A half moon shone sporadically through the overcast skies, stars occasionally winked into view out to be swallowed up by the drifting clouds that were the lingering reminder of a rainstorm. Water pooled and flowed like an oil stained river styx in the dim light in the old scrap yard on the edge of Toronto. In the flickering light of the moon and stars it looked like a graveyard for steel and iron beasts. Its walls like the gates of a mechanical Hades jagged with rust stains on the sheets of metal looking like the bloodied claw marks or some titanic horror that had tried to rend open the corrugated steel armor of the walls.
The Sign out front read Anderson Brothers Scrap Steel and Iron, no trespassing. Lights flickered within, flooding the scrapyard with light and creating menacing shadows as they danced around the lumbering piles of crushed vehicles. At the heart of the fortress of corrugated steel and rusted wrecked was an old TTC Streetcar that had long ago seen its last days of use and it was here that a large number of men and women armed and armed as if they had walked out of the post apocalypse had gathered.
They called themselves the Scrap Hounds and were counted as both strange and unhinged as street gangs went, and almost a borderline cult or Milita. They were practically considered supervillains who had chosen the aesthetic of recycled arms and armor and a philosophy of post apocalyptic nihilism as their guiding star. The Hounds lived by their mantra: ‘Nothing is wasted.’ Every scrap of metal, every shattered tool, every piece of discarded tech had a purpose. To waste was to deny survival. And survival was their only religion.
To the Scrap Hounds, the world had already ended—they were just the first to admit it. Their leader, who called himself Jack-in-Irons, preached that society’s collapse was inevitable, and the Hounds were simply ahead of the curve, scavenging what others foolishly wasted. The Scrap Hounds’ arsenal was as fearsome as it was improvised. Spiked clubs made from rebar, shields welded from car doors, and even a flamethrower cobbled together from a propane tank and old stove parts. It wasn’t pretty, but it got the job done—and left a lasting impression
The old TTC streetcar was no longer a vehicle of public transit but a hulking, rust-streaked relic of civilization’s decay. Its windows were reinforced with steel grates, its doors welded shut save for a single entrance guarded by a pair of Scrap Hounds armed with makeshift shotguns. Inside, the gang’s insignia—a snarling dog’s head spray-painted in black—covered the walls, and a crude throne fashioned from welded scrap dominated the center.
The throne, a grotesque masterpiece of welded steel, jagged blades, and shattered glass, loomed over the room like a monument to chaos. Each piece of scrap seemed chosen deliberately: a rusted license plate here, a jagged fender there, and chains draped over the backrest like laurels for a king of ruin
Upon it sat Jack-in-Irons, the leader of the Scrap Hounds, while most Scrap Hounds likely wouldn’t have understood the reference of his name he had styled himself after his murderous namesake a giant of Yorkshire folklore. He was a huge example of a man standing nearly even and half feet tall with muscles that could generously be compared to hams stuffed into sacks that were a bit too small for them. He wore a full suit of armor made from old tires and steel scrap adorned with rattling chains. His helmet was a work of vicious art and resembled a leering monstrosity that was caught somewhere between savage boar and a snarling dog. His weapon was a brutal spiked club made entirely out of metal, too large for anyone without his tremendous size and strength to use properly and around him and on his belt were grizzly trophies, the heads and skulls of his victims in various states of decay.
The Scrap Hounds hushed as Jack-in-Irons shifted on his throne, the chains of his armor clinking ominously. Even the most hardened among them avoided his gaze, their eyes flicking nervously toward the grinning skulls at his feet. To disappoint him was to court death, and Jack had no shortage of reminders for those who dared.
To the Scrap Hounds, Jack wasn’t just their leader—he was their god of war. Some worshipped him, carving his symbol into their armor or scrawling it onto the walls of their hideouts. Others followed out of fear, knowing that his wrath was far worse than anything the streets could throw at them
Not everyone in the Scrap Hounds believed in Jack’s vision. Among the muttered oaths of loyalty, there were whispers of discontent, voices questioning whether their leader’s bloodlust would bring them glory—or destruction. But none dared voice their doubts aloud, not with Jack’s snarling gaze sweeping over the room
Tonight was special, makeshift cages held guests, people that Jack-in-Irons had instructed the gang to bring to their fortress. People who he had proclaimed would join them or become entertainment in the fighting pit. They were mostly homeless people and occasionally others who had been unlucky enough to be grabbed by the Scrap Hounds and tonight they were a display to the power and brutality of Jack-in-Irons.
