The next few days bled into one another. Patrol after patrol, Marc fought the same way he had been trained years ago—like a soldier on the front line. He struck hard, moved fast, and pushed until exhaustion blurred his vision. But criminals didn't fear him. They adapted. They watched, they mocked, and every blow he landed seemed to prove their point: Moonveil was human. A soldier. Predictable.
He knew it. Tecciztecatl knew it. The city knew it.
One night he returned home with bruises, his ribs aching. The following morning, he stood under the hot spray of his shower, watching rivulets of water trace over cuts that should have closed in minutes. They lingered instead. Tecciztecatl's power worked, but it faltered—blunted by Marc's hesitation, his refusal to fully embrace the role the god demanded.
Howard must see it too, Marc thought bitterly, leaning a hand against the tiled wall. He must be doubting me. Maybe I'm not who they need.
Steam curled around him, but clarity never came.
Later, wrapped in a towel and soft exhaustion, Marc brewed tea in his tiny kitchen. The kettle's hiss filled the silence, his mind circling endlessly. He cracked open a book—something he hadn't touched in weeks—and tried to let his body unwind. Yet every word blurred into the same question. What should I do?
Tecciztecatl's voice rumbled at last, low and steady, not intrusive but undeniable. "Seek outside, Champion. Inspiration rarely blooms in confinement."
Marc sighed, finishing the last of his tea. "Grocery shopping, then. Fine. I'll… look around. See what the world shows me."
---
The air outside was sharp with early autumn chill. Marc pulled his hood up, blending into the Saturday crowd. He grabbed a basket, drifting between aisles, but his mind was still far away, sketching impossible images of what he should be: darker? Louder? Something less human?
Then, voices by the frozen section snapped his thoughts.
"Oi, he always comes from a high-rise building," a man sneered. "We'll just start dealing on roofs. Easy."
A second laughed. "Yeah, mate. Moonveil thinks he's clever, but he's predictable. Pretends to scare us, but we know he bleeds. You just gotta wait him out."
Marc froze mid-step. The words dug into him, sharper than blades. They weren't whispering in fear—they were trading jokes. They saw him as an obstacle, not a terror.
His jaw clenched. He wanted to break their smug faces against the linoleum. But there were children in the aisle, families, pensioners checking price tags. Marc swallowed his anger, pretending to inspect canned soup. I can't do anything. Not here. Not now.
The criminals wandered off, laughing. Marc exhaled slowly, forcing calm. His heart hammered too loud to notice the woman at the end of the aisle until she spoke.
"Marc Stevenson? Is that you?"
He turned, blinking. A tall figure stood there, dark hair pulled back, glasses perched low on her nose. She wore a simple wool coat, but her presence radiated confidence.
"Lexi?" Marc's lips broke into a startled grin. "Oh my god—you're so much taller. Give me a hug."
They embraced, awkward at first, then warmly. For a moment, Marc forgot the bruises beneath his shirt.
Alexia stepped back, studying him. "It's been… what, twelve years? You look the same, just… tired."
Marc laughed sheepishly. "Yeah, well, life's been… busy."
"You don't say." Her smile tilted, curious. "I caught your name on the news once or twice—Stevenson Industries, wasn't it? Thought you'd become one of those corporate types. Fancy cars, boardrooms, the works."
"Not me," Marc said quickly. "That's… not the life I wanted."
She folded her arms. "So what is the life you wanted? You've got that look, Marc. The one you had in school—when you were planning something reckless but wouldn't tell anyone."
His stomach knotted. Careful, he told himself. "Let's just say I'm trying to… make a difference. Keep people safe."
Alexia's expression softened, something like recognition flickering in her eyes. "That sounds like you. You were always the one breaking up fights in the hall. Remember that time you got detention for defending that kid from the seniors?"
He chuckled, a small warmth rising through his weariness. "Yeah. You, me, and a busted vending machine."
Her laugh rang out—clear, genuine. "God, that machine owed us a soda. I swear, you haven't changed."
Marc tilted his head. "And you? What are you doing now?"
"Teaching," Alexia said with a little shrug. "Secondary school. English, sometimes history. Teenagers are a nightmare, but… someone has to steer them. Try to keep them from falling into the wrong crowd."
Marc stilled, her words sinking deeper than she realized. Someone has to steer them. That was exactly what he didn't know how to do. How to keep kids off the path that ended with them in alleys, trading bags under flickering lights.
"You… you like it?" he asked quietly.
"I do," she said firmly. "It's exhausting. Half the time they ignore me. But then one kid listens—just one. And you know you've shifted their path. That's enough."
Marc studied her face. She spoke with the conviction he lacked. Not divine power, not violent training—just belief. Belief that even one life mattered.
"Lexi…" he began, then faltered. He wanted to tell her everything—about Moonveil, about Tecciztecatl, about the scars beneath his hoodie. But he couldn't. Not yet.
So he smiled instead, though it felt fragile. "I'm glad you're still… you. Still fighting the good fight."
Her brow furrowed slightly. "And you, Marc? Are you fighting the good fight?"
The question landed heavy, as if Tecciztecatl himself had asked it. Marc forced a grin, deflecting. "I'm trying. One day at a time."
She let it go, though her eyes lingered on him with quiet suspicion. "Well. If you ever need a reminder of who you are, you know where to find me." She scribbled her number on a receipt and pressed it into his palm. "Don't vanish for another decade."
He tucked the paper into his pocket, nodding. "I won't. Promise."
As Alexia walked away, Marc stood rooted, the hum of the store fading. He felt the gods stir within him again, Tecciztecatl's voice like moonlight slipping between clouds.
"Did you hear her, Champion? To steer them. You must be more than punishment. You must become lesson, warning, symbol. Fear is a teacher."
Marc closed his eyes, gripping the receipt. Maybe the path wasn't just blood and shadows. Maybe, like Alexia, he needed to learn how to teach—even through terror.
For the first time in days, a spark of direction lit within him.