The wail of police sirens sliced through the night as the alley flooded with red and blue. Marc stood still, hands raised slightly, as uniformed officers rushed in. The girl lay unconscious, wrapped in his jacket, while the two thugs groaned, bound together at the police station steps.
Officer 1: "Sir, did you call?"
Marc nodded, his voice even. "Yes, I did, officer. Those men over there were trying to violate this girl."
Officer 2: "Are you associated with her or them, sir?"
Marc shook his head. "No. I heard screaming, came here, and found them like this. I tied them up and covered her with my coat."
The officers exchanged a glance.
Officer 1: "Sir, we're taking you in until she wakes up. Standard procedure."
Marc shrugged. "No problem. I'll come."
They led him to the car. The city sped past the windows in smeared streaks of neon and sodium glow. Marc sat quietly, but his ears—sharp now with Tecciztecatl's gift—caught the hushed voices of the officers in the front seat.
Officer 2, whispering: "You hear about that new drug? Word is it gives you… powers. Like proper superhuman. One hour, then gone."
Officer 1: "Yeah. Bloody mess it's making. Brawls, robberies. Even the gangs are scared of it."
Marc's brow furrowed. A drug that could mimic what the god had given him? That was no coincidence.
At the station, they took his statement. Marc recounted the night as cleanly as he could. The detective leaned back in his chair, weary-eyed but watchful. A phone rang. He answered, listened, then gave a sharp nod.
Detective: "The girl's awake. Bring them all in."
Marc was escorted to a lineup room. The girl sat behind glass, pale but resolute, her voice shaking as she spoke.
The Girl: "Those two. They attacked me. But… I don't know about him. He wasn't with them."
She pointed to Marc last, uncertainty in her eyes. Relief washed over him, though he felt no triumph. Only a heavy, grim weight.
Moments later, the detective waved him off. "You're free to go, Stevenson."
Outside, the London air was damp and cold. He walked alone, boots echoing against the pavement, until he reached the isolation of his flat.
---
That night, Marc paced. The words about the drug clung to him like smoke.
Marc: "Tecciztecatl. Are you here? I want to know about this drug."
The voice rumbled from nowhere, filling his head with ancient tones.
Tecciztecatl: "I know not its origin, but I sense corruption. A fire of mortal making, not divine. Yet… I can offer hints where its trail runs thick."
Marc pressed a hand against his temple, frustration simmering. He unfolded a map of London on the table, tracing the streets with his finger. Hackney. Islington. Tower Hamlets. Places where shadows lingered longest and lawlessness festered.
Marc: "Why me? Why not someone else? An American… a Mexican… someone from your own land?"
For the first time, the god hesitated.
Tecciztecatl: "You bear the amulet. It binds you. Choice was never mine, nor yours. Fate sealed itself the moment your hand touched stone."
Marc sank into his chair, exhaustion clawing at him. The war still lived in him—smoke, gunfire, screams. Nightmares flooded back, jagged flashes that made his chest tighten. He fumbled for the pill bottle, swallowed the bitter taste, and let the haze pull him into uneasy sleep.
---
Morning came with the sharp crackle of the radio. Marc shuffled to the kitchen, turned on the news, and listened as he fried eggs.
Anchor: "Reports continue of a new narcotic sweeping East London. Witnesses claim it gives its users unnatural strength and speed for up to an hour. Authorities are urging vigilance."
Marc set down his fork, eyes narrowing.
Marc: "Tonight's the night."
---
Darkness fell. Hackney's streets were quiet, but not safe. Cloaked in moonlight, Moonveil emerged from the rooftops. His hood shimmered white, the crescent on his chest burning faintly with divine fire. He moved through alleys, listening, watching, stalking.
Every crime, no matter how small, he stopped. A mugging thwarted. A dealer cornered. A stolen purse returned. The city whispered of him in pubs and back alleys—an unseen figure that came with the moonlight.
Days turned to weeks. The papers began to speak of him: The Unknown Hero. Some hailed him as a savior, a phantom guardian. Others sneered, branding him a vigilante, a criminal himself.
The police, especially, bristled. His presence made them look weak, slow, obsolete. Patrols doubled at night. Officers gritted their teeth when they arrived at a crime scene only to find the culprits already bound and waiting, Moonveil's mark left behind.
Marc knew the hunt had begun—not just for the drug, but for him.
And somewhere, in the depths of London, he could feel it—the shadows stirring.