"The cages were cobbled together from scavenged steel bars and chain-link fencing, their jagged edges smeared with rust and old blood. The prisoners inside huddled in the shadows, their faces gaunt and pale under the harsh floodlights that illuminated the yard. Every rattle of the cages sent a screech through the scrapyard, a haunting symphony of despair.
One woman clutched a threadbare coat around her shoulders, her hands trembling as she murmured softly to herself. A man in another cage leaned against the bars, his head bowed in defeat, the remnants of a black eye and split lip a testament to his attempt at resistance. They all carried the same haunted look—people plucked from the edges of society, now staring down a grim fate
The fighting pit was nothing more than a sunken ring surrounded by jagged metal scraps and haphazard barricades. Bloodstains painted the ground, some fresh, others faded into the dirt, like ghosts of the pit’s grisly history. Above it, makeshift floodlights cast harsh, flickering shadows that danced like specters around the edges.
Around the pit, the Scrap Hounds gathered, their faces alight with savage glee. They chanted, laughed, and jeered, their voices rising into a frenzied cacophony. For them, the pit was not just a spectacle—it was proof of their dominance, a ritual that bound them together in blood and chaos.
Hope was a shadow, or rather moved through the shadows. Her form was small and lithe and she moved with a speed and agility that were superhuman. She lept and climbed through the wasteland of rusted hulks with the determined grace of a pine marten through the boughs of an old forest.
Her feet made no sound against the rusted metal, each step calculated to avoid loose debris that might betray her presence. She slipped through narrow gaps between crumpled vehicles, her senses attuned to every creak and groan of the scrapyard’s skeletal remains
She came to perch on the darkened remains of an old school bus, she watched the gang move like scavengers in their natural habitat. They barked orders, laughed, and prepared for whatever grim spectacle Jack-in-Irons had planned. The Minx’s gaze shifted to the old street car where the cages were being moved out from. The prisoners’ faces were pale under the harsh floodlights, their eyes wide with fear.
The Minx crouched low, her weight balanced perfectly on the roof of the school bus. Her sharp eyes darted between the guards, their movements erratic and careless. She flexed her fingers, her claws glinting faintly in the light. Every fiber of her being was tense but controlled, like a predator waiting for the exact moment to pounce.
From her perch, the scene below was chaos wrapped in noise. Scrap metal clanged as the gang dragged the cages out into the open, their laughter harsh and grating against the stillness of the night. Floodlights bathed the yard in a sterile glow, turning the twisted wreckage into jagged silhouettes. The prisoners flinched at every barked order, their fear thick enough that even the cold wind seemed to carry it.
She had come a long way to get here, not the scrap yard in any strict sense but to who she had become. Alessia Porter that was her name, her realm name anyway the person under the black and red costume with the fur collar, and pointy eared mask. Alessia had not been dealt a great hand by life, she had been born into a family during hard times. A father laid off from factory work turning to alcoholism, a mother who hadn’t wanted another mouth to feed and was struggling with the looming weight of poverty.
She remembered the shouting, the slamming of doors, the suffocating sense of dread that came with every creak of the floorboards. Her father, once a proud worker with grease-stained hands, had drowned his pride and hope in cheap whiskey. Her mother’s tired eyes had flicked between Alessia and the stack of unpaid bills, as if weighing one against the other. Alessia had learned early not to ask for more than scraps.
She had run away from it all as soon as she was old enough, the streets weren’t kind but they were hers and they were free from her family. She had one rule for them, always pay back when you owe and pay forward any kindness you get because kindness was something precious that not many people were willing to give up. That’s the reason why she had come here really, to this time and place to pay forward the good that was done for her.
The streets weren’t kind—they were cold and cruel, a place where trust could get you hurt and desperation turned friends into rivals. But in the darkest moments, when she thought she’d disappear into the cracks of the city, there were flickers of light: a sandwich shared by a stranger, a warm coat handed over without a word. Kindness was rare, and that’s what made it powerful.
She could still remember the old woman who let her sleep in the back of her flower shop on the coldest nights, or the man who gave her a meal and never asked for anything in return. She’d promised herself then, as she gnawed on a crust of bread, that she’d be like them—someone who gave without expecting anything back. It was the least she could do for the world that had given her so little.
