The city whispered his name now.
Everywhere Moonveil struck—Hackney, Tower Hamlets, Islington—he left behind a faintly glowing crescent etched on brick, carved into steel, or burned onto wood. A symbol, a warning. To the innocent, it was a beacon. To the guilty, a curse.
The crime rate dropped. Muggings vanished in alleys that had once been hunting grounds. Dealers whispered before scattering, terrified of being cornered in the dark. For weeks, London felt the weight of something new: fear in the hearts of criminals, and hope in the people.
But the drug… the drug was different.
It spread like wildfire. A pill or powder, a single hit enough to turn a common thug into something faster, stronger, more savage than human. For one hour, they became monsters. And when the high wore off, they were left half-dead, hungry for more. It was harder, infinitely harder, for Marc to contain.
One man with powers could stop ten men. But one man with those same powers, twisted by narcotics, was another matter entirely.
In his flat, Marc paced again.
Marc: "They should be going after criminals, not me. I'm trying to help them. Every night I'm out there doing what they won't."
The answer came as always, old and steady, like stone grinding against stone.
Tecciztecatl: "They are proud, Marcson. Too proud. They see only their reputation slipping. They do not understand what you are, nor what you fight for. But you must not falter. You are the Herald of Justice. You must protect peace."
Marc gritted his teeth, looking out across the London skyline. The crescent moon hung above the city, silver and solemn, as if it too was watching him.
---
Far away, beneath another moon, a different story unfolded.
In Mexico's Sierra Madre, a cave pulsed with electric light. Dozens of men labored in the damp shadows, their hands white with chemical dust. Glassware clinked, liquids hissed, and the acrid scent of cooked chemicals filled the air.
At the center, on a raised chair, sat Salvatore El Lobo Ramírez, his face lit by the glow of a hanging bulb. His eyes were sharp, his hair slicked back, a wolf's grin playing on his lips.
Salvatore: "Mijo, we need more supplies. The demand is too high. Our buyers in London are asking for more every week."
From the back of the cave, another man emerged—stockier, his hands stained from the lab, his shirt clinging with sweat. Juárez, the chemist.
Juárez: "We just sent a batch last week. The product's not refined yet. If I had time, I could make it stronger, cleaner. But right now? It's sloppy."
Salvatore's grin widened, predatory.
Salvatore: "Sloppy or not, it's selling like hot cakes. They want more, Juárez. We must capitalize. The streets are hungry, and we feed the hunger."
Juárez sighed, rubbing his face. "Fine. I'll refine it. Make it more… okay. But mijo, when I'm done—it will be fire. More powerful than anything they've tasted. Strong enough to turn men into gods."
Salvatore's laugh echoed through the cave. "And gods pay well."
The men returned to their work. Lightbulbs hummed. Wolves howled outside in the mountains.
---
Back in London, Marc tightened his hood, the white fabric glowing faintly in the moonlight. Hackney's streets were quiet, but he could feel the pulse beneath—the thrum of deals whispered, drugs exchanged, shadows thick with poison.
He perched on the edge of a building, scanning, listening.
Marc (muttering): "If I were a dealer… where would I be?"
He closed his eyes. His hearing stretched outward like a net. Boots scraping on concrete. Coins rattling in a pocket. A muffled sob. Then—voices.
"…got the new batch, yeah? Stronger than the last. One dose, you're a bloody god."
Marc's eyes snapped open. He followed the sound, weaving across rooftops until he found them—a narrow alley, a dealer crouched against graffiti-scarred brick, whispering to a jittery customer.
Marc dropped silently to the ground. The shadows bent with him, covering his steps.
He approached. His voice was cold, sharp.
Moonveil: "How much?"
The dealer froze, turning slowly. His eyes widened when he saw the hood, the crescent. His hand jerked to his jacket, pulling free a pistol.
Dealer: "You—!"
He fired. Once. Twice. Three times. Bullets cracked the air, ricocheting into the brick. Marc staggered back, the force rippling through him—but the god's gift held true. The wounds closed as quickly as they opened.
He straightened, silent. The dealer's face drained of color.
Marc was on him in seconds, slamming him against the wall with a strength that made bone groan.
Moonveil: "Where do you get these? Tell me who makes the swine."
The man squirmed, choking. "I—I don't know! I just push! I swear—"
Marc's hood glowed faintly, the crescent shining brighter as he pressed harder.
Moonveil: "The name. The drug. What do you call it?"
The dealer's voice cracked. "They… they call it Sangre de Luna. Moon's Blood. That's all I know. I swear on my life."
Marc's breath caught. Moon's Blood.
The irony was bitter, cruel. Some twisted echo of Tecciztecatl's own gift was flooding the veins of London. He released the dealer, letting him collapse into the dirt, gasping.
Marc stood there, his mind racing. Tecciztecatl's voice whispered low in his ear.
Tecciztecatl: "Moon's Blood. A blasphemy. Someone mimics my power. This is no accident."
Marc clenched his fists, the night heavy around him. He had thought he was fighting street crime, gangs, nameless thugs. But this was bigger. The drug was tied to something older, darker, and far from London's shores.
He looked down at the dealer, trembling in the gutter.
Moonveil: "Pray this was the truth. For if I find out you lied…"
He let the threat hang in the air like a blade. Then he melted back into the shadows, the crescent glowing faintly as he vanished into the night.
High above the city, the moon watched, cold and silent.
And somewhere, far away in the caves of Mexico, Salvatore El Lobo smiled without knowing why—feeling the first stirrings of a storm that would soon reach across the ocean.