Rain slicked London's streets into ribbons of silver and black.
Marc stepped off the plane into that colorless world, the damp air thick with the scent of oil and ozone. He should have felt relief. Instead, his gut twisted with the sense that the city had changed while he was gone—its pulse slower, heavier, corrupted.
He checked the nearest newsfeed at the terminal. Another murder. Another body with its heart carved out.
The voice of a reporter echoed over the tinny speakers:
> "The death marks the fourth in as many weeks. Law enforcement has yet to confirm a suspect, though speculation continues about the vigilante known as Moonveil, who vanished from the city two weeks ago. Police have refused to comment on his possible involvement."
Marc stared at the screen. The victim's address flashed across the crawl. He knew the alley. It wasn't random. It was ritual.
He tightened his jaw. "So now you miss the phony vigilante," he muttered.
By the time he reached his flat, rain had soaked through his coat. He threw the duffel aside, stripped off his shirt, and drew the hood of the Veil over his head. The armor rippled across his skin like liquid shadow. In seconds, Marc Stevenson was gone.
Only Moonveil remained.
---
The city blurred beneath him as he vaulted from rooftop to rooftop, the sound of traffic like distant thunder.
When he reached the cordoned-off crime scene, he crouched above the floodlights. The police below moved slow, deliberate, photographing every inch of concrete. Marc closed his eyes, letting Tecciztecatl's power stretch through him.
Every voice became clear—murmurs of detectives, the flutter of evidence tape, even the faint hum of power lines.
And beneath it all, something else.
A whisper.
Faint, rhythmic.
The chant of Tzitzimimeh's servants.
"Tecciztecatl," Marc whispered, "you've been quiet since Enttle. What's happening here?"
The god's voice was distant, weighted. Tzitzimimeh's influence grows stronger. William has sown believers faster than I anticipated. Their faith feeds the dark. If we do nothing, the city will drown in his shadow.
Marc's gaze hardened. "Then we start taking it back."
Be careful, the god warned. The more you fight him, the closer you draw to his gaze. He knows you now. He dreams of your death.
Marc looked down at the alley where blood still glistened under the lights. "Let him dream."
---
By dawn, the storm had passed.
Marc had not slept when the summons came.
The call came through the secure line at the Ministry of Defense.
"Stevenson. Report for briefing."
He found Howard already waiting in the conference room, a paper cup of tea steaming between his hands.
"Rough night?" Howard asked without looking up.
"You could say that."
Howard passed him a file. "You're not the only one under scrutiny. The higher-ups want a word.
North American delegation's here. Confederate States too. Even the Canadians."
Marc arched an eyebrow. "All that for a murder case?"
Howard shrugged. "It's bigger than that. You know it."
---
The conference hall buzzed with translators, aides, and military uniforms. At the head table, the flags of the allied territories hung limp in the recycled air.
Marc took his seat beside Howard. Across from them sat a man he hadn't seen in years: dark skin, sharp suit, eyes that measured like instruments.
Juwon Getar—the analyst from the Confederate States. Once a rival. Now, apparently, a counterpart.
"Marc Stevenson," Juwon greeted, his accent clipped but familiar. "Didn't think I'd see you back in one piece."
Marc smirked faintly. "I could say the same."
Juwon leaned forward. "Let's skip the formalities. London's not just dealing with ritual killings. We're seeing similar signatures in Atlanta, Montreal, and Edinburgh. Hearts missing, identical cuts, same date-stamps. Whoever's doing this—whatever they're worshipping—it's coordinated."
Howard frowned. "So this isn't just local cultists?"
"Not even close," Juwon said. "Your William Lex Webb—he's got ties everywhere. Ynkeos operates on four continents. Their surveillance networks are practically sovereign infrastructure. The man sells security to the world and uses it to hide his own monsters."
Marc's pulse quickened. "And the governments?"
"They can't touch him. Not yet. Too much money, too many contracts. But if you can connect these killings to his operations—anything solid—we can open the gates."
Howard exhaled. "That's a big if."
Marc glanced at the folders, the photos spread across the table—each one a life emptied out, each heart missing. The patterns formed a map. A lattice of death stretching across continents.
"Looks like he's building something," Marc said quietly.
Juwon nodded. "A network. A ritual written in blood."
---
That night, back in his flat, Marc stood by the window overlooking the Thames.
The moon hung low, heavy and pale, reflecting off the black water like an unblinking eye.
Tecciztecatl spoke again, his tone weary. You saw the reach of his hand. The influence of Tzitzimimeh bleeds through his empire. Every camera, every lens—an imitation of the divine eye. They are trying to remake the heavens in their image.
Marc's reflection stared back at him from the glass—half man, half shadow. "Then we burn their false heaven."
The god's reply was solemn. It will not be so simple. William's power comes from more than wealth. He believes himself chosen, as you are. But his god is not the moon—it is the void beyond it. The devourer. The eater of light.
Marc's grip tightened. "Then I'll show him what light can still do."
---
Far away, in Ynkeos Tower, William Lex Webb stood before a projection of the same moon.
The light traced across his face as he spoke to his gathered board.
"Gentlemen," he said, voice velvet and venom, "the new devices will ship within the quarter. Every one of them an eye. Every one of them mine."
He turned to Serra, his reflection gleaming beside hers in the glass.
"London is ready," he said. "Begin the rollout."
"Yes, sir."
The tower lights dimmed.
The city outside flickered alive—screens, billboards, streetlights—each shifting, briefly, into the same symbol: a crescent eclipsed by shadow.
And across the river, in a darkened apartment, Moonveil opened his eyes and felt it burn through the night like a mark on his soul.
---