save for the occasional groan of the unconscious officers sprawled on the ground, their uniforms scorched in places, evidence of some kind of chemical attack.

A mad cackle echoed through the corridor, chilling in its glee.

“Really, darlings, you thought this was going to hold me?” she called out to no one in particular, her voice lilting with mockery. She twirled a stolen baton like a dancer with a prop. “I’m a free spirit, a comet streaking across the night sky—you can’t put a leash on the stars!”

She paused by one of the downed officers, kneeling beside him. She tapped his badge with a fingernail painted in clashing neon colours. “Oh, Constable Jenkins,” she said in a sing-song voice, reading the name aloud. “You really should’ve listened to your friends warnings about playing with fire.”

Her laughter rose again as she strolled down the hallway, stepping over the officers like they were merely decorations in her chaotic masterpiece. The security cameras followed her every move, but she didn’t care. She paused to flash a dazzling grin and a double peace sign at one of them, leaning in so her heart-shaped glasses filled the frame.

“Smile for the tabloids,” she purred, blowing a kiss to the camera before smashing it with the baton.

A siren blared in the distance as the alarm system caught up with the chaos unfolding in the detention centre, but Psychedelic didn’t break her stride. Her gaze flicked toward an emergency exit at the far end of the hall, her escape route planned to the second.

“This city hasn’t seen the last of me, Foxy Lady,” she whispered to herself, her grin widening. “Our dance is far from over.”

With one final burst of manic laughter, she pushed through the exit door, vanishing into the unfolding chaos.