The city breathed uneasily beneath him.
Moonveil crouched on the edge of a high-rise, cloak draped like shadow over his shoulders. From here he could see London sprawling under the haze, its arteries of traffic pulsing, its rooftops gleaming faint under the moon. The night air was damp, clinging to him like memory.
He tuned his hearing outward—Tecciztecatl's gift sharpening his senses until the city's whispers became his own thoughts. Radios crackled with chatter. Newspapers rustled as late-shift workers flipped headlines. And in one corner of the night, a reporter's voice carried from an open window:
"…critics argue that the vigilante known as Moonveil is more phony than phantom. His style has shifted, his methods unsettled. Meanwhile, London police remain silent on a far more disturbing pattern—at least six ritualistic killings across the city. Each victim's heart missing, each body posed on crude altars. Yet investigators treat these cases as unrelated…"
Marc's chest tightened. His violet eyes flickered behind the hood.
"I can't believe it," he muttered to himself, voice raspy. "People aren't even looking for a serial killer at this point. William is a serial killer. And no one sees it. Or maybe…" He narrowed his gaze. "Maybe the cops don't want to see. Maybe they think the killings are different. Neat little boxes. None related."
Below him, London churned with its thousand distractions—commerce, nightlife, petty crime. Above him, the moon cast its quiet judgment. Tecciztecatl remained silent, letting Marc drown in the irony. The city mistrusted its guardian and adored its butcher.
Marc stood, cloak whispering, and leapt into the night. He had work tomorrow.
---
By morning, Marc Stevenson had shed the phantom. He walked into the Ministry office with tired eyes and a forced smile, the crisp shirt and tie erasing any trace of Moonveil. The scent of tea met him before Howard did.
"Morning, mate," Howard said brightly, pushing a mug across the desk. "Stronger brew today. Looks like you need it."
Marc accepted it, nodding. "You've got no idea."
They sat side by side, monitors humming, the clutter of weapons schematics spread across their desks. Howard had the kind of energy Marc envied—youthful, ambitious, eyes always alight with puzzles to solve. He was knee-deep in his obsession again, muttering about Aetherium, Gaidan, the alien wars that had left fragments scattered across Earth.
Marc listened, but his guard slipped. When Howard mentioned the soldiers who'd survived energy rifle blasts, Marc's reply came too sharp, too cold. His voice carried the bite of Moonveil.
"Doesn't matter if they survived. Those weapons are designed to scare as much as they kill. A soldier who thinks death is inevitable stops fighting. It's terror, not war."
Howard looked up, startled. For a moment Marc felt the room tilt, his mask cracking. But then Howard chuckled, oblivious. "Blimey, Stevenson. You sounded like you'd been there yourself."
Marc forced a laugh. "Just read too many reports." He turned back to his paperwork, heart pounding.
Howard didn't notice the slip. But later, when the office emptied and the corridors grew quiet, Howard lingered. He scribbled in his personal notebook, pages already filled with diagrams of rooftops, sightings, and maps of Moonveil's appearances.
He circled Hackney, Tower Hamlets, and the docks.
"That's it," he whispered to himself. "He always comes from these areas. Same districts, same times. He's not random. He's not protecting the city. He's herding."
He sat back, mind racing. "Moonveil's not a hero at all. He's keeping the police busy. Buying time for someone else. A distraction."
Howard tapped his pen against the page. The theory grew darker with each beat. "Why else would he avoid cops? Why else would he never hand evidence over? He's working for a cartel. He has to be."
---
Meanwhile, Marc finished his stack of forms. Numbers, data, signatures—none of it dulled the echo of last night. His bag still carried a small vial of Sangre de Luna and the stolen firearm. He hadn't dared show either to Howard. Not yet.
He was about to head home when a sealed file dropped onto his desk. His name stamped across the top. He broke the wax, reading the assignment twice before whispering aloud:
"Why would they send me? I'm not trained for radiology."
The order was clear. Field work. He was to travel east, to a battlefield scarred by experimental weapons. There had been whispers of radiological residue—strange readings no one could explain. Soldiers refused to go back. Civilians avoided it. Now it was Marc's turn.
He folded the file shut, unease prickling his skin.
Tecciztecatl's voice stirred faint, distant. The battlefield hums with echoes not of your world. You will see. And you will not be alone.
Marc gritted his teeth. "Great. Another riddle."
---
That evening, Howard sat at his flat surrounded by papers. The glow of his monitor cast maps across the walls. He zoomed into CCTV footage, blurry but enough: a hooded figure leaping across rooftops, violet eyes burning faintly in the dark.
Howard muttered, "Cartels. Drugs. Violence. And now this… Moonveil. Everyone's treating him like a phantom savior, but no. He's a ploy. Why else would he linger in drug-ridden districts? Why else avoid the authorities?"
He drew a line connecting Moonveil's sightings to known cartel shipments.
"This is it. He's not cleaning the city. He's covering tracks."
---
Marc, unaware of his coworker's suspicions, sat alone in his flat staring at the vial of Sangre de Luna. The black dust shimmered unnaturally, almost alive. He thought of the altar, the blood, the hollowed bodies. He thought of William smiling for cameras, worshipping demons behind closed doors.
The city called Moonveil a phony. William a genius.
Marc pressed his palms against the table, jaw tight. "You can doubt me. But you'll never see him for what he is until I rip the mask off myself."
The moonlight caught on the vial. It pulsed once, faintly, like a heartbeat.