The Velvet Vixen

Kendrick raises her hands over her head, throws her cape behind her with a dramatic flourish, and declares to her empty apartment:

“I am... the Velvet Vixen!”

The name echoes with all the sultry self-assurance she hopes she has, rolling off her tongue like the intro to a cheesy, late-night cartoon that gets pulled after three episodes for being too sexy. But it fits. The gold and purple. The mask. The dramatic boots. The mile-long cape.

“Velvet Vixen,” she whispers again, biting her lip. “Oh yeah. That’s so gonna look good scrawled across a wanted poster.”

Her heart races with excitement. For a moment, she poses—hands on her hips, chin lifted, her cape spilling across the carpet—and imagines herself dangling above a bubbling pit of chocolate, chained in gold cuffs while Cleo Capone circles her like a lioness.

She fans herself.

“...Okay. Time to focus.”

With the name chosen and her absurd ensemble complete, Kendrick grabs her phone and starts scanning the news app again. Thanks to some clever sleuthing—mostly clicking on links other people ignored—she finds a curious little detail the police seem to have missed: all three robberies took place within a few blocks of each other.

And more importantly… there’s a condemned warehouse down by the docks that hasn’t been inspected in months.

“Warehouse 27,” Kendrick murmurs, tapping the screen. “You’d totally hide your sexy secret mob lair in Warehouse 27.”

A beat.

“Right?”

She bolts upright, grabs a backpack, stuffs in a flashlight, a bag of Twizzlers, and her phone charger, and flings her cape over her shoulder with a flourish that nearly knocks over her laundry rack.

“Alright, Cleo Capone,” she growls, pointing at the mirror. “You might be cool, mysterious, seductive, and criminally well-dressed... but there’s a new sheriff in town.”

She pauses.

“...Okay, not a sheriff. More like... a scandalously underqualified vigilante with a Tumblr-worthy aesthetic. But I am coming for you.”

Later That Night…

The Velvet Vixen crouches behind a stack of shipping crates, the wind off the Westville docks blowing her cape dramatically into her face. She peeks around the corner, boots clacking softly on concrete, and spots it:

A large, low-slung building with rusted metal siding and dim yellow light spilling from the upper windows.

Outside, two women in pinstripe skirts and matching heels giggle as they lean against a loading ramp, puffing cigarettes and twirling tommy guns like cheerleaders with very bad ideas.

A big metal sign above the door reads “Warehouse 27.”

“Bingo.”

Her heart hammers in her chest.

She adjusts her mask, straightens her cape, takes a deep breath...