Archive of Our Own ^beta

“And if the lesion returns and erupts in the house, after he had removed the stones, and after the house had been scraped around and after it had been plastered, then the kohen shall come and look at it. Now, if the lesion in the house has spread, it is malignant tzara'ath in the house; it is unclean. He shall demolish the house, its stones, its wood, and all the dust.”
Leviticus 14:43-45

Marc woke with a stake in his hand.

He stared at it, confused at why he was holding it, and why it was so red. Distantly, he could hear someone yelling, telling him to finish something, but he couldn’t focus on it, still not quite in the body. He shook his head and blinked hard, trying to ground his scattered thoughts. It was only when he looked away from the stake that he realised why he was holding it at all.

The man lying at his feet was covered in blood.

Marc’s mind sharpened with alarm, and he let go of the stake with a gasp. But it was too late; the weapon had already made it mark, and Marc watched with wide eyes as flesh around the wound flaked into ash. The man wasn’t dead just yet, his red eyes staring up at Marc with intense focus. There was no malice there, or fury. There was only resignation, as if he’d expected this.

“Well done,” he breathed, his fangs gleaming as he spoke, “you're a hero.”

The man’s chest gave one last heave before he crumpled to ash. Marc stumbled back and slammed right into a brick wall. The pain of the impact was not enough to draw his focus away from the ash pile, or from the splattered blood that all across the ground. Even with the wall support behind him, he could not keep his legs steady underneath him, and he sank down to the ground, panting.

“No, no,” Marc said, closing his eyes and curling in on himself. “No, not again.”

Months had gone by since Cairo, and yet the scene he’d woken up to that night still haunted it. Not because of what had been done, but because of the fear of who could have done it. Because Marc didn’t know. He was supposed to know. Being in the dark...it’d scared him, and he’d been afraid for weeks afterwards, fearing that it would happen again, that the stranger in his head would hurt more people, kill more people. But it didn’t happen again, and he’d let himself relax, let himself believe maybe, just maybe, he’d finally found some sense of control alongside Steven, that that part of their life—the unexplained blackouts, the deaths they couldn’t remember causing, Khonshu—was over, once and for all.

Clearly he’d never been as in control as he’d thought.

There was a gasp to his right, and Marc snapped his gaze over to the sound. There was another man, with the same gleaming red eyes and pointed fangs as his dead companion, but he was younger, barely an adult. He looked terrified out of his mind, tears streaming down his cheeks and his breath coming in short and fast. When he noticed Marc watching him, he cowered back.

“Please don’t kill me. We didn’t hurt anyone,” he whimpered. “We’re not killers.”

Marc couldn’t speak. Part of him almost wished the kid was lying, so that the ash in the air wouldn’t make the tightness in Marc’s chest feel so suffocating, but he could tell that the words were nothing but the truth. The kid was too terrified to lie.

“We’re not, I swear,” the kid went on, clearly mistaking Marc’s silence for scepticism.

“I believe you,” Marc whispered. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

The kid blinked at him, surprised. “You’re not?”

He backed away hesitantly, eyes darting around the alleyway, probably looking for some secret trap or clue that Marc was lying.

“Go,” Marc gritted out. “Just go.”

The last of the kid’s hesitation disappeared, and he scrambled down the alley and out of sight. Marc slumped against the wall and wiped a hand down his face. As he did, he noticed something he hadn’t earlier.

There was no blood on his hands.

It wasn’t just his hands. There was no blood on his clothes, or any scratches or wounds. There should have been, should have been some sign that his hands had just killed someone, that he’d been in a fight. But there was nothing. He was clean. Uninjured.

Which could only mean one thing.

“Khonshu,” he breathed.

A shadow crept over him, and there was an irritated groan.

“Marc Spector,” Khonshu said, “your interference is not appreciated.”

As if Marc wasn’t already having a bad enough day already. He banged his head against the brick wall, and he had to clench his jaw to keep the dismay off his face. He wasn’t going to cry over this. He wasn’t going to let Khonshu see him crack.

