Marc didn't resist.
For once, he let the handcuffs click shut around his wrists, their bite sharp against the skin. The officers shoved him toward the waiting squad car, sneering as though they'd just captured the devil himself.
Police 1: "Finally. We got you, you twit." He shoved Marc's head down, forcing him inside. "You've ruined our reputation, made us look like fools. Now you'll pay for it in jail."
The second officer laughed, his breath hot with the stink of cigarettes.
Police 2: "Yeah, you fucking microwave. We were worried we'd never get the chance."
Marc said nothing. His hood shadowed his face, his body still. He absorbed every insult, every shove, every smug chuckle. Words were nothing. He was here for something bigger.
The car rolled through London's streets, sirens muted now, headlights cutting across the dark. In the glass reflection, Marc caught a glimpse of himself—white hood stained with soot from the demon fight, eyes hard as steel.
He wasn't captured. He was infiltrating.
---
The station smelled of sweat and burnt coffee. Fluorescent lights flickered overhead as the officers paraded him inside like a trophy. A few clapped mockingly, others jeered.
Marc's silence only angered them more.
Police 1: "What's the matter? Cat got your tongue? No witty speeches about justice?"
Police 2: "He's nothing without his costume. Strip him down and he's just another lunatic."
They shoved him into a holding room. Chains bolted into the table clinked as they forced him down. Marc allowed it, keeping his head low, but his ears—enhanced by Tecciztecatl—reached beyond the walls.
Through the murmur of phones, the scratching of pens, the groan of rusted doors, he found what he was hunting: conversations.
One detective muttered about a "massive bust" that had gone sideways—pallets of powder burned in a raid, but whispers said the real shipments were already in the city. Another spoke in hushed tones about the "thing" that tore apart a block in Hackney. Officially, the story was pinned on a gang war. Unofficially, half the precinct was terrified.
Marc narrowed his eyes. Good. Fear means they know something's wrong.
---
The story cuts to Mexico.
Deep underground, where the air was damp and the walls of the cave sweated, men worked tirelessly under buzzing bulbs. Their hands caked in chemicals, their eyes glassy from inhaling fumes, they mixed and cut powder.
At the back of the cavern stood an idol—stone, jagged, carved into the shape of a skeletal figure with starbursts for eyes. Its teeth were fangs, its form twisted in mockery of humanity. A Tzitzimimeh.
Salvatore El Lobo, broad-shouldered and draped in gold chains, stood before it. Juarez was beside him, holding a steel bowl.
Both men knelt.
Salvatore: "Oh lord of darkness. Destroyer of light. Give me more of your chaos, more of your essence."
Juarez, echoing: "Grant us your strength, your hunger, your blood."
The cave grew cold. The idol's eyes glowed faint red, and from its mouth oozed a viscous, black liquid that dripped into the bowl with slow, deliberate plops. The workers shivered, some crossing themselves, others muttering in reverence.
Juarez's hands trembled as he lifted the bowl. He funneled the tar-like substance into jars, his grin wild.
Juarez: "We'll refine it, mijo. Turn it into pills. Stronger than powder. Sangre de Luna."
He chuckled, manic with greed. "Big money. We'll be covered in pesos. And the London market—it's been better than our Northern neighbour lately. They crave it more. Pound for pound, their addicts pay higher."
Salvatore stroked his beard, eyes never leaving the idol.
Salvatore: "Do not forget, Juarez. With this, we are not just dealers. We are servants of chaos. But we must tread carefully. There is word of an alien in the north. A ghost in white and black."
Juarez snorted.
Juarez: "Alien or not, bullets still kill. He bleeds like any man."
Salvatore's lips twisted into a smile, though unease lingered in his eyes.
---
Back in London, Moonveil waited in the holding room, still and silent. The door creaked open—two detectives stepped inside. Their voices were hushed, but Marc's enhanced hearing picked up their mutters before they spoke aloud.
"Orders came from the top. Make him disappear."
Marc's jaw tightened. So it's not just criminals I'm fighting. The rot runs deep.
The detectives leaned in close, smirking.
Detective 1: "Your little crusade ends tonight."
Marc tilted his head, finally breaking his silence.
Moonveil: "Funny. I was about to say the same."
In a flash, he yanked against the chains, the steel groaning before snapping apart like brittle twigs. The detectives stumbled back, swearing.
An alarm blared as Marc slammed his fist into the wall. Bricks cracked, then gave way, rubble spilling out into the night air. The officers outside shouted, rushing in—only to find the room empty.
Above them, boots scraped against the rooftop ledge.
Officer 2 (pointing up): "There! On the roof!"
Marc stood outlined against the glow of the city, white hood fluttering in the wind.
They shouted, aimed their guns.
Marc smirked, then stepped off the edge. He dropped three stories, landing hard on the hood of a parked car. Metal buckled, glass shattered, alarms screamed—but Marc rose unbroken, his crescent burning faintly.
From within, Tecciztecatl's voice rang sharp, almost scolding.
Tecciztecatl: "That was extremely careless behaviour, Champion. My heralds are chosen for strength and cunning, not recklessness. Why did you let yourself be shackled like prey?"
Marc pulled his hood tighter, disappearing into the alley shadows.
Moonveil: "Because I needed information. And now I have it."
Tecciztecatl: "Information about what?"
Marc's voice hardened.
Moonveil: "About William Lex Webb. The bastard's connected to the drug. To Sangre de Luna. And if he's tied to these demons too, then I'll tear his empire down brick by bloody brick."
He vanished into the night, leaving only the echo of alarms and the faint symbol of the moon carved into the wrecked car's hood.