Marc sat slouched on the couch, the faint glow of his television painting the room in pale flickers. He had just asked the question that lingered in him for weeks, maybe months.
"Can I change the suit?" he had said.
Tecciztecatl's voice rolled through his skull like distant thunder. "I guess you can. The cloth is not the power, Champion. It is a vessel. Just think of how you want it to look. Your image is your weapon."
Marc rubbed his face, exhaling. "So it's on me, huh? No divine wardrobe change? No magic tailoring service?"
A dry chuckle reverberated inside him. "Gods provide power, not style."
That left Marc alone with his thoughts, which, he admitted, weren't always kind. He shifted his attention to the movie on-screen—some low-budget horror flick about a faceless phantom hunting its prey in alleyways. The way it moved—jittering in shadows, appearing where no one expected—caught Marc's eye. Not brute strength. Not firepower. But atmosphere. Fear.
That's it, he thought, leaning forward. I've been fighting like a soldier, not a ghost. Soldiers can be shot. Ghosts can't.
---
Halfway across the world, the El Lobo family stretched their empire.
In Yucatán, Salvatore El Lobo sat in his hacienda, gazing at the coastline as the sun dipped red. "The shipment should have reached London by now," he muttered to himself, swirling a glass of mezcal. His voice was steady, but his hands trembled with age and ambition. "If the British dogs intercept it, all of this will have been for nothing."
His brother Diego wasn't worried. In the family's hidden laboratory, he oversaw the slow churning vats of black liquid—gifts from the demon, volatile and shimmering with unnatural energy. "We are making more Sangre de Luna," Diego said confidently, his gloves sticky with residue. "The product will outlast any setback. London is only the beginning."
Beside him, Juarez scribbled notes on stability. "We must refine it, hermano. The shelf life remains one year. After that, it crystallizes and loses potency. Right now, it is just a pill with no power. We need better chemistry. If the Europeans discover this flaw, our empire collapses."
In another corner of the peninsula, Rafael El Lobo shook hands with men from a rival cartel. His grin was sharp as knives. "We could fight forever," he said smoothly, "or we could both grow rich. Cooperation is the smarter choice. Let the warlords bleed each other; we will build an empire that lasts."
The wolves spread their fangs in every direction—science, politics, business, and violence. The Sangre de Luna flowed like a black tide, crossing oceans.
---
And in London, the tide arrived.
The docks reeked of salt, rust, and secrets. Containers were stacked high, silent shadows stretching under the cold glow of floodlights. The ship from Mexico had been unloaded hours ago, crates marked with fake medical company logos now sitting in trucks waiting for distribution.
But among the bustle, a darker presence moved.
Moonveil stood on a rooftop overlooking the port, his cloak pulled around him. He felt the itch beneath his skin—Tecciztecatl's power humming low, whispering riddles he hated.
"Oi," Marc muttered under his breath. "I'm here now. You said I'd understand. Where's the revelation?"
The god's voice slithered through him one last time. "Use the powers. See through them. The humans hide in plain sight." Then silence.
Marc scanned the port, heart sinking. Nothing. Just men moving boxes, forklifts humming, a few guards smoking at the gate. He tried focusing, channeling the vision Tecciztecatl had lent him before—sight beyond human limits, sense that pierced darkness. But alone, without the god's direct guidance, the world looked the same.
"Bloody hell," Marc muttered, crouching low. "I really am bad without his help."
Frustration knotted his chest. He wanted to smash something, but that wasn't the answer. Instead, he closed his eyes and replayed the movie he had watched hours earlier—the phantom moving in silence, unseen, inevitable. Not charging in like a soldier. Not leaving tracks. Make them feel you before they see you.
Marc took a breath, slipped down the rooftop, and melted into the shadows of the dock.
---
As he crept closer, fragments of conversation reached him.
"The sangre, it goes to Camden first," one of the smugglers whispered in accented English. "From there, smaller shipments across the city. They'll never trace it."
Another laughed, tapping the side of a crate. "And these? Real guns, not like the cheap toys from China. Straight from Mexico, reinforced with the black liquid. Stronger than steel, lighter than plastic."
Marc's pulse quickened. This is it. Sangre de Luna. Weapons. Proof of something bigger.
But he also realized how hopelessly outnumbered he was. Dozens of men, all armed. A direct fight would end with him in the Thames.
He drew back into the shadows, gripping the edge of his hood. I can't just fight them. I have to haunt them. Scare them. One at a time.
Moonveil moved silently along the containers, pulling pipes loose, letting chains rattle, creating echoes. A forklift driver paused, glancing around nervously. "Oi, did you hear that?"
Another smuggler frowned. "What?"
"That sound… like someone's watching."
Moonveil slipped above them, dropping a length of metal that clattered across the ground. They spun, weapons raised—but the shadows were empty. By the time they turned back, one of their own was missing, dragged silently into the dark.
"Where the hell's Jorge?"
Their voices trembled. Fear crept in.
Marc's heart pounded, but for the first time it wasn't from panic. It was from control. This is how it works. Not war. Not brute force. Fear.
Still, the god's silence loomed in his mind. Without Tecciztecatl's riddles, Marc had to rely on instinct. He doubted himself constantly. Am I doing this right? Will they really fear me, or laugh when they realize it's just one man?
He looked down at his hands, gloved but trembling. The wounds on his arms still burned from days before. Without him, I'm weak. Without him, I'm nothing.
But the echo of Alexia's words returned to him: Someone has to steer them. Someone has to keep them from falling into the wrong crowd.
Maybe fear wasn't just for criminals. Maybe it was for the kids watching the news, deciding whether to carry knives, sell drugs, or chase fast money. If Moonveil became nightmare, maybe some would choose differently.
Marc clenched his jaw, steeling himself.
On the docks, another man vanished into the shadows. Screams rang out. Fear spread like wildfire.
And in Mexico, Salvatore raised his glass again, unaware that in London, the phantom of the crescent moon had already begun to unravel his empire.