“You son of a bitch,” he hissed. “We had a deal.”

The shadow raised its head and hummed. “A deal I have not broken. I said I would release you both, and I did.”

The emphasis on the word ‘both’ felt like a taunt, and it became all the more difficult for Marc to keep his expression neutral as the horror of realisation finally sunk in. “You knew. You knew there was another one of us.”

“Of course. I’ve seen every shadow and crack in your mind. You are troubled, far more than you know. Now, surrender the body back to Jake Lockley so that he may finish the mission.”

Jake. So that’s who was to blame for all of this. Good to know.

“I’m not doing that," Marc said plainly.

Khonshu huffed, and finally appeared into view. Marc’s distress took on a whole, stranger new layer of chaos when he saw that Khonshu was wearing an almost exact copy of Steven’s suit. Did Steven have something to do with this too? No, no, there was no way. Steven would have told him. This has been some sort of mind game Khonshu was playing on him.

“You’re as bad as the parasite,” Khonshu said, not seeming to notice Marc’s baffled expression. He gestured down the alley. “If you will not surrender the body, then at least finish what Jake started. That monster must be punished.”

Marc shook away the last of his confusion, and scowled. “And what exactly did the kid do, huh?"

"He’s a vampire, just like his companion. They are dangerous creatures, and if kept alive, he will pose a danger to the travellers of—"

"That's it?" Marc said. "That's all it was? He was bad because he might have posed a danger? Are you even hearing yourself right now? God, you’re sounding even more and more like Am—"

Khonshu loomed forward, close enough for his beak to almost brush Marc’s face. "Do not compare me to her.”

“Or what? You’ll kill me? Weigh my scales?”

“Take care of how you speak to me. The benefits of being in my service can be easily taken away—”

"Then take ‘em,” Marc said, pushing himself to his feet. “I don’t want them anyway. Or did us quitting not give you a hint? But, hey, considering it didn’t seem to get through your skull last time, let me repeat myself: we’re done. I’m through."

Marc turned away and marched off before Khonshu could get another word in. He only managed to make it a few steps when Khonshu reappeared in front of him, blocking his path.

"Need I remind you, Marc, you are not the one who is my Avatar. You have no say in when we are done."

"Yeah? Then that means you can only make us work for you when Jake's up front, right. So I just won’t let him.”

If Khonshu was physically capable, Marc was sure he'd be raising an eyebrow. There was amusement in his tone when he spoke. "Is that your grand plan? To lock him away?”

"If that's how I keep him from killing people for you, then, yeah, that's exactly the plan.”

"You couldn't even hold back the worm. What makes you think you will hold back Jake?"

"Because I have a reason to. Steven just wanted to live his life. Jake wants to take lives. And I’m not going to let any of us do that anymore. There are better ways of protecting people. Of helping people. Even people who have done bad things. Because this"—Marc gestured at the ash and blood—“this isn’t right. This isn’t fair.”

"You think the wicked should not face justice?"

"Killing isn't justice. It's just vengeance. They’re not the same.”

“No?”

Marc rubbed his face. “I don’t want to talk to you about this. I don’t want to talk to you at all. I’m leaving.”

Khonshu moved once again to block his exit, and cocked his head. "Oh, but now I am interested. What would you suggest as an alternative, hm? For them to be locked away, like Ammit? To be punished with a fate worse than death?"

“No, that’s not—did you not hear me? We’re done. Let me go.” 

Khonshu did not move. “Hm. The worm has had an effect on you, hasn’t he? There was a time you did not shy away from blood. Or from fighting for my cause.”

Marc lowered his head, his anger abating for a moment. “I didn’t have a choice,” he said quietly. After a moment, he amended, “I didn’t think I had a choice. I would have done it a different way.”

