Marc never forgot the first time he pulled the white hood over his head. The weight of it, the feel of the crescent sigil burning against his chest, the sudden rush of strength flooding into his veins. It had been chaos then—bullets, blood, screams in the night. He had been chosen, unwillingly perhaps, but chosen nonetheless.
Now, six months later, it felt less like a curse and more like… a calling.
He moved with confidence when the moonlight touched him. Criminals whispered about the ghost who struck from the rooftops, the shadow with a crescent mark who tied men to lampposts like grotesque ornaments for the police to find. The name had stuck in the tabloids: Moonveil. At first, Marc flinched when he heard it. Now he almost smiled.
There was something liberating about it—being both the soldier in the daylight, hidden in bureaucracy, and the herald of justice by night. Tecciztecatl's voice had grown quieter in recent months, less overbearing. The god spoke when needed, offered guidance when Marc faltered, but there was a strange pride in his tone now. As though even the immortal had begun to respect the mortal who bore his power.
Marc never said it aloud, but he had grown fond of being Moonveil. Fond of the way people looked up at the rooftops in fear and awe. Fond of the way children whispered about the hooded figure who kept them safe. Even fond of the bruises, the aches—the proof that he had survived one more night.
---
The kettle whistled in the Ministry office. Howard appeared at Marc's desk, a steaming mug in hand.
Howard: "Here you go, mate. Builder's tea. Strong enough to kick your insides awake. You've been hunched over that thing for hours. Working hard? Or just staring at it until it talks back?"
Marc chuckled and accepted the mug. The heat seeped into his tired fingers.
Marc: "Thanks. Well, it's not exactly alien tech, if that's what you're hoping. Pretty basic design, actually. And cheap. Whoever made this didn't bother with proper chips—just recycled circuits from ten years ago. The kind you'd find in old gaming consoles or budget radios. No wonder it overheated and exploded."
Howard leaned closer, peering at the notes scrawled across Marc's pad.
Howard: "Plastic shell too? Bloody hell. That's not military grade, that's pound shop engineering. Hm. My money says some factory in Asia's churning these out by the truckload. Cut costs, skip safety. It looks like a Russian prototype from the late nineties—the one they shelved because it melted in testing. Somebody must've stolen the blueprints and thought they could make a quick fortune."
Marc sipped the tea, his lips twitching into a faint smile. He admired Howard's enthusiasm, even if the man never quite realized how close he was to the bigger picture.
Marc: "And now they're ending up in the hands of revolutionaries."
Howard shrugged.
Howard: "That's globalization for you. Weapons travel faster than ideas. Hell, half of these so-called 'independence movements' are just pawns in somebody else's chess game."
Marc tapped his pen against the pad. He knew Howard was right, but the words cut deeper than they should have. Pawns. That was what he had been once—another soldier thrown into unwinnable wars. Now, as Moonveil, he refused to be anyone's pawn again.
---
They worked until the afternoon sun bled weakly through the office blinds. Reports filed, circuits analyzed, weaknesses documented. For Howard, it was just another day cracking puzzles. For Marc, every scrap of information about unstable weapons was one less nightmare for soldiers on the front lines.
When he finally left the Ministry, the London air felt heavier than usual. The city was bustling, indifferent, a thousand stories unfolding in every alley. He walked back to his flat, the fatigue pressing down on him like lead. By the time he collapsed onto his bed, he let himself drift for only three hours before the nightmares woke him again—gunfire, sand, the screams of his unit. He swallowed his medication, sat in the silence, and knew sleep wouldn't return.
So he worked.
Not Ministry work. Not sanctioned reports or foreign weaponry. His work.
The desk in his flat was covered in articles, maps, strings of red thread connecting faces and places. Reports of missing women. Police photos of altars desecrated with blood. News clippings about drug busts where the evidence vanished mysteriously from lockup. A map of London pinned to the wall, marked in ink where Sangre de Luna had surfaced, where overdoses had been reported.
And at the center of it all: William Lex Webb.
A printout of Webb's face stared back at him. Smiling, polished, handsome. The kind of man people trusted instinctively. The kind of man who hid his rot beneath silk suits and boardroom deals.
Marc muttered under his breath, the name like a curse.
Marc: "William Lex Webb. Your company, your missing employees, your handprints all over this city. It's you. I know it."
He searched the web, digging through Ynkeos Technical Solutions' press releases, scanning financial records. Most of it was public relations fluff—contracts with government agencies, partnerships with universities. But buried beneath it, Marc saw patterns. Employees who had gone missing all worked in departments with restricted access—biometrics, data security, cryptographic research. All young. All women.
Coincidence? Marc didn't believe in coincidence anymore.
---
Tecciztecatl stirred, his voice low but certain.
Tecciztecatl: "I feel your conviction, champion. And you may be right. The web this man weaves smells of old corruption. Tomorrow night, when the moon returns, I will cast my gaze. If he serves the priests of the Tzitzimimeh, the truth will not stay hidden."
Marc leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temples. The room was silent except for the faint hum of the city beyond the window. He felt the lines of his double life pulling tighter every day—the soldier, the analyst, the vigilante, the chosen champion. It was exhausting, but it was also the only thing that made sense anymore.
Marc (whispering): "Six months. Six bloody months of this. And I'm still standing. Still breathing."
He let his eyes drift to the crescent amulet that hung beside his bed, glimmering faintly in the dark. A reminder of the ruins in Mexico. A reminder that none of this had been chance.
---
Meanwhile, across the Atlantic, the drug empire grew bolder. In Mexico, Salvatore El Lobo and his chemist Juarez perfected their pills. Sangre de Luna was no longer just powder or unstable liquid—it had become sleek capsules, easy to smuggle, easy to sell. London was a ripe market, untamed, filled with desperate souls who wanted strength, power, escape.
And somewhere in a candlelit basement, William Lex Webb prepared his next altar. His next offering.
---
Back in London, Marc pulled on his hood as the clock struck midnight. The air was cold, the moon veiled behind drifting clouds. He stepped onto the balcony, body humming with power, eyes sharpened by divine sight.
Moonveil was alive again.
He leapt into the night, the city stretching out before him like a battlefield. His desk and files would wait. For now, there were lives to protect, shadows to hunt, and whispers of a name that echoed in his veins.
William Lex Webb.
The hunt was only just beginning.