The night still clung to Marc when he awoke. Smoke lingered in his memory—the fire at the port, the crates of Sangre de Luna curling into ash, the drug dealers sprawled unconscious with crescent moons seared faintly on their brows. His new suit hung on the chair across from his bed, colors muted, edges darker, eyes glowing faint violet even in the half-light of dawn. It looked less like armor and more like a haunting.
His phone buzzed. Alexia.
He hesitated before answering, combing a hand through his hair. "Hello?"
Her voice was warm, familiar, carrying a teasing lilt. "Hi Marc. I thought you'd never call."
Marc winced, guilt prickling. "Sorry. Been busy with work."
"Of course," she said with a laugh. "Mr. CEO."
Marc shook his head, though she couldn't see it. "I'm not the CEO, Lexi. I work for the Department of Weapons Analysis. Paperwork, tests, long hours. No corner office."
"Oh," she said, her tone softening. "I… didn't know that. I just assumed—"
"It's okay," Marc cut in gently. Silence stretched, too fragile for comfort. "Alright. I've got to get ready for work. Talk later?"
"Bye, Marc." Her voice was faint, uncertain, before the line clicked off.
Marc stared at the phone for a long moment, then glanced at the suit again. The mask that was becoming his truer face.
---
At the office, the fluorescent lights felt harsher than usual. Howard was already at his desk, rolling up his sleeves and balancing two steaming mugs. He handed one over with his usual grin.
"Morning, mate. Here—stronger brew today. You look like you need it."
Marc accepted the cup, grateful. "Thanks."
Howard leaned back, eyes bright. "You hear about the vets? Couple of them survived direct hits from the new energy rifles. Lucky bastards. Burns bad, but it doesn't cook through like plasma would. I'm telling you, these guns are dangerous but sloppy. Designed for numbers, not precision."
Marc nodded absently, his mind elsewhere. "Yeah. Sloppy can still kill."
Howard tapped his notes. "Speaking of, I've got a presentation in twenty. Wish me luck."
Marc forced a small smile. "Good luck, Howard. Knock 'em dead."
When his coworker left, Marc lingered at his own station, fingers drumming against the desk. The Sangre de Luna sample in his bag weighed heavier than lead. Black powder in a vial, humming faintly with energy that wasn't chemical, wasn't natural. He couldn't tell if it wanted to burn or breathe.
---
Later, in the break room, Marc poured another cup of tea and let the television fill the silence. The news anchor's voice was clipped, professional, but the words were knives.
"A fire broke out at the East London port late last night. Witnesses report seeing the vigilante known as Moonveil moments before the blaze began. Several workers claim the mysterious figure left his symbol etched into metal surfaces, and even on the foreheads of unconscious men. Authorities are investigating whether this act constitutes terrorism or vigilantism gone too far."
The footage shifted—grainy cell phone clips of violet eyes glowing in the dark, of fire blooming behind stacked containers.
The anchor continued: "Is Moonveil truly a protector, or a phony arsonist pushing London deeper into chaos?"
Marc's stomach clenched. The word again. Phony.
He sipped his tea, trying to still the tremor in his hands. The public didn't see the crates full of poison. They didn't see the weapons designed to flood their streets. They saw fire and fear. And in fear, they doubted.
---
In Mexico, Salvatore El Lobo watched the same report on a wide screen, a grin spreading across his weathered face.
"London burns," he murmured, swirling a glass of mezcal. "And the phantom shows his hand."
Diego snorted from the lab doorway. "He thinks fear is a weapon. Fear doesn't sell. Pills sell. Guns sell. Fear just makes people buy more."
Juarez scribbled notes in his ledger, muttering, "Sangre de Luna isn't stable, Salvatore. One year shelf life. If he keeps burning our shipments, we'll lose millions."
Salvatore's smile didn't falter. "Then we send more. Fear spreads his legend, but greed will drown it."
---
Marc stayed at the break room window, eyes fixed on the skyline. He thought of Alexia's voice, soft and uncertain. He thought of Howard's ambition, of soldiers burned but alive. He thought of the men he marked with crescents, waking in terror with a phantom's whisper lodged in their skulls.
Tecciztecatl's voice stirred faintly in him, distant but resonant. Symbols are seeds, Champion. They grow in the soil of fear.
Marc whispered back, his voice low. "And what if the city hates me for it?"
Then they will still remember you. Even hate is power.
Marc closed his eyes. Somewhere deep inside, he still wanted to be seen as savior, not monster. But the crescent moon on his mask burned brighter in his mind's eye, a reminder that saviors and monsters were sometimes the same.