Khonshu stared at him, long and hard, his gaze peeling away at Marc to uncover what was underneath. “Ah. I see. You wished to give them a second chance. For them to be...redeemed. Hm. Such a childish notion, and not one I ever suspected you would harbour, Marc Spector. I wonder, is that because of a misplaced sense of kindness, or a desire to feel justified for all the opportunities you yourself have been given?”

“Do you ever shut up?”

Khonshu, of course, did not shut up. "Perhaps we can make a game of it, hm? To settle the debate of what true justice is.”

Marc grimaced. “I’m not interested, okay. Leave us the fuck alone.”

He stepped around Khonshu and continued down the alleyway. He’d just about made it to the street when Khonshu’s voice echoed in his ears.

“If you win, you may make changes to our arrangement. To alter it, or to dissolve it altogether.”

Marc stopped. He took a breath. He clenched his fists and cursed everything that had led up to this moment, and turned. “Fine. What’s the game?”

Khonshu hummed, satisfied. He reappeared beside Marc and leaned over him. “You may have access to the suit but only as a symbol of your duty to me. There will be no healing, or flight. If you or Steven Grant—or Jake Lockley, if he does manage to escape your grasp, or you decide to use him as a weapon in your stead—ever resort to violence or killing while wearing it, then you will have lost, and you will return to my service.”

"And how exactly do I win?"

"If you, Marc Spector, can truly redeem a twisted soul, then I will accept my loss.”

“A twisted soul?" Marc rolled his eyes. "Can we do without the poetry, please? Just spell it out to me.”

Khonshu made a displeased sound, but conceded to the request. “If you spare a life, and that person or being in turn changes their ways and forsakes their dark path, then you will have proven that there is power in your semblance of justice. Do you understand now? Or must I make it clearer for you?”

“No, no, I get it.” Despite the clarity, he was still sceptical. “And you won’t interfere, or try to use some stupid loopholes against us again?”

“You have my word.”

“Yeah,” Marc muttered, “that’s what you said last time.”

Khonshu ignored the comment, tilting his head with a hum. "Do we have a deal?”

Despite knowing better, despite knowing that Khonshu’s deals could never be trusted, Marc found himself nodding.

“Yeah. Yeah, we have a deal.”

The Midnight Mission was doing, to put it frankly, shit.

Steven liked to argue and say it was doing quite well, actually, Marc! Look at all the people we've helped, don't be such a gloomy gus. 

Sure, he wasn't completely wrong; they'd definitely had their fair share of clients since Marc had gotten the place up and running, and the community seemed to like what he was doing, but the point of the matter was, none of it was helping them win the deal with Khonshu.

Marc could admit, he hadn’t exactly done a good job of marketing the place: he’d never touched any social media in his life and wasn’t planning on changing that. He didn’t have the funds for a TV or radio ad, and he didn’t think it was worth the time and effort to do an ad in the newspaper. He’d gone as far as a few posters nailed to some poles and pinned to local community boards, and then left it there, hoping word of mouth would do the rest.

It’d taken a week before someone came knocking at his door. It'd been a neighbour from down the street, and she'd found out about him while pinning up posters of her own, for a missing cat. Named Cheerio, because of course it was. She given him one of the posters and asked if he could help.

It wasn’t the kind of job Marc was used to, not by a long shot, but he’d accepted it all the same, because there was no one else stepping forward asking for help. He’d spent an entire night searching all of Camden for that cat, and against all odds he’d managed to find it. Cheerio’s owner had been ecstatic, and been so grateful she’d delivered him a dozen cookies the following day.

As it turned out, word of mouth was indeed effective; after that job, the Mission became fairly popular, but popular for the wrong reasons. He had several of his neighbours come over requesting help with grocery shopping and walking kids home for school to make sure they got home safe. On one very memorable occasion, he was asked to get a cricket ball off a roof.

He couldn’t exactly turn the people away—he didn’t want to form a reputation of being an arsehole so early on—but none of the so-called missions were doing anything to help him 'redeem a twisted soul.'

And Khonshu didn't let him forget it.

