The restaurant hadn't changed in years.
The old brick walls still bore the same fading paint, the same creaky fan still hummed above the corner table where two teenagers once sat, sharing cheap fries and plans for the future.
Now, years later, Marc and Alexia sat in that same booth, laughter threading through the candlelight. The warmth between them felt almost unreal—something stolen from another life.
The waiter brought their meals, and for a time they forgot the world outside. They spoke about their school days, the dreams that hadn't survived adulthood, and the people they'd both become in the spaces between.
But peace never lasted long in Marc's life.
Halfway through dinner, the television above the bar flickered from a football match to a breaking news banner. The anchor's voice filled the room—sharp, condemning.
> "Reports continue to question the actions of the masked vigilante known as Moonveil. Once hailed as a savior, critics now claim he's an unstable menace whose presence invites more violence than he prevents. The police have yet to make an official statement."
The video cut to shaky footage of last night's raid—a shadow moving through firelight, eyes glowing like cold stars.
Alexia's brow furrowed. "Honestly, I don't blame them," she said. "He terrifies people. It's like he enjoys it. Heroes don't hide behind masks and symbols."
Marc's fork paused halfway to his mouth. The world seemed to tighten around him.
She went on, unaware of the war behind his silence. "He may mean well, but he's crossing lines no one should. Justice isn't his job."
Marc forced a small smile and set his fork down. "Maybe people like that… don't have a choice."
Alexia looked at him, puzzled. "Everyone has a choice, Marc. Otherwise what's the point of being human?"
He didn't reply. The words burned somewhere behind his ribs.
The conversation moved on, but the distance stayed. When he walked her home, her laughter sounded softer, hesitant, as though she sensed something she couldn't name. She kissed him goodnight, and he smiled as if nothing had changed. But when the door closed, his expression hardened.
---
That night, the rain came heavy.
Marc stood before the mirror in his apartment, the hood resting in his hands. Tecciztecatl's voice drifted like a tide in his head.
Your heart is clouded, Champion.
Marc looked up, meeting his own reflection. "She was right," he murmured. "Moonveil scares people. Maybe I've become what they fear."
Fear is a tool, the god whispered. But wielded with pain, it consumes its bearer. You must choose what you are—justice or vengeance.
Marc's jaw clenched. "Can I even be both?"
The god's voice rumbled low, sorrowful. Once, I believed I could.
Something inside Marc shifted then—rage, sorrow, love, all twisting together until the air itself seemed to ripple. His reflection blurred, the white and violet of his suit bleeding into something darker, deeper.
When the transformation settled, he stood cloaked in a black so pure it seemed to drink the light. The crescent symbol on his chest burned faint silver, his eyes glowing like distant moons.
The Moonveil that looked back from the mirror wasn't the same man who had walked Alexia home. He was silence made flesh.
When he moved, even the floorboards didn't creak. His body obeyed with eerie precision, emotion stripped away, leaving only purpose.
Tecciztecatl's whisper brushed his mind again. Tonight, you walk as my shadow. But beware—each step into darkness leaves less of you to return.
Marc said nothing. The hood fell over his face, and the world of Marc Stevenson vanished.
---
He prowled the streets until dawn, the city unaware of the phantom gliding through its veins.
Criminals whispered of him now with reverence and terror. No flash of cape, no roar of battle—only the soft thud of footsteps, then nothing but silence.
He worked like an exorcist cleansing a curse.
But every act of justice felt heavier, lonelier.
Every whisper of Alexia's laughter stung like guilt.
Still, something was missing. A pattern he couldn't see.
The Sangre de Luna—William's demonic drug, the crimson powder that once fueled chaos—had disappeared. No new shipments, no new addicts, no deaths.
For weeks it had been everywhere, and now it was simply gone.
Marc stood on a rooftop, staring over the city lights. "It's too quiet," he muttered.
The river of blood has been dammed, Tecciztecatl replied. But not by mercy.
"Then what stopped it?"
Not what. Who.
---
Far across the ocean, beneath a starless Mexican sky, the El Lobo estate stood like a mausoleum.
The jungle had grown wild around it—branches heavy with rain, air thick with rot and old incense. Inside, the smell of smoke and iron lingered where the Sangre labs once buzzed with life.
Juarez paced before the stone idol in the central hall, his hands trembling. "Salvatore, hermano, the shipments stopped. The buyers are restless. If we don't deliver—"
"Silence," Salvatore growled. His face glistened with sweat, the veins at his temples pulsing. Behind him, Rafael stood motionless, staring into the idol's carved eyes.
Juarez swallowed. "You don't look well."
Salvatore turned slowly. His eyes gleamed a faint, unnatural red. "We're beyond well, Juarez. We've been chosen."
"Chosen?"
A low hum filled the air, growing louder until it became a vibration in their bones. The idol's surface rippled like water, shadows spilling out, crawling across the floor like smoke.
Rafael dropped to his knees, clutching his head. "It—it's inside—"
The shadows struck.
They poured into their mouths, their eyes, seeping through their skin like black oil. Juarez screamed, stumbling backward, but his body convulsed as the darkness claimed him too.
The air grew still. The candles guttered out.
When the three men rose again, their movements were slow, alien. Their eyes glowed faint gold—not the warmth of life, but the gleam of possession.
A voice, not theirs, spoke through their mouths in unison.
At last, vessels worthy of the night.
The idol cracked, ancient stone flaking away to reveal a core of living darkness pulsing with power.
The serpent stirs in London. The moon's child defies me. Now, we answer.
The possessed men bowed as one.
You are my heralds, the voice said. Go. Spread the eclipse.
Outside, the jungle fell silent as the clouds swallowed the moon.
---
Back in London, Marc felt the shift before the night ended.
A cold wind swept through the city though no window was open, and Tecciztecatl's voice trembled with unease.
They awaken again, Champion. The blood returns not in bottles but in bodies.
Marc looked toward the horizon, his crescent emblem flickering faintly beneath the rain. "Then I'll stop them before they reach here."
You cannot stop what is already inside, the god murmured. But you can delay it. And delay is what keeps humanity breathing.
The rain thickened. Moonveil stood alone beneath it, black as the void, silent as regret.
He thought of Alexia's words—heroes don't hide behind masks—and wondered how she'd look at him now.
He wanted to tell her.
To explain everything.
But truth had weight, and tonight, even the moon couldn't bear it.
So he stayed silent.
And in the distance, across oceans and faiths, the dark god smiled.