Kindness wasn’t just rare—it was a lifeline. It was the thing that reminded people they were still human, still worth something, even when the world told them otherwise. Alessia knew what it was like to feel worthless, to be seen as disposable. She wouldn’t let anyone else feel that way if she could help it.
That had been a pale shade of the night she had been taken by the heavy handed thugs in the employ of the Sinister Circus of Silas Smyth. He had been looking for people to use as lab animals and she had been one of the many homeless people his loyal monsters had taken in. She didn’t like to think about what followed, about the strange science and the tall pale Silas Smyth leering over her in his ring masters garb as went on about how wonderful of a subject she was for his latest experiment in gene-splicing.
The night they took her was like falling into a black hole. The heavy hands of Smyth's thugs dragged her from her makeshift shelter, her screams swallowed by the city’s indifference. She had fought—she always fought—but it hadn’t been enough. Her world had shrunk to the cold steel of a cage, the leering smiles of her captors, and the promise of horrors to come.
Silas Smyth was no mere man; he was a devil cloaked in theatrical charm. His ringmaster’s garb and grandiose mannerisms made him almost absurd, but the madness in his pale eyes betrayed his cruelty. He called his experiments 'art,' his victims 'canvas.' Alessia had been one of his masterpieces in the making, her DNA tangled with mink, ferret, Ermine and weasel until she hardly recognized herself.
When the masked woman came, it felt like the first light breaking through a long, dark night. The Vulpes moved like the wind, a blur of orange and black dismantling Smyth’s operation with precision. Alessia had watched from her cage, her heart pounding with a mix of hope and disbelief. When the lock clicked open, and the Vulpes’ gloved hand reached out to her, it felt like being pulled from the abyss.
She and the others, had been rescued by the masked woman they call the Vulpes after she had discovered Silas' operation and worked to shut it down. Alessia had no clue what might have happened if the experiments had continued, what kind of monster Smyth might have turned her into if it hadn’t been for her bravery. That was why she did this now, why she wore this costume that was an homage to the Vulpes. She had been saved from a fate worse than death and left with powers, powers she now used to pay that act forward to other people who had lost hope, were up against insurmountable odds or just needed a hero to offer them a hand when no one else would.
The experiments had left their mark, fusing her DNA with something wild and untamed. Her body was no longer just human—it was faster, stronger, more agile. She hated how she had gained these gifts, but if they could be used to save others, then they weren’t a curse—they were a purpose.
When Alessia crafted her costume, she knew it had to honor the woman who had saved her. The fur collar, the sharp ears, the colors—they were a tribute to The Vulpes, a way of carrying her legacy forward. But The Minx wasn’t just a shadow of her savior—she was her own creature, born of the darkness but fighting to bring others a bit of light.
The faces in those cages weren’t just strangers—they were echoes of herself, reminders of the fear and despair she had once felt. She couldn’t stand by and let them be swallowed by it. She owed them more than that. She owed herself more than that.
The Vulpes had shown her that one person could make a difference, that even the smallest act of bravery could ripple outward and change lives. Alessia had taken that lesson to heart. Tonight, she wouldn’t just save these people—she would show them that hope could still shine, even in the darkest corners of the city.
Tonight the Minx was on the prowl and anyone who knew minks knew that the packed a lot of power in a small package and weren’t scared of going toe to toe with giants when the odds are against them.
Like her namesake, she moved with a predatory grace, her steps silent, her senses sharp. She wasn’t just on the hunt—she was the hunt, the night’s shadows wrapping around her like a second skin. Minks were small, but they were fierce, and Alessia carried that spirit in every fiber of her being.
Below her, the Scrap Hounds moved like a pack of coyotes, their crude weapons gleaming under the floodlights. They were larger, stronger, and outnumbered her a dozen to one. But that didn’t matter. Giants toppled when they underestimated the little things that dared to fight back.
Her muscles tensed and she sprang into a low swift run, her first targets never seeing or hearing her coming. The first of the Scrap Hounds guard’s never stood a chance. They were big and they were armored but she wasn’t human, her muscles, her senses, the very nature of what Silas Smyth had changed in her had put the Minx in a class of her own. Her muscle density made her stronger than anyone could suspect with her lithe 5 '4 frame. Her first strike was a blur of motion—a darting shadow in the flickering light. The guard barely had time to blink before her weight slammed into him, the impact forcing a pained wheeze from his lungs. Her punches landed with a force that belied her size, each strike cracking against his jaw like a sledgehammer. He was bigger, heavier, but she was relentless, her blows precise and devastating. By the time his body hit the ground, he was already unconscious.
