Marc sat hunched on his living-room sofa, the glow of his laptop painting his face in pale light. Crumpled papers, coffee-stained mugs, and yesterday's takeaway littered the table before him. His search bar read Gaidan, and the results were a sea of dead ends.
Most articles were rehashes of the same story: an alien warrior who appeared, fought once, then vanished. No record of him registered with the Superio League of Superheroes. No files accessible through official channels. Only conspiracy theories and shaky camera footage remained—images distorted, half-burned silhouettes of a silver figure locked in combat.
Marc scrolled until his eyes blurred.
Marc (muttering): "So hard to find… Too clean. Someone wants him scrubbed out. Or he's hiding himself."
He rubbed his temples, the frustration digging deep. "Maybe he's not a good guy. Maybe all this vanishing act is because he's got something to hide."
The thought lingered. If Gaidan wasn't the savior everyone wanted him to be, then he was another threat waiting to happen. Marc's gut told him to investigate, to dig until the truth bled out. But for now, London's shadows were thick with their own monsters.
A voice, deep and weary, broke through the quiet.
Tecciztecatl: "One more day, Champion. Then I will be back at full power. But until then, patience. I can feel it still—something stirs in Mexico. Dark rituals. Sacrifices meant to pierce the veil between worlds."
Marc leaned back in his chair, exhaling through his teeth. "Mexico, huh? We'll get there. But first…" His eyes fell on the wall of maps and notes he'd built, the web of strings leading to one central name: William Lex Webb.
"…we need to take care of William Lex Webb."
There was a pause. Tecciztecatl's voice rumbled with faint amusement.
Tecciztecatl: "Why do you always say his full name? Webb, Lex, William—it matters little. He is just a man."
Marc's gaze hardened. "A dangerous man. Not a regular one. A man who slaughters people on altars, cuts their hearts out, and leaves their corpses as offerings. That's not just business, that's devotion. Devotion to something foul."
The god did not argue. Silence hung heavy, an acknowledgment of truth.
---
Far away, under a sweltering Mexican sun, Salvatore El Lobo walked the stone path of his estate. Palm trees swayed in the hot wind, their shadows stretching across the tiled courtyard. His mansion loomed behind him, a fortress built with blood money. He chewed on a cigar, his gold rings glinting in the light as he pressed a phone to his ear.
The man on the other end spoke nervously, his voice warped by static.
Caller: "Sí, patrón. Word's reached us about the vigilante. The one in London. He wears the crescent moon."
Salvatore stopped, narrowing his eyes. He'd heard the whispers already, but hearing them confirmed from his men lit an ember of anger in his chest.
Salvatore: "So you said he is a nuisance, eh? Then why don't you kill him?"
A pause. The man on the phone swallowed audibly.
Caller: "We tried. Bullets don't work. Knives don't work. It's like he's immortal."
Salvatore's brow furrowed. He exhaled a cloud of smoke, pacing slowly across the courtyard tiles.
Salvatore: "Immortal? Or clever?" He bit down on the cigar. "What if he's using our supplies against us? Hm? What if this Moonveil has tasted Sangre de Luna and now thinks himself untouchable?"
Before the caller could answer, a thunderous boom rattled the ground beneath his feet. Birds scattered from the treetops.
Salvatore spun, eyes widening. Smoke rose from the far side of his estate—thick, black, and acrid.
Salvatore: "¡Carajo!"
He dropped the phone and sprinted. His guards rushed past him, rifles in hand. The scent of burning chemicals hit his nose as he approached the lab entrance, carved into the earth like a wound.
Inside, chaos reigned. Workers staggered through choking fumes. Glass shattered, fires licked the walls, and alarms wailed.
Juarez emerged from the smoke, coughing, his hands blistered and blackened.
Juarez: "¡Mijo! It's too unstable! The black liquid—it reacts without warning. One second it sits still, the next it tears the room apart!"
Salvatore grabbed him by the collar, shaking him.
Salvatore: "Why didn't you tell me earlier?"
Juarez's eyes flared with both fear and defiance.
Juarez: "Because I thought I could control it! We've refined powders, we've pressed pills—but this substance, this essence—it's alive. Like it doesn't want to be bound. We need proper equipment, medical synthesizers, like the ones hospitals use. Without them, every batch is a bomb waiting to ignite!"
Salvatore shoved him away, teeth bared. His men scrambled to douse the fires, to drag half-dead workers from the flames.
The idol loomed at the back of the cavern, untouched by fire, its hollow eyes glowing faintly red as if it mocked them. The black liquid still oozed from its mouth, drip by patient drip, as though the explosion hadn't mattered.
Salvatore glared at it, his chest heaving.
Salvatore (to himself): "We bleed for you. We risk everything for you. And this is how you repay us?"
Juarez, coughing again, staggered forward.
Juarez: "We'll fix it. We just need the right machines. Get me what I ask for, and I'll turn this unstable venom into a storm. Sangre de Luna will be unstoppable."
Salvatore's gaze shifted from the idol to his cousin. Rage simmered, but ambition outweighed it.
Salvatore: "Then we find it. Hospitals. Labs. We steal what we need. London bleeds money, but it also bleeds opportunity. If this Moonveil wants to play god, let him. We will show him chaos. We will show him what the real gods demand."
The idol's faint glow pulsed, as though in agreement.
---
Back in London, Marc scribbled notes from his late-night searches, though little surfaced.
The Superio League's official registry listed heroes with full dossiers: powers, territories, public deeds. But under Gaidan—nothing. A blank page. A footnote marked "unauthorized entity." It was as though the alien didn't exist, scrubbed from every corner of legitimate record.
Marc closed his laptop, running his hand through his hair.
Marc: "Maybe he's not a hero at all. Maybe he's hiding because he doesn't want people asking questions. Questions I need to ask."
He stood, pacing the living room. His body ached with fatigue; the lack of Tecciztecatl's healing left every bruise and scar raw. Yet his mind burned brighter than ever.
The god's voice whispered, weaker now, but resolute.
Tecciztecatl: "Your suspicion is wise. Not all who wear the mantle of savior deserve it. But beware, Champion. Obsession blinds as easily as darkness. One more day, and I return at full power. Then… we go to Mexico. The rituals there call to me. I feel their weight in the night."
Marc stopped at the map, staring at Webb's name.
Marc: "Mexico later. Webb first. He's killing here. Summoning here. And as long as he breathes, London won't see the morning."
The god did not argue.
And across the sea, in a cavern bathed in smoke and fire, Salvatore and Juarez knelt again before their idol, their prayers mingling with the hiss of chemical flames.
The war for London's soul was only beginning.