They gave her the name over breakfast.
No fanfare. No ceremony. Just blood in the coffee and quiet expectation.
Julian didn't say a word.
Carmen didn't even look up from her toast.
Just slid a folded piece of paper beneath Vivienne's spoon.
She opened it.
GEORGE H. MERCER
AGE 46
SOLICITOR.
Carmen lit a cigarette without meeting her gaze.
"He likes little girls," she said. "Paid off a constable after the last one jumped from his carriage."
Vivienne didn't ask questions.
She folded the note with steady fingers.
And nodded.
No instructions.
No weapons handed over.
No timeline.
Just knowledge.
And time to become someone else.
She followed him for three days.
He was careful.
But not careful enough.
Smiled too easily at flower girls. Left coins where candy once was. Complimented children with eyes that lingered too long.
Vivienne kept her distance.
Watched from corners, windows, and crowds. Watched like Carmen had taught her—without judgment. Without pity. Just angles. Openings. Weakness.
By the fourth night, she had picked her spot.
An alley behind a tavern.
Brick walls. No exits.
He exited the brothel, tie askew, sweat beading beneath his collar.
Vivienne stepped into his path. Just enough clumsiness to make it feel real.
"Sir—could you help me?"
He smiled.
They always did.
Predators never see the teeth until they're buried in their throats.
He followed her into the dark.
She let him.
When he reached for her waist, she didn't scream.
She didn't freeze.
She pulled the blade from her corset.
Thin. Surgical. Hers.
And cut him low—just above the pelvis.
Enough to drop him.
Not enough to die.
She watched him writhe.
Hands on his wound. Eyes wide. Mouth open.
Panic. Confusion.
Recognition.
She crouched beside him.
Voice calm. Cold.
"You were right to be afraid of women."
She didn't rush.
She spoke. Clearly. Slowly.
Described his crimes.
Described the girl who jumped.
Described the sound she imagined his neck would make.
And then—
She made it.
The snap echoed like a punctuation mark.
When she got home, the gloves were soaked.
Julian opened the door.
He didn't ask.
He took the gloves from her hands.
Brought them to his face.
Smelled the leather, still warm from the kill.
And smiled.
Carmen was in the bath.
Steam ghosted across the tiled walls.
Vivienne didn't knock.
She stepped inside.
Didn't speak.
She undressed. Quiet. Purposeful.
Slid into the water beside her.
Their skin met beneath the surface.
Warm. Slick. Real.
Carmen didn't reach for her.
Not yet.
Vivienne leaned in, lips close, breath low.
"I liked it."
Carmen kissed her neck.
Lingering. Soft.
But her hand moved with purpose under the water.
"You were supposed to."