“There are murderers going unpunished, and you are helping cats out of trees.”

Marc ignored him.

“I’m not sure if I should be amused or ashamed of your efforts. It is truly pathetic. If you are trying to persuade me of the valuability of this kind of...’justice’, you are failing.”

Marc shot him a glare, but continued to not reply, focusing instead on his phone. Ever since the night he learnt about Khonshu’s collusion with Jake, Marc had been checking the news every day, making sure there were no reports of a white, caped figure running around at night killing people. 

There was an aching hunger in Marc's stomach as he scrolled through articles, but he elected to ignore that, just like he did Khonshu. He couldn’t get distracted, not until he was sure that Jake hadn’t gotten out, hadn’t taken control when Marc was asleep, even in the few hours he let himself each night. Marc couldn’t let Jake take control. He couldn’t let Khonshu win.

Eventually, it wasn’t just the hunger that was distracting him. A familiar presence started to press at the back of Marc’s head, itchy and insistent. He rubbed his eyes with a groan. 

"Steven, quit it," he hissed. "I can't be dissociating because you wanted to eat something vegan.”

"That’s not—” Steven huffed. “Marc, you've been fronting non-stop for almost five weeks. You're pushing yourself too far. You need to rest."

This again. Marc rolled his eyes. "I'm fine."

"No, you’re stressed and angry and you need to take some time for yourself. I mean, have you looked at our hair? Bloody hell, it'll take forever to get these knots out. And did you even shave this morning?"

Marc glanced at his reflection. There was a bit of stubble along his jaw, and it wasn't the five o'clock kind. "I've been busy."

"Not so busy you can't look after yourself. Just let me front for a little bit. I can deal with these little things for you. And I can handle the Midnight Mission stuff too. I can in fact do a very convincing ‘you’ impression, y’know; nobody will notice.”

Marc shook his head. "I can't, okay. I have to stay in control.”

"I don’t remember agreeing on that.”

"It’s not anything to do with you, Steven. I can hold Jake back. You can’t.”

It was quiet for a long time, and it wasn’t the kind that was comfortable. Marc could feel a frustration that wasn’t his own, and glanced at the mirror to see the projection of Steven glaring at him.

"You know this isn't healthy, right? If you would just talk to him, we—"

“I don’t need to talk to him. I’ve seen what he does. He’s not the kind of person we want around. Just drop it.”

“How long are you,” Steven started to say, before seeming to change his mind. “Have you at least called Layla about this?”

“I tried. The phone keeps saying she’s out of range or something.”

Steven’s glare softened, and his anxiety translated to fidgeting in the reflection. "I'm starting to get worried. She should have been back by now, surely. Can’t be that hard stealing from idiot billionaires."

Marc scratched at his wrists. "Missions sometimes take longer than expected. It happens."

Though he hated to admit it, he was starting to get worried too. Layla was supposed to have called them a day ago to let them know how she was going and if she’d be back soon, but she hadn’t. It was hardly the first time she’d gone radio silent, let alone come home later than expected, and normally Marc wouldn’t have worried too much, but there had been something off about her last text, sent four days earlier.

‘Taweret wants me to look into something’, it read. ‘I’ll let you know about it when I’m done’.

His reply— ‘is this something to do with your mission?’ — had been left unread. His message a day later— ‘what’s your ETA back to london? we still on to do some house hunting?’ —also was left unread.

He might have assumed she’d lost her phone, but she had back-up burners just in case of that happening and would have found ways to contact him through those. This had to be something else. Some other reason why she wasn’t getting in touch. The not knowing was the worst part of all of this, and his mind kept coming up with numerous, terrible explanations. She’d been kidnapped, or she’d gotten hurt, or she’d got trapped somewhere underground or she’d...she’d...

“Mate, take a deep breath for me.”

Marc cradled his head and took in several measured breaths. He could feel Steven pushing forward again. Marc dug his nails into his skin and used the pain to keep himself tethered. He had to stay in control. He had to.

