Burn down the forest and retreat

Velvet Vixen stumbles to her feet, every muscle trembling. Her body glistens with sweat and remnants of glaze, her costume reduced to scattered scraps of purple, melted boots, and half-missing gloves. The vines behind her twitch, the monstrous plant snarling with floral fury as its meal slips away.

Not this time.

She limps out of the greenhouse, clutching her aching side, and makes her way through the winding interior of Venus’s mansion. Flowers bloom on every wall. The scent is intoxicating. Dreamlike.

But Velvet Vixen isn’t dreaming anymore.

She’s done playing.

She finds her way back to the path of lanterns that led her here—small hanging lights glowing with soft, magical warmth. Her eyes narrow, an idea forming in the fog of exhaustion.

“Let’s see how well your plants like fire.”

She grabs two lanterns—holding one carefully, the other by its iron base. She carries them off the path, deeper into the woods where the trees still arch high and unburned.

She hurls one lantern against a bed of dry leaves and underbrush.

Glass shatters.

Flames bloom.

It catches fast, licking up the base of a dry pine, then spreading along the forest floor in hungry tongues of orange and gold.

“That’ll get someone’s attention.”

Lantern in hand, she bolts—away from the mansion, off the path, into the dark.

By the time she emerges on the other side of the forest, sweat-streaked and gasping, the trees behind her are burning. Smoke billows into the sky like a funeral pyre.

Sirens wail in the distance.

Fire trucks. Police.

She pulls her half-melted mask over her face and watches from the shadows as the emergency lights flicker in the smoky air.

“Let’s see you two hide when your wooded shield is gone,” she mutters, voice bitter but victorious.

With that, she slips away, unseen.

Later – Velvet Vixen’s Apartment

Kendrick Jane stumbles through her door, peels off the last tatters of her costume, and collapses onto her couch. Her body aches. Her mind spins. But she made it out.

The direct line to McKenna—the one she used to have—is gone. But she’s not giving up that easy.

She grabs her phone, dials the precinct, and clears her throat.

“Westville Police Department, how can I—?”

“I need to speak to Officer McKenna. Tell her it’s… it’s Velvet Vixen.”

There’s a pause on the other end.

Then—

“Hold, please.”

The line clicks.