Councilor Duran’s mansion glittered like a jewel in the wealthiest district of Valderra. High walls, iron gates, armed guards—every defense that money could buy had been installed to protect the property. Tonight, however, it would not be enough.
Elara Reyes stood in the shadows across the street, her teacher’s composure gone. In its place, she wore the mask of Crimson Butterfly: black attire tailored for silence, gloves that hugged her fingers, and the crimson mask that curved like wings across her face.
She had studied the Duran Estate for weeks. Guards rotated every hour. Dogs patrolled the gardens, though their training was sloppy. The councilor himself locked incriminating documents in his private study, inside a safe hidden behind a portrait.
Every detail was etched in her mind like choreography. Tonight, the curtain would rise.
---
At precisely eleven, she moved.
A servant girl appeared at the back gate, carrying a small basket of food. Her uniform was crisp, her steps steady. The guard glanced at her briefly before waving her through.
He never realized that the servant’s face was not truly hers. A wig, a disguise, subtle makeup—Elara had transformed herself into one of the household maids she had quietly observed for days.
Inside, the mansion was filled with faint music and the muffled laughter of guests from a dinner party upstairs. Councilor Duran was entertaining allies, feeding them wine bought with stolen charity funds.
Elara kept her head down, carrying the basket like a true servant. She passed through the halls unseen, the picture of invisibility.
But when she reached the study, her pace changed.
The lock yielded quickly to her practiced hands. Inside, the room smelled of cigar smoke and arrogance. She closed the door softly and moved toward the painting of Duran’s ancestors.
Behind it: the safe.
Her gloved fingers danced across the dial. Click. Click. Click. Within minutes, it opened.
Inside, ledgers and documents lay stacked in neat piles.
She smiled faintly beneath her mask.
“These will bury you, Duran.”
She slipped the files into a hidden compartment of her basket. But she was not finished. She pulled out a crimson butterfly card and placed it atop the desk, angled perfectly beneath the lamplight.
Then she stepped back, scanning the room once more. Every detail had to be perfect. She left no fingerprints, no broken locks, nothing to suggest forced entry. Only her signature mark remained.
By the time the guards noticed anything unusual, she was gone—vanished into the night as though carried by the wind itself.
---
The next morning, Valderra buzzed with scandal. Newspapers screamed headlines about Councilor Duran’s falsified orphanage accounts, leaked anonymously with irrefutable evidence.
The public roared with outrage. Charities demanded investigations. The councilor’s reputation, once untouchable, now lay in ruins.
And in the corner of one photograph printed in the paper, a crimson butterfly card was visible.
The people whispered.
Was she a thief—or a savior?
---
In the crime scene that morning, Adrian Dela Cruz stood quietly inside the councilor’s study. His fellow officers bustled about, examining locks and questioning servants, but Adrian ignored the noise. He was still as a predator, his eyes moving across every surface.
The safe was open. Not forced. Not even scratched. Whoever had done this knew the combination—or had cracked it with skill far beyond common thieves.
The butterfly card gleamed on the desk, untouched.
Adrian crouched beside the safe, his fingers tracing the edges. “Not brute force,” he murmured. “Patience. Precision. Knowledge.”
His partner scribbled notes. “So… an inside job?”
Adrian shook his head slowly. “No. The servants are terrified, too unskilled. And if it were someone inside, they wouldn’t leave this.” He gestured at the crimson mark.
He straightened, his sharp gaze scanning the room as if the criminal herself still lingered in the air.
“She wore a disguise,” he concluded. “Walked these halls as if she belonged. The guards didn’t notice her because she made herself unremarkable. That is her brilliance—not just in stealing, but in being invisible when she chooses to be.”
His partner frowned. “You sound like you admire her again.”
Adrian allowed himself a faint, cold smile. “I don’t admire her. I understand her. And that makes me dangerous to her.”
He leaned against the desk, eyes narrowing at the crimson butterfly card.
“She doesn’t simply steal riches. She steals power. She topples reputations. She believes she is reshaping society in her own image.”
His voice grew sharper. “But justice is not hers to define. She may act like an angel of judgment, but she’s only a thief who hides behind elegance.”
His hand hovered over the card for a long moment, as if it carried her essence.
“I will strip the wings from this butterfly,” he whispered.
---
That night, Elara sat in her apartment, the documents already delivered to the press through her network of informants. She read the papers with quiet satisfaction. Another corrupt official, brought low without a single courtroom trial.
She poured herself tea, her mask resting beside the cup.
“Did you see, brother?” she murmured to the empty room. “Another man who thought himself untouchable has fallen. I will not stop until the scales are balanced.”
But even as she said the words, a chill ran down her spine. Somewhere in the city, she knew, the detective was studying her every move.
She could feel him closing in.
And for the first time, she wondered if perhaps she wanted him to.
---
Across Valderra, Adrian looked out over the rooftops, the city bathed in moonlight.
“She is clever,” he admitted under his breath. “But cleverness can become arrogance. And arrogance… is always fatal.”
His eyes glinted with something between determination and obsession.
“The game has begun, Butterfly. And I will not lose.”
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