“It’s fine,” he said. “She’s fine. She’s—”

There was a buzz from the intercom. Marc sat up, and had a brief moment of excitement where he thought it might be Layla, before he sobered and remembered that she had her own key and would have just come in. It had to be a client then. Good. He needed a distraction. He heaved himself off the couch and made his way over to the intercom, clicking on the camera.

The man on the screen looked young, probably just old enough to drink in the UK. He was pale and freckled, with hair that was curly in a way that looked deliberate and well-maintained. There was a nervousness to him that reminded Marc vaguely of Steven, but he shook the thought away. He pressed the audio button and leaned forward towards the intercom.

“Welcome to the Midnight Mission,” he said. “My name is Moon Knight. How can I help you?”

The man on the screen startled. “Oh! You’re American,” he said, his own accent distinctly New York. “I thought you’d be British.”

Marc nodded tiredly. “Yeah, I get that a lot.” After a pause, he said, “And you are...?”

"I’m American too."

"No, I—” Marc sighed. “I mean who are you?"

The man flushed. “Oh, right, right, sorry, I’m just kinda stressed. I’m Alessandro. And, uh, I’m here to report a missing person. Well, a missing friend, really.”

Marc straightened. A missing person? Now that was something. He pressed the button to unlock the door. “Come on up. Fifth floor, first door on the right.”

“Thank you! Thank you,” Alessandro said before the camera feed cut off.

As he waited for Alessandro to arrive, Marc summoned the suit. He made sure to picture the three-piece get-up instead of relying on instinct, and he felt it slowly settle into place. He quickly checked himself in the mirror to make sure he hadn’t accidentally summoned some Frankensteined version of his and Steven's suits, as he had done the first few times he’d tried summoning this version. Noting the absence of a cape and moon blade on his chest, he gave a satisfied hum and turned away.

“I’m still not a fan of you stealing my look,” Steven muttered.

“I’m not stealing, I’m borrowing,” Marc said. He tugged at the cuffs and rolled back his shoulders. “I can’t exactly talk to clients looking like I just got raised from the dead.”

“Yeah, but you could have chosen anything else.This is my look.”

Marc had to concede the point there. The suit was, without question, distinctly Steven’s. So much so, that on the few occasions Marc had unexpectedly caught his reflection in the mirror, the sight of the suit had been all it took to make his thoughts space out and take on a vaguely British tone. So far, he’d managed to keep control of himself, but there had definitely been a few too many close calls.

But the other suit, his suit, now belonged to Jake, and Marc didn’t want to be associated with him, if he could help it.

“Khonshu stole it first,” he muttered.

“That’s really not helping your case, mate.”

“Just, leave it, okay. I can hear the kid’s footsteps. Stay quiet until this is over.”

“Yeah, alright,” Steven said sullenly. 

As expected, a knock soon came at the door, and Marc adjusted his tie and took in a breath, before turning the handle.

“Hello, I’m—”

“Jesus Christ!” Alessandro reeled back from him with surprise, his hands flailing awkwardly into a terrible defence stance. With his arms raised, he looked Marc up and down. “Oh shit. Are you Moon Knight?”

“Uh, yeah,” Marc said flatly, restraining himself from saying 'isn't that obvious'. After a pause, he stepped away from the door and gestured to the couch. “Do you wanna...?”

“Oh, yeah, yeah.” Alessandro said, untensing. He marched right over to the offered seat and slumped into it, wiping his hand back through his hair. After a moment he grimaced and squirmed. “Shit, man, you need a new couch. I can feel the fucking spr—. Ah. Wait, sorry, that was rude. I’m kinda stressed.”

“Yeah, you said that.” Marc sat down on the armchair opposite, and waited until Alessandro was settled into some semblance of comfort before he spoke. “So. Can you tell me what happened?”

Alessando nodded fervently. “It’s my friend, Reese,” he said. “She’s gone missing. Since Friday night. I tried calling her but it says her phone is out of range.”