The second guard stumbled back, his eyes wide with shock. He barely raised his weapon before she was on him, her lithe form twisting around his shoulders like a coil of muscle and fury. Her legs locked around his throat, the pressure cutting off his air in seconds. He clawed at her in panic, but she held firm, her enhanced strength unyielding until his struggles faded into unconsciousness.She couldn’t help but smirk as she stood and brushed her hands off. “So hard to find a man with staying power these days”
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The noise of the gathering party at the fighting pit provided the perfect cover, not that she was very loud, she had a natural sense for stealth that had been decent even before her body had been altered. She did however need a distraction if she wanted to get those people out of here. That was why she had hit these two guards first, they had control of one of the larger flood lights.
The floodlight buzzed faintly as Alessia adjusted its angle, the bulb flickering slightly before steadying into a harsh, brilliant beam. The sudden spotlight illuminated Jack-in-Irons like the lead in a grim, industrial opera, his hulking form casting long, jagged shadows across the scrapyard. The noise of the crowd at the pit softened as heads turned toward the unexpected display. Then rose her hand into the path of the light so that a giant hand shaped shadow was clear for all to see and in an act of cheeky defiance the shadowy hand curled and extended a middle finger showing the Scrap hounds just what she thought about them.
Alessia couldn’t help but smirk as she raised her hand into the light’s path, twisting her fingers to form the shadowy gesture. The giant middle finger loomed over the scene, larger than life and impossible to miss. For a moment, the yard fell silent, save for the crackle of a nearby fire and the faint hum of the floodlight. Then came the muttered curses, the confused shouts, and finally, the roar of Jack-in-Irons’ voice cutting through the chaos.
The Scrap Hounds scrambled, their voices rising in a discordant chorus. ‘What the hell is that?’ one shouted, pointing at the shadow. ‘Who’s messing with the lights?’ Another grabbed his weapon, his eyes darting nervously around the yard. The audacity of the act had thrown them off balance, their bravado cracking under the weight of their own uncertainty.
Jack-in-Irons rose slowly from his throne, his spiked club scraping against the metal floor with a deafening screech. His shadow loomed even larger under the floodlight, but it was the defiant gesture above him that held his gaze. “Find whoever did that,” he growled, his voice low and deadly. “And bring them to me in pieces!”.
Now for the fun part she mused to herself as she cut the lights power and plunged part of the scrap yard into darkness. She was dangerous in the light but in the dark she was nearly unstoppable; she could see, hear and smell them with such accuracy that they would be lucky if they even got close to striking her. Not that she intended on fighting them, no she wanted the bulk of them running around looking for her while she got those people out of there. She didn’t doubt she could take the bulk of them down but the longer she took the more at risk she put their victims.
The night came alive around her—each footstep, each hushed whisper bouncing off the rusted walls and twisted wreckage. The faint tang of sweat and grease clung to the air, mingling with the acrid stench of oil. She didn’t need to see them to know where they were; she could hear the nervous hitch in their breaths, smell the adrenaline rising like smoke.
‘What the hell happened to the lights?’ someone shouted, his voice cracking with panic. Another voice, gruffer and more commanding, barked back, ‘Spread out! Find whoever’s screwing with us!’ The clang of metal and the crunch of gravel followed as they fumbled to organize, their bravado crumbling in the dark
The darkness was her ally, wrapping her in its silent embrace. She could move faster than they could think, her steps as light as whispers. The Hounds might have been terrifying in the light, with their crude weapons and hulking frames, but here in the shadows, they were nothing more than blind prey waiting to be picked apart.
A pair of footsteps drew closer, their uneven rhythm breaking her focus for a moment. She froze, pressing herself against the jagged edge of a wrecked van. The faint glow of a flashlight cut through the darkness, sweeping perilously close to her hiding spot. She clenched her jaw, her muscles coiled, ready to strike if they got too close. The passing thugs however remained blissfully ignorant and she let them pass. Let them move deeper into the scrap yard with the others to chase shadows they wouldn’t find.
