Marc Stevenson hardly slept. The night had been another blur of fists, shadows, and whispered orders from Tecciztecatl. He had broken up a mugging near Shoreditch, saved a shopkeeper in Tower Hamlets from being gutted for refusing protection money, and chased a car full of thieves through Hackney's narrow streets. By dawn, his body ached in ways even the god's power could not numb. His mind carried the heavier burden: the news broadcast he had glimpsed before collapsing into bed.
Another woman missing.
No ransom note, no sign of forced entry. Just gone.
She worked at Ynkeos Technical Solutions, a firm that provided security systems for government and corporate clients. Marc recognized the company immediately—not because of its products, but because of its figurehead. Its chairman was none other than William Lex Webb. The name still lingered on Marc's tongue like venom.
He stared at the TV screen until the broadcast ended, the reporter's voice drowned beneath his own heartbeat. His instincts screamed what he already knew. William was no ordinary executive. He was hiding something monstrous.
Marc whispered aloud in the empty flat, as though voicing the thought made it real:
Marc: "That's his work. I swear it. He's the one."
Tecciztecatl stirred in his mind, a voice that rumbled like grinding stone.
Tecciztecatl: "A suspicion can be the spark, champion, but the fire must be proven. Let me look deeper. Tonight, I will turn my sight upon this William Lex Webb. If he walks with the priests of the Tzitzimimeh, we shall know."
Marc didn't argue. His chest still carried the cold weight of certainty, but certainty without proof was nothing in a world built on lies and appearances. For now, he would play his part.
---
The next morning, he stood in the bathroom mirror adjusting his tie. His reflection looked ordinary again—no veil, no crescent symbol glowing faint on his chest, no whisper of godly power. Just Marc Stevenson, mid-level analyst at the Ministry of Defence's Weapon Analysis Division. A face forgettable enough to survive the bureaucratic halls, yet sharp enough to remain useful.
By the time he reached the office, the fluorescent lights and smell of burnt coffee felt like another world compared to moonlit rooftops and bloodied alleys. He walked through the security gate, scanning his badge, nodding to the guard. Everything here was rules, routines, stability. Almost enough to make him forget the war waged in the shadows.
Howard was already at his desk, hunched over a monitor with half a dozen tabs open, crumbs from a breakfast sandwich scattered on the keyboard. Howard was younger than Marc by a few years, wiry, with eyes that lit up whenever he stumbled across something new to dissect. A self-professed geek, he had the kind of mind that found beauty in equations and circuitry, and the social tact of a wet rag. Still, Marc liked him. He was honest, unpretentious, and clever.
Howard: "Morning, Marc. Good day out, eh? Clear skies. Almost makes London look like a postcard."
Marc dropped his bag by his chair and exhaled.
Marc: "Can't complain. Morning, Howard. How's your obsession coming along?"
Howard grinned, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose.
Howard: "You mean Gaidan? Oh, mate, you wouldn't believe what I found. Been tearing through satellite footage and lab scans all week. The man's a fortress wrapped in mystery, but I've cracked a corner of it."
Marc leaned against the desk, feigning casual interest.
Marc: "That alien? You've been glued to that project since it landed on your desk."
Howard nodded eagerly, lowering his voice as though sharing state secrets.
Howard: "Well, first off—everyone thought his armor was some gold-alloy hybrid. Makes sense, right? Flashy, reflective, symbolic. But that's just the coating. The underlayer, Marc—the real stuff—isn't from Earth. No isotope matches, no composition that lines up with our periodic table. It's not just advanced tech. It's alien matter. And since I discovered it, guess who gets to name it?"
Marc smirked despite himself.
Marc: "Lucky bastard. You'll be famous before the week's out. Headlines: 'Local scientist cracks alien metal, names it after his cat.'"
Howard rolled his eyes.
Howard: "Not the cat. I was thinking… Aetherium. Has a nice ring to it, don't you think?"
Marc chuckled and gave him a playful tap on the arm before sliding into his own chair.
Marc: "Better than 'Howardium.' You'd never live that down."
For a while, the office hummed with routine. Analysts tapped keyboards, printers whirred, phones rang in the distance. Marc turned his attention to his assigned project: analyzing captured weaponry from an enemy state still clawing for independence. The irony wasn't lost on him. Nations fighting for freedom, yet their soldiers wielded tools of oppression.
On his desk lay fragments of an energy-based rifle—charred casing, scorched coils, shards of a cracked energy cell. His job was to piece together its design, understand its weaknesses, and report how it might be neutralized on the field.
Marc picked up the cell, holding it beneath a magnifying glass. He scribbled notes on a pad as his mind shifted gears. Unlike crime-fighting, this was about precision and patience. Every detail mattered: the shape of the chamber, the residue along the barrel, the faint glow that hadn't completely faded from the crystal core.
Marc (thinking): Energy-based. Compact design. Portable. A soldier's nightmare if they can mass-produce it. But unstable… see the fractures? Too much heat buildup. Power exceeds containment. A flaw to exploit.
He wrote it down, marking possible weaknesses in the firing sequence. His handwriting was brisk, military in its efficiency, a reminder of training days he tried not to revisit.
By midday, he compiled his notes into a preliminary report. He leaned back, stretching his shoulders, muttering under his breath.
Marc: "They're already free. They're fighting ghosts of chains long broken. Madness."
Howard glanced up, brow raised.
Howard: "Talking to yourself again?"
Marc smiled faintly.
Marc: "Just thinking out loud. Sending this upstairs."
He uploaded the file, the system humming as the document was encrypted and transmitted to higher command. The Ministry would dissect his findings, feed them into war games, and draft countermeasures. It wasn't glamorous work, but it mattered. And it reminded Marc of one crucial truth: the battlefield wasn't only in alleys and rooftops. It was in labs, in policy rooms, in the quiet grind of analysts and engineers.
For a brief hour, he almost forgot about demons and gods. Almost.
---
But when lunch passed and the office grew quieter, his eyes drifted back to the newsfeed open in the corner of his monitor. Another missing woman. Another face that would never be seen again. And the name Ynkeos Technical Solutions flashing beneath the headline, like a taunt.
Marc's stomach tightened. He closed the window, but the chill stayed with him. William Lex Webb was out there, smiling for cameras, shaking hands with prime ministers, all while feeding women to his altar. The world saw a visionary. Marc saw a murderer in a suit.
Tecciztecatl's voice stirred faintly, weary but firm.
Tecciztecatl: "Patience, champion. The moon wanes, and my sight dims. Tomorrow night, I will see clearly again. Until then, endure. Watch. Hunt, but do not strike too soon."
Marc adjusted his tie again, staring at the faint reflection in his monitor. Ordinary man. Ordinary job. But beneath it, the herald of justice simmered, waiting for nightfall.
And as he returned to his notes, scrawling diagrams of energy rifles, he thought not of weapons in faraway wars, but of one man in London.
William Lex Webb.
The name echoed like a promise.