Wait for the police and media

Velvet Vixen doesn’t slip out the back door. She doesn’t vanish into the night like some shy shadow.

No.

She waits.

Arms crossed, boot tapping, hair perfect.

And when the red-and-blue lights finally flood the alley outside the speakeasy, she steps into the frame with all the poise and flair of a woman who just saved the city and got the girl (sort of).

Two squad cars screech to a stop. A third pulls in behind them. Officers step out—guns raised—until they see her.

“You must be joking…” one of them mutters.

“Evening, officers!” Velvet Vixen waves. “You’ll find Cleo Capone bound up nice and tight in the room at the end of the hall. Might want to hurry—she’s got a temper.”

A pair of them rush past her into the building. One remains behind, eyes wide.

“Who… who are you?”

Kendrick grins, striking a pose—hand on hip, cape caught just right in the wind.

“I’m the Velvet Vixen,” she purrs. “Westville’s newest—and shiniest—defender of justice.”

Flashbulbs pop as a reporter from Channel 9’s crime beat stumbles out of a van across the street, camera already rolling.

“Is it true you single-handedly brought down Cleo Capone?” she calls out.

Velvet Vixen tilts her head, gives the camera her best smolder.

“Well… she thought she was playing with a kitten.”

She winks.

“Turned out to be a fox.”

The cop beside her blinks. “Was that rehearsed?”

“Oh, absolutely.”

Behind her, Cleo Capone screams a very creative string of obscenities as she's dragged—still in her robe, still fuming—through the front door by two very confused, very flushed officers.

She catches sight of Velvet Vixen, standing in the flashing lights like a pin-up goddess from her worst daydreams.

“I’M GOING TO KILL YOU!”

“Aww, you say that every time,” Vixen calls back sweetly. “Text me when you're out.”