Inside the cages, the prisoners stirred, their fear giving way to confusion. The lights were gone, the guards distracted. A woman with hollow cheeks and wide eyes whispered, ‘Do you think...someone’s coming for us?’ Another shook his head, his voice bitter. ‘No one’s coming. No one ever does.’ But even as he spoke, a shadow moved at the edge of their vision—silent, swift, and unmistakably human.
The man guarding the prisoners was a hulking brute, his patched-together armor clanking faintly as he shifted his weight. His shotgun—or blunderbuss, really—looked as dangerous as it was crude, the barrel flared wide and bristling with jagged edges. Alessia could practically hear the shrapnel rattling inside, a promise of brutal, indiscriminate destruction. But he wasn’t paying attention. His eyes were on the cages, his posture relaxed in the false confidence of someone who thought he was untouchable.
She crept closer, her movements silent as a breath of wind. Every muscle in her body coiled with purpose, her sharp eyes locked on the small of his back. He didn’t hear her coming—didn’t even flinch—until her feet slammed into him like a battering ram. The force of the kick sent him sprawling, his gun clattering across the dirt as he hit the ground with a grunt that was more surprise than pain.
One of the prisoners—a young woman with tear-streaked cheeks—watched the fight with bated breath. When the guard hit the dirt, her eyes lit up with something Alessia hadn’t seen in them before: hope. Aleesia bounded from the guard to her feet and she heard the rattle of chains and metal as Jack-in-Irons stirred from his vantage point over the fighting pit and the prisoners who were tied at the wrists.
“I don’t know who or what you are cape but I’ll add your skull to my collection!” he bellowed out in rage as he hefted his great spiked mace into his armored hands. Minx was already on the move slashing the bindings with her claws and telling the prisoners to run in the direction she had left the gates open and a trial of knocked out Scrap Hounds on her way in.
The prisoners crowded closer to the bars, their faces a mixture of disbelief and relief. ‘Who are you?’ one of them whispered, his voice trembling. Alessia didn’t answer, her focus on the lock, but her lips curled into a faint smile. “Just someone trying to do right”
The prisoners hesitated for a moment, their eyes darting between Alessia and the towering form of Jack-in-Irons. ‘Go!’ she snapped, her claws slicing through another set of bindings sharply. ‘I’ll handle him.’ One by one, they bolted toward the open gate, their steps quick but uneven, driven by desperation and newfound hope.
Jack-in-Irons rose to his full, monstrous height, the chains on his armor rattling like the prelude to a storm. His spiked mace was a brutal thing, crude and oversized, each jagged spike glinting menacingly under the flickering light. He pointed it at Alessia, his voice a deep, guttural growl. ‘You think you can stop me, little fox? You’ll die like the rest.
“Fox?” she snapped back a playful smirk on her lips. “I’m honoured you think I’m the Vulpes big boy, but you got the wrong girl here sugar tits, you can call me the Minx!”
With a roar, Jack leapt down into the pit, his weight seeming to make the ground feel like it reverberated from the impact and without hesitation he swung his mace in a wide arc, the weapon crashing into a pile of scrap with a deafening clang. Shards of metal flew in every direction, the sheer force of the blow shaking the ground beneath Alessia’s feet. She dodged just in time, her sharp reflexes carrying her out of harm’s way as the wreckage collapsed in a cacophony of sound.
She darted around him, her movements quick and fluid, like a shadow slipping through the cracks of the scrapyard. Every swing of his mace met only air, his frustration mounting with each missed blow. “Stay still!” he bellowed, his voice echoing through the yard. Alessia smirked. “Not my fault you can’t hit the broad side of a barn!”
The last of the prisoners stumbled toward the gate, a young boy dragging his injured father along. Alessia caught the movement out of the corner of her eye, her heart tightening. She needed to keep Jack distracted—just a few moments more.
Jack’s movements were heavy but relentless, each swing of his mace carving through the scrapyard with brutal efficiency. When it connected with a towering pile of scrap, the entire structure collapsed in a cascade of twisted metal and sparks. His helmeted head turned toward her, glowing eyes like embers burning with fury. ‘Keep running, little Minx,’ he growled. ‘I’ll catch you eventually.
“Guys like you are all promises!” she taunted as she kept just a step ahead of his massive mace and his swings. She had to play this right before he got the smart idea to throw something at her or clued into what she was planning.
