The night air was damp, heavy with the scent of oil and brick dust, as Marc leapt across the rooftops of Hackney. Six months had passed since he first wore the white hood beneath the crescent moon. Six months of breaking bones, hunting shadows, and leaving his symbol where the police dared not tread. Six months since Tecciztecatl had torn him out of death's grasp and into a war between mortals and gods.
And somewhere in that blur of violence and revelation, Marc Stevenson realized he had grown fond of it. The hood. The veil. The mission. Being Moonveil was no longer just survival — it was purpose.
He crouched on the lip of a warehouse roof, eyes narrowing at the trucks parked in a neat row below. The sign outside was unmarked, anonymous like a thousand others in East London. But Tecciztecatl's whispers and his own digging had led him here. Money laundering. Offshore accounts. And behind it all: William Lex Webb.
Marc smirked beneath the hood.
Moonveil: "Hehe… something finally. A nest."
Through the skylight he could see pallets stacked with cash, black crates stamped with false shipping codes, and men counting notes under buzzing strip lights. It was enough money to buy silence, blood, and power in every corner of the city. Enough to choke London's veins with Sangre de Luna.
For a heartbeat, temptation flickered. He could take it. Use it. Fund his own crusade, build something larger. Justice was easier when you had a war chest.
But Tecciztecatl's voice slithered into his ear, ancient and steady.
Tecciztecatl: "No room for greed, champion. You are justice, not corruption. You are not William. To claim this money is to become him."
Moonveil clenched his fists. "Then I'll burn it."
There was a pause, and then the god's voice softened, almost approving.
Tecciztecatl: "If you burn it, it is not wasted. It is denied to the darkness. I will help you."
Marc dropped through the skylight, landing between the startled men. The first one barely had time to lift his gun before Marc's fist snapped his jaw sideways. A second lunged, but Moonveil grabbed his wrist, twisted until bones cracked, and hurled him across a stack of boxes.
He tore the lids off barrels of fuel, doused the crates, and lit a flare. Flames roared upward, feeding hungrily on William's empire. The men scrambled for the exits as Moonveil stood amidst the inferno, a shadow with a crescent on his chest.
From a hidden camera, William Lex Webb watched it all.
In his office, the CEO paced, his silk robe damp with sweat. His heavy frame strained with each movement, breath rasping like a broken bellows. But his eyes were wide, not from fear — from revelation.
William: "He's real. Not a rumour, not a mask in the dark. The crescent is flesh. The hood walks."
He slammed his palm on the desk, rattling crystal glasses.
William: "Oh, lord Tzitzimimeh… help me. Help me find a way to fight this goon before he tears down all we've built."
For the first time, the shadows in his study shifted. Not as tricks of light, but as presence.
The air cooled. Candles guttered. The idol in the corner — a grotesque carving smuggled from Mexico, hidden from polite society — seemed to breathe. The stone eyes glowed faintly red, and a voice deeper than earth itself filled the room.
"You cry for protection, devotee. But do you know who hunts you?"
William fell to his knees, head bowed, sweat dripping onto the carpet.
William: "Yes, my lord. The one they call Moonveil. The herald of justice. He burns my warehouses, poisons my name. He must be yours. He must be an enemy sent by Tecciztecatl."
The shadows curled tighter, forming the faint outline of a monstrous form — skeletal arms, clawed hands, teeth too many for a mouth. A Tzitzimimeh, in its truest shape.
"You speak his name, yet do not know the truth. Tecciztecatl… the pale coward. The moon that once refused to sacrifice himself. A traitor god."
William blinked, his breath catching. "A… coward?"
"Yes. When the fifth sun was born, the gods were asked to leap into the fire and bring light to the world. Tecciztecatl faltered. He trembled. He waited for another to burn first. A god of hesitation, not of courage. And yet, he claims a champion? A soldier?"
The demon's laughter was like the grinding of millstones.
"He is weak. His power is borrowed. Yours, however, comes from blood. From sacrifice. From devotion."
William's lips stretched into a greedy smile.
William: "Then it is true… I am favoured. My offerings are not in vain."
The demon leaned closer, its shadow stretching over him.
"Continue the sacrifices. Feed me. And I will give you the means to kill this Moonveil. Not with bullets, not with fire. With despair."
William's heart pounded. The thought of Marc — though he did not yet know the man beneath the hood — falling, broken, was intoxicating. "Tell me how, my lord. Tell me, and I shall obey."
The Tzitzimimeh's claws scraped across the stone idol, leaving marks that bled darkness.
"The veil he wears is bound to the coward god. Tear the man from the veil, and he is nothing but flesh. Break him before the full moon, when Tecciztecatl's light wanes, and he will not heal. He will not rise."
William bowed lower, lips brushing the cold floor.
William: "Then I shall prepare. Another sacrifice. Another opening. And when he comes to stop me, I will strip him bare. And I will place his heart upon your altar."
The idol pulsed, and the room stank of blood.
Back at the burning warehouse, Moonveil climbed into the night, the fire painting his silhouette red against the London skyline. He did not know that his enemy had seen him. He did not know that William now carried a weapon more dangerous than money or bullets — knowledge.
Tecciztecatl's voice stirred within him again, but weaker, as if distance dulled it.
"Champion… the darkness is stirring. William is not alone in his hunger. He listens to voices that should not be heard."
Moonveil tightened his fists, his breath steady in the smoke.
Moonveil: "Then I'll drag him out. Brick by brick. Warehouse by warehouse. And when I find him, I'll end whatever ritual he's started."
But in the shadows of London, and deeper still in the blood-soaked caves of Mexico, the dark lord of the Tzitzimimeh laughed.
The war was no longer in whispers. It had begun.