The night after his escape, Marc didn't patrol.
He sat at his desk with a map of London spread wide, the edges frayed, the paper marked with pins and ink. His flat smelled faintly of burnt toast and old coffee. Outside, sirens whined distantly, another reminder that the city never truly slept.
But tonight, Marc wasn't Moonveil. Tonight, he was Marc Stevenson—just a man, wrestling with truths that bent the mind.
Moonveil: "William Lex Webb…" His voice was barely a whisper, yet the name seemed to taste of poison. "He's not just a murderer. His victims… altars, hearts missing. That's not ritual for intimidation. That's sacrifice."
A silence lingered, heavy. Then, the deep, resonant voice of Tecciztecatl cut through the room.
Tecciztecatl: "Good work, Champion. Your instincts are sharp. This Webb reeks of corruption and blood. If he is behind the summoning of the Tzitzimimeh, then his hands are already stained with the essence of night itself."
Marc set down his pen, jaw tight. "So we're going after him?"
Tecciztecatl: "We will. But heed me well: the moon wanes. For the next two nights, I will be weaker. A night with no moon strips me of strength, and through me, you as well. You will still heal, but like mortals do. Bones will take weeks, wounds will scar. Do not mistake your flesh for invulnerability, Champion. These two nights will test you."
Marc leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling. "Great. So while demons walk, I'm down to half a tank."
Tecciztecatl: "Caution, not fear. A champion proves himself most when the light is gone."
---
Over the next two days, Marc drowned in ink and paper.
He marked every crime scene where a body had been found on an altar—red pins stabbing the map. Another color tracked the known activity of Sangre de Luna. He scribbled notes, linking dates and places, drawing lines between rituals and overdoses, between heartless corpses and street-level dealers.
At first, the connections looked random, scattered like chaos. But slowly, a pattern emerged.
The areas Webb's company "donated" to—the same areas seeing spikes in drug overdoses. Warehouses Webb once owned now suspected as stash houses. His charity galas held the same week sacrifices appeared on the Thames embankment.
Marc rubbed his eyes, exhaustion heavy, but his gut screamed truth. Webb wasn't just laundering money. He was channeling something darker—funding chaos, feeding demons.
---
The next morning at work, Marc forced himself into normalcy.
The lab hummed with fluorescent light and quiet chatter. His coworkers barely looked up as he slid into his chair, forcing a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.
Howard, the wiry technician two desks away, was hunched over his computer, his screen glowing with shifting data streams.
Marc grabbed a stack of reports and asked casually, "Hey, Howard, how's your project coming up?"
Howard swiveled his chair, tired eyes lit by obsession.
Howard: "I'm analyzing Gaidan."
Marc blinked. "That alien?"
Howard nodded, lips twitching in excitement.
Howard: "Yes. Ever since his reveal, his data has fascinated us. His first battle—months ago—was recorded by satellites and military sensors. Dozens of governments have pieces of the puzzle, but here…" He tapped the screen, streams of graphs spiking. "Here, we're starting to model what happened when he lost. The energy signature collapsed. Nothing like it exists on Earth."
Marc frowned, feigning ignorance. "And he hasn't been seen since?"
Howard shook his head.
Howard: "Not a whisper. Rumor is he's hiding, healing. Or maybe dead. But the tech he used? The armor? We call it Aether Tech. Alien metallurgy, beyond us. If even a shard fell into the wrong hands, it would change everything."
Marc's stomach tightened. He thought of Sangre de Luna, of Webb's victims, of demons slipping into London through blood and sacrifice. And now Aether tech—another weapon waiting to be twisted.
Howard leaned closer, lowering his voice.
Howard: "The public still chants his name, waiting for him to come back. But between you and me? Gaidan wasn't ready. If something like him showed up again—only darker—we wouldn't stand a chance."
Marc forced a chuckle, though the sound felt dry. "Yeah. Wouldn't want one of those showing up."
---
That night, Marc couldn't rest.
The moonless sky pressed against his window, a black expanse without comfort. He brewed tea, stared at his map, and tried to connect two impossible worlds: Sangre de Luna and Aether Tech.
He scrolled through forums, conspiracy blogs, scattered military leaks. Threads raved about aliens walking among humans. Some tied Gaidan's fall to government cover-ups. Others swore Sangre de Luna wasn't chemical at all, but fragments of something extraterrestrial.
Marc bookmarked pages, digging deeper. He found whispers of a name: Project Dawnfall. An alleged black-ops operation that catalogued alien artifacts—and whose funding, shockingly, ran through shell companies linked to William Lex Webb.
Marc sat back, heart pounding.
"Bloody hell…"
If Webb had his hands in Sangre de Luna and Aether remnants, he wasn't just a murderer. He was building something greater. Something unholy.
---
The public, meanwhile, burned with a different fire.
Moonveil's arrest had leaked, and fury rippled through the city. Papers ran headlines: "London's Savior Betrayed by Police", "Moonveil: Hero or Fugitive?" Protestors stood outside precincts, demanding answers. Children carried cardboard cutouts of a white hood. On social feeds, clips of him saving victims played on repeat, set to chants of Justice Veiled.
Marc read it all with conflicted eyes.
He'd never wanted fame. The mask wasn't for glory—it was duty, cursed into his blood by Tecciztecatl. Yet seeing their hope… knowing the people needed him… it pressed weight onto his shoulders heavier than any chain.
---
Later that night, he stared at the dark map again.
Marc: "Tecciztecatl. Are you here?"
The god's voice answered, softer than usual, strained.
Tecciztecatl: "I linger, Champion. Though the moon hides, I endure. Speak."
Marc exhaled, fingers tapping the desk. "I've been tracing patterns. Webb's murders, Sangre de Luna… they overlap too cleanly. He's more than a dealer, more than a killer. He's a summoner, isn't he?"
The silence stretched, as though even the god hesitated.
Tecciztecatl: "You may be right. The Tzitzimimeh do not slip into this world without an anchor. A sacrifice opens the door, yes, but a will keeps it ajar. Webb may be that will. If so, he is not merely a murderer. He is a priest of shadow."
Marc's jaw clenched. "Then he's mine."
Tecciztecatl: "Caution. For two nights, your wounds will not vanish. You walk as men do now. If you fall, your story ends. Be wise, Champion. Be patient."
Marc glanced at his reflection in the window. He looked tired, human, vulnerable. But beneath that, fire burned.
Marc: "Patience isn't really my style."
---
By dawn, his walls were covered. The map stretched, papers taped in clusters, strings connecting names, dates, deaths. At the center: William Lex Webb. Around him, smaller circles: Sangre de Luna, Tzitzimimeh, Project Dawnfall, Aether Tech.
Every thread led back to the same man.
Marc stood before the map, fists clenched.
Marc: "Webb… you think you're untouchable. You think hiding behind cops, money, demons makes you untouchable. But you've got my attention now."
His eyes narrowed.
Marc: "And Moonveil doesn't stop."