She darted through the labyrinth of rusted cars and broken machinery, her steps light as air. Jack barreled after her, his massive frame crashing through obstacles like a wrecking ball. She twisted and turned, leading him toward a particularly unstable pile of scrap. One well-placed leap sent her soaring over the heap, and Jack’s mace struck it seconds later, triggering an avalanche of steel and debris that nearly buried him.
She dashed and scampered up and over avoiding the falling debris with a laugh. “Oh come on Jackie boy, can’t handle a girl who plays hard to get?”
The prisoners continued to flee towards the open gates and the van that Alessia may have hotwired and left for them, one of them, a boy stumbled, his father sagging heavily against him as they struggled toward the gate. Alessia’s heart raced. She could hear the shouts of the other Scrap Hounds growing louder, their scattered patrols converging on the commotion. She had to keep Jack focused on her—if he turned his attention to the fleeing prisoners, they wouldn’t stand a chance.
Out of the corner of her eye, Alessia caught movement—a pair of Scrap Hounds weaving through the shadows, their makeshift weapons raised. They hadn’t seen the prisoners yet, but they were getting closer. Her claws flexed instinctively. She’d have to deal with them soon, but first, she had to keep Jack occupied
Jack hurled the twisted debris aside with a roar, the metal screeching like a wounded beast as it flew through the air. The sheer force of his movements sent vibrations through the ground, rattling the precarious piles of scrap surrounding them. His glowing eyes burned through the dark, locking onto her with predatory intensity. “You’re just delaying the inevitable,” he snarled, his spiked mace dragging a deep groove in the dirt as he advanced.
Aleesia noted he had to be metahuman himself with the kind of raw power he had. He turned to face her with a low growl. “You think you’re clever,” he rumbled, his voice low and menacing. “But clever won’t save you.” He moved with surprising speed, his free hand snatching a length of heavy chain from the ground and swinging it toward her like a whip. Alessia’s eyes widened as she leapt backward, the chain snapping inches from where she’d been standing.
Behind her, the boy stumbled again, his injured father sagging heavily against him. One of the other prisoners turned back, grabbing the man’s arm and helping to drag him forward. ‘Come on,’ the woman urged, her voice strained with effort. The van was only a few steps away, but the shouts of the Scrap Hounds were growing louder, their pounding footsteps echoing through the scrapyard
The chain lashed out with a sharp crack, slicing through the air like a coiled viper. Alessia leapt backward, her muscles coiled and taut, just as the jagged links slammed into a rusted car door, crumpling the metal like paper. “Getting creative, are we?” she quipped, her voice light even as her heart pounded. “I didn’t think you had it in you”.
Alessia twisted mid-air, the chain snapping just below her feet as she landed in a crouch atop a rusted van. The metal groaned under her weight, but she was already moving, her claws scraping against the surface as she darted to the other side. “Missed me! Missed me! Now you gotta kiss me!” she called over her shoulder, her voice carrying a teasing lilt.
Her sharp eyes scanned the scrapyard, locking onto a crane with a heavy magnet hanging just above Jack’s path. If she could just lead him a little closer, one well-timed leap could bring the whole thing crashing down. “Come on, big, dumb and ugly,” she murmured under her breath. “Just a little further.”
Alessia vaulted over the hood of another car, her claws scraping against the metal as she landed lightly on her feet. “What’s wrong, Jackie boy? You can’t catch little ol’ me?”
Jack’s chain lashed out again, whipping through the air with a crack, but Alessia was already gone, her body twisting mid-leap as she somersaulted onto a precarious stack of tires. The makeshift platform wobbled under her weight, but she balanced effortlessly, her sharp gaze flicking between Jack and the crane overhead.
Jack let out a guttural roar, the sound reverberating through the scrapyard as he charged forward. His mace swung wildly, smashing through the pile of tires she was atop causing her to jump as it came tumbling down. “Stay still, you little rat!” he bellowed, his movements losing their precision in the heat of his rage.
The crane loomed ahead, its rusted arm stretching high into the night sky like a skeletal giant. The heavy magnet swung gently in the breeze, its chains creaking ominously. Alessia’s eyes narrowed, her mind calculating the timing and angle she’d need to pull this off. One wrong move, and it wouldn’t be Jack who got crushed.
