Marc folded his shirt into the battered duffel bag, movements mechanical, detached. On the desk sat his travel orders, stamped with the seal of the Ministry. Destination: Enttle.
It was a name that churned something deep inside him. Enttle—the scarred country whose war had nearly pulled the world into chaos. The same soil where Gaidan, the alien savior, had descended like starlight and silenced artillery with a word. And for Marc, it was more personal still. It was there, years ago, on a clandestine mission gone sideways, that he had stumbled into the ruins. That he had touched the amulet. That he had heard Tecciztecatl's voice for the first time.
He zipped the duffel, jaw tight. "Full circle," he muttered.
The news on the television stole his attention. Another broadcast. Another headline dripping with morbid fascination.
"Breaking: A third body discovered in South London. Victim found with chest cavity hollow, heart removed. Police deny any connection between the string of murders, citing differences in the victims' backgrounds. Vigilante Moonveil remains a person of interest."
Marc's stomach sank. "Another body?" His voice cracked. "But William's in Shanghai. He was just on stage launching those damned cameras. How—how is this happening?"
He rubbed his temples, pacing. "I thought he was the only one. The only one doing the sacrifices. Did I miss something? Have I been chasing the wrong trail?"
Tecciztecatl stirred, his voice gravel through Marc's mind. Not wrong. Narrow. You looked only at the hand that struck, not the shadows that fed it. William is not alone in his devotion. Men like him never are. They gather others—bankers, politicians, gang lords—each eager for scraps of power. When one master is absent, another bleeds the victim.
Marc's throat dried. "So there are more. Associates. Followers of Tzitzimimeh."
Yes, the god confirmed. Tonight, we must see. We must assess the wound left by this ritual. If they are summoning again, the balance teeters closer to collapse.
Marc didn't hesitate. He pulled the hood over his head, the veil knitting around him, the violet glow sparking faintly in his eyes. The duffel could wait. The dead could not.
---
South London was cordoned off, floodlights bathing the alley in harsh white. Police tape stretched across the entrance, the murmurs of officers a steady drone. Moonveil crouched on a rooftop nearby, his cloak shifting him into shadow. He waited, patient, until the uniforms drifted back toward their cars. Then he slipped down, silent as breath, ducking under the tape.
The stench hit him first. Copper and rot.
The body lay splayed near the wall, but immediately Marc noticed the difference. This one wasn't naked like the others. No painted symbols scrawled across the skin. The man wore a torn suit jacket, shirt half-open, trousers stained dark. No ritualistic markings on the flesh, no careful arrangements of blood. Just a gaping wound where his heart had been.
Moonveil knelt, violet eyes scanning the scene. His voice rasped low. "This isn't like the others. The others were… ceremonial. This is sloppy. Crude."
Tecciztecatl hummed in his skull, ancient and weary. Not sloppy. Different. The heart is gone, but the rite is incomplete. A sacrifice without offering, a theft without covenant.
Marc frowned. "So what does that mean? Someone botched it? Or… someone's improvising?"
Perhaps, the god said. Or perhaps this was no priest, but an apprentice. Someone without full knowledge of the ritual. They take what they know—the heart—and hope it is enough to call the dark.
Marc stood, scanning the ground. Drops of blood led away from the body, disappearing into the grime. He imagined the heart carried off in a briefcase, a sack, a trembling hand.
"Jesus…" he muttered. "William's not the only monster. He's training them. Or they're copying him."
The weight of it pressed against his chest. One killer, he could stalk. One summoner, he could fight. But a network? A cult scattered across the city, each ready to carve out lives for shadows? That was something else.
Above him, sirens wailed again. Marc faded back into the dark, scaling the fire escape with deliberate grace. On the rooftop, he let the night wash over him.
---
As he crouched against the wind, Tecciztecatl spoke again. Do you see now, Champion? William is a serpent's head, but cut it, and others writhe in its place. His wealth builds the stage, but his associates play upon it. Do not think the war is with one man. The war is with hunger itself.
Marc clenched his fists. "So how do I fight hunger? How do I kill a craving dressed up as worship?"
By finding its source. By unmasking the feeders. These bodies are not random. Each one is a thread. Follow them, and you find the nest.
Marc thought of the victim's suit, the expensive fabric, the cufflinks stained red. Not a random vagrant, not a nameless nobody. Someone of means. Someone who had moved in powerful circles.
"Alright," Marc whispered, violet eyes narrowing. "Then I start pulling threads. And when I get to the nest—" He stood, cloak swirling. "I burn it."