Steam clouded the bathroom mirror, turning the world into soft, shifting ghosts. The sound of water striking tile filled the silence, steady, almost calming. Marc stood beneath the stream, his head bowed, eyes closed. The water ran pink at first, washing away dried blood and dust, then turned clear.
The fight replayed behind his eyelids—Juarez's laughter, the collapsing building, Alexia's scream. The smell of ozone and iron lingered even now.
He didn't hear her at first. The door opened quietly, followed by the soft sound of bare feet against tile.
Alexia stepped in, her eyes red but steady. Without a word, she joined him under the spray, water beading against her skin. She looked up at him, at his chest where there should have been a wound.
Her fingers brushed the smooth, unmarred skin. "There's nothing there," she whispered.
Marc exhaled. "It heals fast."
"Fast?" she scoffed. "You were stabbed, Marc. I thought—" She stopped herself, her voice cracking. "Why didn't you tell me?"
He looked away, water tracing the hard lines of his face. "Because I thought you hated Moonveil."
"I didn't," she said softly. "I hated how scary he is. I mean—" she swallowed, meeting his eyes, "now that I know you're him, I see it's not the mask that scared me. It's what it does to you. You're still scary, Marc."
He laughed once, quietly. "You're not wrong."
She pressed a palm to his chest. "Heroes are supposed to make people feel hope, not fear."
He stared at the rippling water between them. "Not all heroes bring hope," he said finally. "Some of us are just what's left when hope runs out."
The words sat heavy in the air, heavier than the water.
After a long moment, she leaned forward and kissed him—gentle, uncertain, like a question without an answer.
When they stepped out, the world felt different. Not lighter, not darker—just honest.
---
The kettle hissed in the kitchen as Alexia poured two cups of coffee. She handed one to Marc, eyes searching his. "No more secrets," she said. "Tell me everything."
He hesitated, then nodded.
He told her about that night in the war, the bullet that should have killed him, and the voice that spoke from the void. He told her about Tecciztecatl, about the amulet, about the contract written in forgotten blood. He told her how he woke up a different man, how the moonlight no longer touched him like everyone else.
When he finished, she was pale, her cup untouched.
"You died," she whispered. "You actually died."
Marc nodded. "For a few minutes, yeah."
"And came back as this." She gestured vaguely, the movement somewhere between awe and fear. "That's why you look younger. That's why—" She stopped, eyes narrowing. "That's why I look younger too, isn't it?"
He frowned. "What do you mean?"
She pointed to her reflection in the window—the same face, the same hair, but subtly changed. Brighter eyes. Softer skin. "I've looked twenty-eight for three years now, Marc. I thought it was just good genetics. But it started after you came back."
Tecciztecatl's voice stirred faintly in Marc's mind. Mortality bends around divinity. The heart that beats beside a god's echoes longer.
Marc said nothing, but guilt shadowed his expression.
"So now I'm—what? Part of this?" she asked quietly.
He shook his head. "No. You're still you. It's just… the light leaks. You're too close to it."
She stared at him for a long moment. "Then maybe I don't mind the leak," she said finally.
---
Across town, in a small flat stacked with old files and half-empty mugs, Howard Archer sat in front of his television. The morning news was replaying last night's footage—Moonveil standing amid the smoke, holding up a collapsing wall while civilians fled.
Howard zoomed in on the paused frame. The posture. The way he braced his left arm. The faint, distinctive scar above the wrist—an old training injury he'd seen a hundred times in the lab.
He set his mug down slowly. "You son of a bitch," he murmured.
He grabbed his coat.
---
Marc and Alexia were sitting in the living room when the knock came. Alexia frowned. "You expecting someone?"
Marc's expression tightened. "No."
When he opened the door, Howard stood there, eyes sharp with questions.
"Howard," Marc began carefully, "this isn't—"
"Cut it," Howard snapped, stepping inside. "I saw the footage. The way you move, the stance—you didn't even try to hide it, did you?"
Marc sighed. "It's complicated."
Howard's gaze darted to Alexia, who stood frozen in the kitchen doorway. "You know too?"
"I do," she said quietly.
Howard laughed once, incredulous. "Unbelievable. The Ministry's pet analyst is the damn vigilante the police want."
Marc rubbed his temple. "You think I wanted this? That I asked to be chosen by an ancient god?"
Howard paced, his voice low but furious. "You've been lying to me for months. All that secrecy about Enttle, about the jetpack—it all makes sense now. You're not just analyzing Aetherian tech, you're using it."
Marc looked up, weary. "If I didn't, William would already own the world."
Howard hesitated. "William Lex Webb?"
"The same."
Howard stared at him. "Jesus Christ, Marc. You're fighting billionaires and demons while clocking in for government pay."
Alexia stepped forward, setting her cup down. "He's fighting to keep us alive."
Howard exhaled slowly, some of the fire fading. "You realize if anyone else figures this out, you're done? They'll drag you into a lab and pull you apart piece by piece."
"I know," Marc said quietly. "That's why you can't tell anyone."
Howard looked at him for a long moment, then nodded once. "I won't. But you owe me the full truth next time. No more half answers."
"I'll try," Marc said.
Howard smirked. "That's the closest thing to honesty I've ever heard from you."
He turned to leave, pausing at the door. "By the way," he said, glancing back, "whatever's coming—you won't win this alone."
Marc watched him go, then turned to Alexia, who stood silent, arms wrapped around herself. "You trust him?" she asked.
"I have to," Marc said. "He's the only one who's ever believed I wasn't insane."
---
Far from London, in the marble depths of Ynkeos Tower, Juarez knelt before William.
The CEO stood before the idol's fractured remains, its eyes glowing faintly in the dark. The room smelled of smoke and blood.
Juarez's body still bore the faint marks of the fight—scars that healed as he breathed. "He knows," Juarez rasped. "He's seen what we are. The woman too."
William turned, face calm, hands clasped behind his back. "And yet you didn't kill him."
Juarez's voice faltered. "The stars—"
"I don't want excuses," William interrupted. His tone was soft, but his eyes were full of storm. "The favor is ours for nineteen more days. Use them. Prepare. When the stars turn, I want him broken before he can strike."
He placed a hand on Juarez's shoulder, and the man trembled as a ripple of dark energy spread through him. "You'll find him again soon. But next time, bring me his mask."
Juarez bowed, his voice hollow. "As you wish."
When he was gone, William turned back to the idol.
"Your pawn grows restless," he murmured. "But rest assured, my lord. When the eclipse comes, the moon will fall."
The idol's stone lips cracked into something like a smile.