Her jump from the pile of tires toward the crane had been calculated, her claws gripping the edge of a rusted platform as she vaulted onto it. The magnet was just above her now, swaying slightly as Jack’s heavy footsteps sent vibrations through the ground. “That’s it,
she whispered, her sharp eyes watching him close the distance.
Alessia swung into the crane’s cabin, her claws leaving faint scratches on the steel as she steadied herself. The controls were a confusing array of levers and buttons, each more rusted than the last. ‘Oh, come on,’ she muttered, her sharp eyes darting between the panel and the snarling figure of Jack barreling toward her. She yanked a lever at random, the crane groaning to life as the magnet above her began to hum with power. ‘Bingo,’ she whispered, a smirk curling her lips.
Jack roared as he closed the distance, his mace raised high, the spikes gleaming under the flickering lights. The ground trembled with each of his steps, the sound of metal and debris crunching beneath his boots echoing through the scrapyard. ‘I’ll crush you like the little pest you are!’ he bellowed, his voice dripping with fury.
With a screech of metal, the electromagnet snapped to life, a powerful hum filling the air as it locked onto Jack’s armor. His charge halted mid-step, his massive frame yanked upward as if by an invisible hand. The mace fell from his grasp, clanging to the ground as he struggled against the pull. ‘What the—!’ he snarled, his arms flailing uselessly as the magnet lifted him higher, suspending him like a toy in the air.
“Arcane crane game champ three years in a row” Minx said with a smirk..
Alessia leaned out of the crane’s cabin, her smirk wide and triumphant as she watched Jack dangle helplessly. She raised a hand in a cheeky salute. “Looks like you’re all tied up, Jackie boy,” she quipped. “Hang tight!” But she didn’t linger—she could already hear the Scrap Hounds closing in, their angry shouts growing louder by the second.
"The Scrap Hounds poured into the clearing, their makeshift weapons clutched tightly in their hands. ‘Get her!’ one of them shouted, his voice cutting through the chaos. Alessia ducked back into the cabin, her claws gripping the edge of the platform as she swung herself down, landing lightly on the ground below. She didn’t have time to fight them all—she needed to move, fast.
She heard the van roared to life in the distance, its engine fading as the prisoners made their escape. Alessia’s sharp eyes flicked to a row of motorcycles lined up near the gates. Most were trashed—tires slashed, engines sabotaged—but one had been left intact. She’d made sure of it. ‘Thanks for the ride, boys,’ she muttered, sprinting toward the bike
She vaulted onto the motorcycle, her claws gripping the handlebars as the engine roared to life. The Scrap Hounds were still scrambling after her, their shouts tinged with fury and disbelief. Alessia turned back, her grin wide and defiant. “Good night, boys!” she called over the engine’s growl. “And don’t call me for a second date—I’m busy washing my hair!” With that, she revved the engine and tore through the gates, leaving the scrapyard and its chaos behind her.
Behind her, the scrapyard descended into chaos. The Scrap Hounds shouted and cursed, their leader still dangling helplessly from the magnet. Metal creaked and groaned as the crane swayed under Jack’s weight, his furious roars echoing through the night. Alessia didn’t look back. She had done what she came to do.
The city lights blurred as she sped through the darkened streets, the wind tugging at her hair and carrying away the lingering scent of oil and rust from the scrapyard. Alessia’s grip on the handlebars tightened, her sharp eyes fixed on the road ahead even as her thoughts lingered on the faces of the prisoners she had saved. The fear in their eyes, the gratitude, the glimmer of hope—they were what mattered. They were why she did this.
Tonight had been a victory, but there was always more work to do. Always more shadows to prowl, more lives to protect, more monsters to face down. Alessia smiled faintly, the wind catching the edges of her mask as her heart swelled with quiet resolve. She wouldn’t have it any other way.
She owed her life to one person’s courage—the Vulpes, who had risked everything to save her when no one else would. That act of bravery had given Alessia the power to fight back, to make her life matter, and she repaid that debt with every life she saved. No matter who she stood up to, no matter how terrifying the enemy, she would fight. Because a mink never backs down, no matter how big the monster they’re up against.
The roar of the motorcycle echoed through the empty streets, a fleeting sound swallowed by the night. Somewhere in the city, danger waited, but so did she—the Minx, a shadow in the darkness, a spark of hope for those who needed it most.
And a mink never backs down no matter how big the challenge.