Marc picked up the notepad he’d left on the side table and jotted down the name, along with Alessandro’s. Most of the clients he'd had so far just assumed he was being professional, making the necessary kind of notes, but truthfully, he was writing it down so he wouldn’t forget their names. Steven had always been better at remembering that sort of stuff.

“Do you have a picture of her I can see?” he asked.

Alessandro pulled out his phone and held it up. “This was from the night she went missing.”

It was a selfie of Alessandro and a Black woman who Marc could only assume was Reese, the both of them sticking their tongues out at the camera and making peace signs. Whereas Alessandro looked like any frat boy going out to a party, Reese had a goth look to her, with short, natural hair cropped on the sides, black lipstick and an all-black leather get-up. She had gold triangle earrings, and a few badges and pins across her jackets, most of them what Marc could only assume were band logos.

Marc returned to his notepad, jotting down a few more notes about her clothes.

“And where exactly did she go missing?” he asked.

“She was in Soho with me," Alessandro explained. "We were just doing some late night partying; she’s been a bit depressed lately, so I really wanted to make our last night in London real special. We were walking from Simmons to another bar that I'd heard good things about. But then...” He shifted. “Okay, look, I know this is going to sound weird, but, she, uh, went through a door. A door that wasn’t there.”

Marc looked up from his notepad, knowing the mask would hide his confusion. “How do you mean?”

"I don't know, man. It was some Spiral kind of shit. It wasn't a real door. But Reese managed to walk through it."

"Why did she do that?"

Alessandro shrugged. “She said she heard someone talking to her, but I didn’t hear shit, and told her that. But she didn’t believe me, and then she was through the door before I could stop her. And when I tried to follow her, it opened up to the wall behind it." He scoffed. "And of course, when the cops finally showed up, it wasn't there at all."

Marc frowned. This was taking a turn he hadn’t expected. He'd thought it'd be a simple, run-of-the-mill missing person. This? It sounded almost mystic.

“Did you go to the Sanctum Sanctorum first?” Marc asked. “They are closer to Soho than I am, and they do normally deal with stuff like this."

Alessandro scoffed. "Yeah, but they wouldn't let me in. Something about only involving themselves in ‘world ending threats’. Which, yeah, sure, we get those enough now that I get those guys specialising in them, but come on. It wasn’t like I was asking much. But, nope, they didn’t want to deal with it. Typical too-good-for-the-common-people hero shit. So, uh, now I’m here." He leaned forward, eyes wide and pleading. “You can help, right? This is, like, magic shit, I know, but you do magic, don’t you?”

“Ah. Not exactly,” Marc said. He really hoped people weren’t out there thinking he was a magician. “But I have handled stuff like this before.”

“So you think you’ll be able to find her then?”

“I’ll do my best,” Marc said, standing up. “Leave your number with me; I’ll let you know if I find anything.”

Alessandro rattled off his number, sounding far calmer than before now that he had someone helping him. “Thanks man. I really appreciate your help. It's nice to have someone around to help with non-world ending threats.” He went to leave, but paused as he reached the doorway, turning back with a frown. “I don’t, like, have to pay for this, do I? Reese and I kinda spent most of our budget already.”

Marc shook his head. “No. My services are free.”

“Oh. Wow. That’s pretty cool, man. Just doing this for the good of it, huh? Is that why this place is called a mission? Are you like some sort of priest or something?”

Marc glanced to the corner of the room where Khonshu's shadow was lurking. “Or something.”

“Hm. Well, thanks again, Mr. Knight.”

“It’s Moon Knight,” Marc corrected, but by that point Alessandro was already walking down the hallway.

Once he was sure Alessandro was gone and the door was shut, Marc dropped the mask. He groaned and fell back into his chair, no longer trying to keep up the pretence of looking professional. He may not like Khonshu’s methods, but at least he didn’t have to do any talking. Talking was exhausting.

