A week later, Marc sat in his flat, the glow of the television spilling across the room. The news anchor's tone carried a rehearsed awe as William Lex Webb stepped onto the stage at the Shanghai Technical Covenant.
William looked every bit the visionary—broad-shouldered in a tailored suit, his smile disarming, his voice smooth as honey. Behind him towered a massive screen displaying crystalline footage of city streets, sharper than the human eye could see.
"Ladies and gentlemen," William began, spreading his arms, "this is not just a camera. This is the future of safety. 8K clarity, even in the darkest alleys. Real-time audio enhancement. A system that not only records but protects. With my technology, grainy footage is a thing of the past. Every crime, every detail, captured perfectly."
Applause thundered through the hall. He leaned into the microphone, lowering his voice for effect. "The cost? A fraction of what law enforcement already spends on outdated systems. And in return? A city where shadows can no longer hide evil."
The demonstration followed—side-by-side feeds of traditional CCTV next to his own product. The difference was staggering: one grainy blur, the other a crisp portrait, every wrinkle, every thread visible.
Marc watched with a sinking gut. He knew exactly what William was doing. This wasn't about safety. This was about stripping away the shadows. The same shadows Moonveil needed.
---
Three nights later, London's headlines no longer spoke of new cameras. They spoke of Moonveil.
The phantom's new style—the whispers in the dark, the violet glow of his eyes, the crescents burned into men's skin—was spreading unease. What Marc saw as evolution, the public saw as escalation.
Moonveil: Protector or Predator? one headline asked. Another splashed grainy cell-phone footage of him crouched over an unconscious thug: The Devil in the Docks.
Marc perched on the edge of his rooftop, papers crumpling in his fist as he read. His cloak billowed faintly in the cold wind.
"Six months ago they begged for me," he muttered. "Now they call me a phony. A monster."
Tecciztecatl's voice answered, deep and unwavering. This was always the way of mortals, Champion. They cheer until they fear. And when they fear, they lash out. Do not confuse their noise with truth. Your enemies know you are a threat—that is why they turn the city against you.
Marc's jaw tightened. "William. He's got the cameras, the money, the press. He looks like a savior. I look like a shadow creeping in the night."
That is what you must be, Tecciztecatl whispered. The shadow that stalks those who think themselves untouchable. He builds eyes to watch the city. But even eyes can be blinded. Even cameras cannot see what the moon does not allow.
Marc let the words settle. He thought of the altar, slick with blood. Of the hollow body, heart gone, sacrificed to bring demons through. William's empire wasn't just built on wealth—it was soaked in blood, and blessed by darkness.
And yet, the city adored him.
Marc rose slowly, his violet gaze fixed on the skyline where William's company logo now shone across billboards. "Fine. Let them think I'm a monster," he whispered. "Better a monster who fights for them than a savior who sells their souls."