The night clung to the port like a shroud. Containers stacked in crooked towers cast long shadows that reached across the concrete, broken only by the faint orange glow of sodium lamps. The Thames whispered beyond, black water lapping against pylons, and the faint sound of distant ships echoed like ghosts on the horizon.
Moonveil moved.
Not with the hurried steps of a soldier, nor the sure-footed leaps of a superhero. Tonight, his steps made no sound at all. The veil had reshaped itself, padding his boots, darkening his form. His suit, once sharp with hints of violet and white, now dulled to a shadowy gray, its purple muted into bruised tones. His eyes no longer shone pale-white but glowed faintly violet, two embers burning in the dark.
He crept behind one of the drug dealers unloading crates from a container. The man muttered to himself in Spanish-accented English, grumbling about long nights and low pay. He never heard the whisper behind him.
"Hey you…"
The voice was raspier than before, distorted by the veil. It wasn't Marc's own voice—it was deeper, colder, almost like Tecciztecatl's growl echoing through mortal lungs.
The dealer turned, eyes wide—then darkness consumed him. A gloved fist struck the side of his skull, and he crumpled without a sound.
Moonveil crouched over him, pressing two fingers to the unconscious man's temple. With the faint glow of his power, he burned a crescent moon symbol into the skin. Not a scar, not permanent—just a mark that would fade within hours. Enough for the others to see. Enough for them to know.
When the second dealer rounded the corner and saw his friend sprawled with the crescent mark blazing faintly on his brow, his cigarette fell from his lips.
"Dios mío…" he whispered, fumbling for his pistol.
The port was nearly empty at this hour. The cranes groaned in the distance, but the rest of the men were scattered. Here, in this silence, fear spread faster than fire.
The dealer swung his flashlight in frantic arcs, searching. He swore he heard whispers in the dark.
"Leave the cargo…"
"…your blood isn't worth the moon's gaze…"
Moonveil wasn't there. Not where the light touched. He moved behind, above, around. Always silent, always one step ahead.
The dealer fired blindly into the night. Bullets ricocheted off steel. Each echo only deepened his terror.
Moonveil slipped into one of the containers. Inside, stacked crates of Sangre de Luna pills gleamed faintly in the dim light—small capsules filled with black dust, humming with unholy energy. Alongside them sat rifles, their barrels wrapped in cloth, modified with strange components. Marc didn't need Howard's expertise to recognize the danger.
He found a leaking drum of fuel, the pungent scent clawing at his throat. His hands moved without hesitation, splashing liquid across crates of drugs and weapons. When the dealer finally mustered the courage to approach the container, Moonveil was already gone.
The last thing the man saw was violet eyes in the dark—then a burst of fire.
The container erupted, flames licking the night sky. Crates splintered, pills crackled and burned, weapons melted into slag. The dealer ran screaming, stumbling into the open yard, while Moonveil disappeared into the night, a phantom reborn.
---
Marc walked into the office the next morning, his eyelids heavy, the phantom of smoke still clinging to his memory.
"Morning, Marc."
Howard stood at his desk with two steaming mugs, handing one over with a grin. His shirtsleeves were rolled, and a stack of schematics cluttered his workstation.
Marc forced a smile, taking the cup. "Thanks. Needed that."
Howard settled into his chair, his voice bright with energy. "Still on the Gaidan case, yeah. The aetherium—it's fascinating. Really volatile without the gold alloy. Stable for hours, then suddenly, boom. Like a living thing. And get this—it's 3D printed. The whole suit."
Marc sipped his tea, his mind still replaying the whispers from last night. "That alien… he makes my blood boil. Stands there, acting like humanity's savior. He stopped the war between Enttle and Lovaum, sure, but for what? What's his angle?"
Howard shrugged, eyes flicking back to his screen. "That's the strange part. The Aetherians haven't meddled with human affairs before. Not openly. Earth is just a base for them, a pit stop between their empire's wars. But this? Interfering in politics, technology? It's unprecedented."
Marc leaned back, frowning. "If they're not here to conquer, then what? Observation? Manipulation?"
Howard looked up from his notes, brow furrowed. "Maybe both. Maybe they see us as… a project. Something to nurture or control. Like gardeners tending a patch. You don't conquer your garden. You prune it."
The thought sent a chill down Marc's spine. He thought of William—how easily the CEO manipulated the world with charm, wealth, and lies. If humanity already had men like him, whispering to demons and selling poison, what hope was there if aliens chose to interfere too?
Howard broke the silence with a half-smile. "Anyway, what about you? Still poking at the energy weapons?"
Marc slid a folder across the table, filled with his neat handwriting and sketches. "Yeah. Pretty basic design. Parts are cheap. Chips aren't custom—just recycled ones from a decade ago. That's why the prototypes keep exploding. And the casing—plastic. No way it holds up in the field."
Howard whistled low. "So… China?"
Marc nodded grimly. "Chips are Chinese brands, no doubt. Which means they're mass-producing. Not advanced tech, but cheap enough to arm thousands. Dangerous in a different way."
"No wonder it exploded," Howard muttered, jotting down notes. He leaned back in his chair. "You gotta hand it to them. They've been getting better at military hardware. Still, feels more like a stolen Russian design. Something that never made it past testing."
Marc took another sip of tea, hiding his exhaustion. His mind wasn't here—not fully. It was still on the docks, on the men he'd marked with crescents, on the fire that had swallowed crates of Sangre de Luna.
His body bore the cost of it. His arms ached from the fight, and beneath his sleeves, fresh bruises throbbed where bullets had grazed too close. His healing had slowed. Not because Tecciztecatl failed him—but because of his hesitation. Because Marc still feared how far he might fall if he let go completely.
Howard didn't notice. Or maybe he did and chose not to ask.
---
By noon, Marc slipped away, telling his coworker he needed air. He stood outside the building, watching traffic stream by. London was alive—children heading to school, commuters hurrying with coffee, life moving forward.
And beneath it, in shadows only he walked, the wolves spread their poison.
Marc clenched his fists. He remembered the dealer's terror, the whispers he had made real. That was the beginning. That was the seed of something larger.
"Not a soldier anymore," he muttered. "Not just Marc Stevenson. I'll make them fear the dark."
The violet glow flickered faintly in his eyes.