The Teacher and the Hunter

Valderra City was always loud. From the clamor of markets in the morning to the drunken laughter that carried through alleys at night, its rhythm never ceased. For most, it was simply life in the capital—brutal, crowded, and indifferent.

But for Elara Reyes, the sound of children’s laughter within Saint Maria Academy was the only melody she allowed into her heart.

The little ones looked at her with wide eyes, filled with trust and admiration. To them, Miss Reyes was everything gentle and good. She knelt by their desks, guided their pens across paper, and offered smiles as soft as sunlight. Her hands, so steady, so patient, belonged to a teacher shaping lives.

No one in the school would suspect that these very same hands slipped into vaults at night, cutting through locks, striking down guards, leaving behind a crimson butterfly as a signature.

No one could have guessed that Miss Reyes, who corrected spelling tests by lamplight, also planned and executed perfect crimes with mathematical precision.

To the world, she was Crimson Butterfly—a criminal who stole only from the corrupt. The nobles who swindled the poor, the businessmen who destroyed livelihoods, the politicians who sold justice to the highest bidder. Her heists were not random thefts but deliberate acts of judgment.

She did not steal to grow rich. She stole to balance scales.

The children did not know this. They must never know. To them, she was simply their teacher. To the rest of Valderra, she was a phantom.

---

On the other side of the city, in the quiet halls of the Valderra Police Headquarters, a man leaned lazily against his desk while his colleagues debated.

“Another heist last night. Crimson Butterfly again.”

“She’s mocking us, leaving her symbol so brazenly.”

“She never takes anything ordinary. Only high-value assets from the most powerful families. Always the same pattern.”

The men argued, throwing theories around, frustration evident.

Adrian Dela Cruz, detective of the major crimes unit, let the chatter roll past him like background noise. His dark hair was slightly disheveled, his long coat hanging off his shoulders, but his sharp eyes scanned every piece of paper laid before him.

He was unlike the other officers. Where they chased leads blindly, he disassembled puzzles with surgical precision. Cold, calculating, almost arrogant in his deductions, Adrian was the kind of man who looked at footprints and could tell you the weight, height, and mood of the person who left them.

To him, Crimson Butterfly was no ordinary thief.

“She’s not stealing to live,” Adrian finally said, voice cool but clear enough to silence the room. “She’s stealing to make a point.”

One officer scoffed. “A point? She’s a criminal. She wants attention.”

“No,” Adrian corrected, standing slowly, hands in his pockets. “A criminal who wants attention leaves chaos. This one leaves order. She chooses her victims carefully. Wealthy industrialists guilty of exploitation. Politicians with blood money. Corrupt magnates.”

He stepped closer to the crime board, eyes narrowing at the crimson butterfly symbol pinned to the center.

“She’s not mocking us. She’s mocking them. The mark she leaves isn’t vanity. It’s judgment.”

The room grew quiet.

“And you, detective?” his partner asked. “What do you call her?”

Adrian smirked faintly, his gaze never leaving the red symbol.

“A criminal genius hiding behind elegance.” His voice lowered, tinged with intrigue. “But even geniuses bleed. Even butterflies can have their wings torn.”

---

Elara sat in her modest apartment later that night, two lives spread across her table.

On one side lay a stack of graded papers, children’s doodles and arithmetic mistakes marked in gentle red ink. On the other lay maps of Valderra, lists of noble families, records of whispered scandals she had uncovered. Her next target’s name was circled in neat handwriting: Councilor Duran.

He had built orphanages, yes—but with stolen funds, laundering money under the guise of charity. The world praised him as a saint. She knew him for what he was: a parasite.

She picked up the crimson mask, its butterfly wings delicate and sharp. Her reflection stared back, split between warmth and steel.

“I’ll give them justice no one else dares deliver,” she whispered to herself, sliding the mask into her bag.

---

Meanwhile, in his apartment across the city, Adrian sat in the dark, pipe smoke curling around him as he stared at files. His mind traced patterns invisible to others.

“She won’t stop. She thinks herself righteous. A savior in crimson.” He tapped the butterfly mark on the file. “But saviors who wear masks always make mistakes. And when she does…”

He leaned back, a sharp smile curving his lips.

“I’ll be waiting.”

The detective and the thief lived in the same city, breathed the same night air, and stared at the same skyline—two predators circling without yet seeing the other.

Their paths had not crossed. Not yet.

But the game had already begun.

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