“It is a bit, innit,” Steven said. “Y’know, if you ever wanted someone else to—”

“Steven,” Marc intoned. “I can handle it. Stop trying to weasel your way to the front.”

There was a spike of irritation. “Fine, fine, be stubborn.”

Marc said nothing, taking a moment to just stare at the ceiling and think over what he’d been told. He rolled his head to the side, his gaze landing on his laptop.

“Guess we gotta do some research, huh. Find out about who or what could have taken her.”

“I could—”

“Don’t even say it.”

“...help.”

Marc rubbed his eyes. “Fine, fine, you can help. But I need to focus, okay."

"Yes, I've got that memo by now, thank you," Steven said curtly.

Marc shot his reflection a tired glance before making his way over to his desk and booting up the laptop. Once the browser had loaded up, he wrote in ‘weird disappearance Soho’ and waited for the results to flood in.

He’d expected a few articles about Reese to show up, maybe something about a magic people-stealing door, or even some historic kidnappings of the same kind from the same spot.

That wasn’t the case.

There was news article after news article of young kids disappearing from all across North London. Marc clicked through the articles, finding out about each child and each distressed family. There was Beatrice, who disappeared on a trip to Paddington after she got separated from her mom. Dayna, who disappeared from her family home in Kensington while her parents were out. Noor, discovered missing when he didn’t return home from a painting class. Declan. Carmel. Greg. Jed. On and on.

The photos of the kids in each article helped drive home just how young some of them were, and Marc felt his throat tighten at the sight of them. They were just children. They didn’t deserve it. They didn’t deserve it.

"Marc, if you need me to fro—"

Marc pulled away from the computer with a flinch. He felt the urge to shut the laptop completely, but he knew it wasn’t a feeling that belonged to him. Steven was trying to take control again. Marc dug his nails into his thighs and took in controlled breaths. He had to stay present, at all costs.

"I'm fine," he hissed. "I know how to research."

"That's not why—"

"Stop trying to take over for me, okay. I told you, I have to focus."

Steven sighed, but there was no irritation in it this time. "Okay,” he said, so soft it felt more like an impression of a word than anything distinct.

Marc took in a breath, and returned to his research. One thing he noticed quickly was that each of the eyewitness accounts sounded almost identical to Alessandro's story; of the few that existed, there were mentions of a strange black door that didn’t quite seem to fit into the wall. The kids who’d gone missing had rushed to it, most of them seeming to hear something on the other side that no one else could hear, and then they'd vanished through. When the witnesses tried to open the door themselves and follow the child, it led only to the wall. Any attempts to prove the door's existence had proven fruitless, as it did not show up in any photo, and vanished the moment the witnesses had looked away.

Another thing Marc noticed as he searched the articles was the locations of the disappearances. He pulled up a map of North London, and placed a marker for every spot where a kid had gone missing. One in Soho, four in Kensington, two in Piccadilly, two more in Chelsea, and one final dot in Paddington. Once he was done, he zoomed out and frowned.

“Whatever has been taking the kids, it’s got to be near Hyde Park."

He wasn't sure what it could be though. He’d never heard anything about Hyde Park or the history of its surrounding districts that would explain the door and why kids were being taken. Was it some sort of...monster? An alien? It could be anything these days, really. The problem was narrowing it down. He went back up to the search bar and wrote in ‘hyde park weird sightings’ but before he could enter it in, his hand went to the backspace.

“Steven,” Marc muttered, grabbing his wrist. “Don’t do that.”

“Sorry, it’s just...I don’t think it’s any sort of creature,” Steven said. “People have been disappearing through doors, right? The same black door each time. So, I’m thinking, it’s got something to do with a house.”

Marc sat back. “I guess that makes sense. I'll give that a go.”

Steven made a pleased sound, and drew back.

With his hand free once more, Marc wrote in ‘weird houses near hyde park’. He scrolled down through the results, disregarding any titles that looked like a prank gone wrong or anything that sounded like fake, spiritual, clickbait bullshit. He was on the second page of results—which did not bode well for his chances of finding anything good—when one of the headlines caught his attention.

