The port smelled of salt, diesel, and old blood. The Thames lapped against concrete pillars, carrying whispers of secrets across the water. High above, a pale moon stretched silver across the containers, catching the faint edges of steel and rust.
Moonveil crouched on a ledge, watching, listening, calculating. For months he had moved like a soldier—fast, agile, brutal. But tonight, he forced himself to slow down. No rushing. No crashing through shadows like a blunt blade.
His boots softened as if the veil itself understood. The soles padded silently, each step muffled against metal. He stood on the ledge above a stack of containers, his instinct screaming to leap down and shatter the night with violence. But the criminals already expected that. They knew his methods. They mocked him for it.
So instead, he climbed. Deliberate. Slow. His gloved hands gripping steel, body blending into the containers as the veil wrapped him like shadow itself.
His pace, once frantic and feral, now became measured. A hunter, not a soldier.
Marc inhaled, focusing on Tecciztecatl's gift. His hearing stretched outward, widening, amplifying. The hum of ship engines vibrated in his bones. The low chatter of guards reached his ears as if they stood beside him. Even the faint creak of a crane in the distance pressed into his skull.
And then the voices—the news, drifting from a radio in a guard's pocket.
"…Moonveil, vigilante or phony? After six months of sporadic appearances, sources claim the hooded figure may be more myth than menace. Police reports suggest his interference has been… ineffective."
Marc froze. The words stabbed deeper than any blade. Ineffective. The same city he bled for, the same streets he patrolled while bruised and sleepless, now doubted him.
They don't know what it costs, he thought bitterly. They don't know what it takes to stand in the dark every night.
Still, he let the anger sharpen him. Doubt was fuel. If they thought he was weak, then he would become something else. Something they couldn't laugh at.
He tuned back into the port, ears catching the murmurs of smugglers.
"…shipment split tonight… Camden first, then spread out. Guns and the black pills—don't touch them bare, you hear me?"
"…William's man will collect the first batch. Direct to the labs. London's going to drown in this stuff."
Marc's jaw tightened. Sangre de Luna—London's poison, born in the jungles of Mexico, carried across oceans. And William's fingerprints were all over it.
---
The scene shifted thousands of miles away, in the glow of another city entirely.
William Lex Webb sat in a high-rise office across the sea, glass walls framing neon skyscrapers. His bulk sank into a leather chair, cigar smoke curling above his head. Before him stretched blueprints and prototypes: lenses smaller than coins, processors no larger than a fingernail, and a sleek black camera with the faint logo of Y'Nkeos Technical Solutions engraved at its base.
It wasn't just a camera. It was an evolution.
Crystal-clear 8K resolution. Light sensors that pierced through night. Microphones tuned to detect whispers across crowded streets. AI modules that tracked movement patterns with eerie precision. And storage—no more grainy tapes or corrupted hard drives. His new system streamed everything into quantum-secured vaults, impenetrable and permanent.
William's lips curled. "No more hiding in shadows, my little phantom. Not when every corner, every rooftop, every alley belongs to my eyes."
But he wasn't ready to launch yet. Not in London. No—the world's stage awaited. The Shanghai Technical Covenant, an international symposium where titans of industry unveiled their innovations. William would step onto that stage with his cameras and show the world his brilliance. Behind the curtain, however, those same cameras would be his weapon, his leash around Moonveil's throat.
Across the room, his aides whispered about costs, investors, rollout schedules. William ignored them. His focus was on the idol at the corner of his office, veiled in silk. Its shadow stretched unnaturally long, as though eager to hear.
"Oh lord Tzitzimimeh," William murmured, fingers brushing the pendant at his chest. "The city mocks him. The vigilante bleeds, and the people doubt. Soon, with these eyes, I will strip him bare. No shadows will save him. He will be mine to break."
The room cooled, a whispering chill crawling across the glass walls. William shivered, but his grin widened.
---
Back in London, Marc pressed himself against the side of a container, listening to the smugglers shuffle crates of Sangre de Luna. His breath came steady, deliberate. For once, he didn't leap. He didn't crash into them with fists blazing.
Instead, he let the veil darken around him, blending into steel and shadow until he was nothing but absence. The criminals moved past, unaware, their voices clear in his ears.
"…boss says we move fast. Shelf life's short. The pills rot after a year. Just like Juárez warned."
"…still worth it. People pay anything for power. Even if it kills 'em."
Marc's hands curled into fists. He thought of the teenagers Alexia had spoken about, the ones teetering on the edge of bad choices. He imagined them swallowing these pills, burning with borrowed strength, dying in alleys.
I can't fail this city, he thought. Not like this. Not while Webb and those wolves fatten themselves in Mexico.
He shifted slowly, deliberately, sliding further into the port. His movement was different now—not the rush of a soldier, but the stalk of something less human. He was learning. He was changing.
Above him, the moon broke through clouds, silver bleeding across the water.
Marc whispered to himself, voice low, steady. "Not a phony. Not weak. Tonight, I become something else."
And for the first time, the criminals looked over their shoulders—not because of noise, but because of a sudden, irrational chill.
They didn't know why.
But they felt it.