For the first time in months, the killings stopped.
London, still scarred from the fear of blood-stained alleys and ritualistic deaths, found a fragile calm. The papers called it "The Moonveil Pause," assuming the vigilante had driven the monsters underground. But Marc knew better.
He sat at his desk in the Ministry's weapons analysis division, staring at the frozen image of William Lex Webb projected on his monitor. The billionaire's smile was too calm, too patient.
"Why haven't you killed anyone lately, you bastard?" Marc muttered under his breath. "What are you planning?"
Across the lab, Howard pretended to work, but Marc could feel his colleague's eyes on him. Howard had been different since Enttle—sharper, quieter, observant in the way only suspicion makes a man.
Every so often, he'd bring up Moonveil, almost casually.
"You ever think he's ex-military?"
"Must have access to tech that's not even public."
"Maybe someone in our department?"
Marc always shrugged it off. But now the air between them buzzed with tension, an invisible thread stretched too thin.
---
That evening, when Marc got home, he found Howard waiting outside his apartment.
"Hey," Marc said, forcing a grin. "Didn't know we had an after-hours meeting."
Howard crossed his arms. "We need to talk."
Marc's stomach sank. "About?"
"The jetpack," Howard said bluntly. "I ran tests on its frequency readings again. That thing's alive, Marc. It reacts to proximity. It's not just a relic—it chooses who can touch it."
Marc said nothing.
Howard's eyes hardened. "And guess what? Every time someone else approaches, it shuts down. But when you walk near it, it hums like a heartbeat. You want to tell me why that is?"
Marc rubbed the back of his neck. "Coincidence, maybe?"
"Coincidence?" Howard snapped. "That Aetherian tech refuses to even power on for the Chinese, but you—some guy from London—get it to sing? Marc, what the hell are you hiding?"
Marc kept his tone even. "You've known me for years, Howard. You think I'm building alien toys in my spare time?"
Howard exhaled, frustrated but uncertain. "I think you're keeping secrets. And I don't like being lied to."
Marc met his gaze, steady and unflinching. "You've been in this field long enough to know—some things just pick favorites."
It was enough. Barely.
Howard left that night unconvinced, but unwilling to push further.
---
Three days later—January 14th, 2051—William Lex Webb stood on stage beneath a banner that read ECLIPSE ONE: The Future in Your Hand.
The auditorium was a cathedral of light and sound. Cameras flashed. The air itself seemed to pulse with anticipation.
William stepped up to the podium, radiating confidence. The transformation was complete. The once portly magnate now looked sculpted from steel and ambition. His movements were deliberate, his voice smooth and magnetic.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he began, "for centuries, humanity has looked to the heavens for answers. Today, the heavens answer back."
He held up a phone—sleek, obsidian-black, edges sharp as precision blades. The crowd gasped as its interface shimmered to life.
"This is Eclipse One. The first device capable of bridging every aspect of human connection. Information, communication, vision—united under one crescent."
He smiled faintly. "For now, it runs on Android. But soon, we'll unveil Crescent OS One. A system not built for humans to use… but to understand them."
The audience erupted. Applause thundered. Investors smiled. And no one—not one of them—noticed the faint symbol etched into the back of the device: a half-moon eclipsed by shadow.
---
Miles away, in the dim storage hangar beneath the Ministry, Marc and Howard stood before the Aetherian jetpack.
Its alloy shimmered faint blue under the lab lights, alien markings crawling faintly across its frame like living runes.
Howard adjusted his glasses nervously. "You sure this is safe?"
Marc smirked. "Safe? Probably not. Worth it? Definitely."
He extended a hand, and the runes flared instantly, responding to his presence. The jetpack came alive with a low hum that resonated through the floor.
Howard stepped back. "It's recognizing you again."
Marc nodded. "Yeah. Tecciztecatl says it's not reacting to me—it's reacting to him through me."
Howard frowned. "Who?"
"Never mind," Marc said quickly. "Point is—it thinks I'm Aetherian."
Howard circled the machine cautiously. "Impossible. You're human."
"Mostly," Marc muttered.
From the shadows of his mind, Tecciztecatl's voice stirred. The engines sing to my light, Champion. In your blood, the lunar code awakens their trust. Use them, and you fly as the gods once did.
Marc whispered back, unseen by Howard, "You sure this isn't stealing?"
Power does not belong to the cautious, the god replied. Only to those willing to bear its price.
Marc sighed, stepping back as the hum faded. "Alright, that's enough for today."
Howard exhaled, relief flooding his face. "I don't get it, but… whatever you're doing, it's beyond me."
Marc clapped him on the shoulder. "That's how I like it."
---
That night, the city lay draped in fog.
Moonveil moved like smoke through its veins, his steps silent, his cloak whispering against stone. He searched the alleys, the docks, the old industrial tunnels where blood once ran freely.
Nothing.
The ritual sites were gone.
The dealers who once distributed Sangre de Luna had vanished.
The idols, the whispers, the crimson stains—all erased as if they'd never existed.
They haven't vanished, Tecciztecatl murmured, voice heavy with foreboding. They hide beneath the veil of favor. The stars cloak their work, masking their corruption from even my sight.
Moonveil paused on a rooftop, gazing at the constellation above. The night sky shimmered faintly, distant stars flickering in strange alignment.
"How long until that changes?" he asked.
Two weeks more, the god replied. Until the eclipse turns. Then his shield will fall.
"And until then?"
He builds, Tecciztecatl said. He gathers. The blood is not gone—it flows elsewhere, toward a greater wound.
Marc clenched his fists. "What's he doing?"
They are preparing a summoning, the god said. A demon bound by the stars themselves. They will not need sacrifices. The world will bleed willingly this time.
Marc's stomach turned. "And William?"
The serpent wears a suit of man and smiles at cameras. His tongue speaks innovation, but his words are prayer.
Below, London slept in fragile ignorance while above, the stars whispered their alignment.
Marc tightened his hood and whispered to the wind, "Then I'll make sure his prayers go unanswered."