‘The Shadow House of Knightsbridge’, the title read. 'History of Brompton Square's Famous Haunted House' .

Knightsbridge. The location fit; it was right next to Hyde Park, and the dots of missing children surrounded it on all fronts. With a thoughtful hum, Marc clicked onto the site.

A photo came up of a townhouse that stood out not only for its white colour—which contrasted starkly against the surrounding brown of the adjoining houses—but the way its façade arched out, with a bay window for each level. Marc wasn’t particularly versed in architecture—he'd been relying on Layla for that particular expertise during their recent searches for a new, larger living space—but he could only assume the house had been built earlier than the houses around it. 

He didn't recognise the name of the article's author, but the page seemed professional enough, at least for a website about haunted houses. Deciding this one was worth his while, Marc scrolled down to read the rest of the webpage.

‘26 Brompton Square has been a place of mystery for over a century. Despite having been vacant since long before the Blip, shadows are often seen passing by the windows, an anomaly from which the house has earned its title, the House of Shadows. But what is the story behind these mysterious occurrences? Why is the house haunted at all? To discover that, we must go to the beginning.

‘Built in the early-to-mid 1800s, the house was originally owned by Lord Thornally, a mysterious figure in history of which only few records remain. It is said he was a generous man, converting the house into a place for orphaned and homeless children to stay, helping to give them the education they were missing out on. There are also records of him being part of a society of noblemen, but there is no evidence of what this society was for or who the other members were.

‘The house, during Lord Thornally’s ownership, was perfectly normal, showing no signs of any sort of ghostly disturbances. It wasn’t until the Lord’s son, Thomas Thornally, inherited the house that things started to get spooky.

‘Thomas Thornally, just like his father before him, used the house to care for underprivileged children and provide teaching. He never married or had children of his own, and spent the majority of his adult life running the school. That is, until 1867, when Thomas was discovered dead in his bedroom.

‘According to the autopsy records that still exist, the cause of his death was never verified. There were no bullets, no poison, no bruising, no violence of any sort, nor any illnesses or genetic conditions. It was as if he’d simply dropped down dead for no reason at all. Things only got weirder after this.

‘The next owners of the house were the Blythe's, a distinguished and reputable family during the Victorian era. Their time in the house was short lived, however. A year after moving in, the father shot himself suddenly, leaving behind his wife and their three children. According to their eldest's journal entries "those last few days, he was not quite the father I had grown to know. No more was he stern or domineering. He became a frightened soul, flinching at the creaks in the walls and the dust on the floorboards. It was as if the very walls around him were a source of terror."

‘This was not the last mysterious incident that occurred in the house. In 1912—’

Marc rubbed his eyes and groaned, irritated. Nothing about this house sounded haunted. A suicide and an unidentified death in the 1800s weren’t exactly mysterious. And skimming over the rest of the ‘incidents’, he found only more explainable deaths. Guy stepped on a nail and died a few days later? Tetanus infection. Another guy falling down stairs when no one was around? He tripped, case closed. A few deaths in the same house was nothing unusual in a city of old buildings.

Marc went to exit out of the page but when he tried to click the mouse, his fingers wouldn't move. He strained, but all he accomplished was lifting it away.

“Steven,” he groaned.

Steven retreated, giving Marc back control of his hand. “Sorry, sorry, last time I promise. But I think that one might be legit, Marc.”

“Yeah? How’d you figure that?

“Well, Knightsbridge is kinda hoity-toity, innit. Houses there go for millions, and they go quickly," Steven said, as if the few real estate websites he looked at during their recent house hunting had made him an expert. "And real estate after the Blip was in pretty high demand. So to have a house stay vacant for so many years...well, it’s odd, right. There must be something off about it. Something that scares people."

Marc considered it. He wasn't sure himself about the legitimacy of the 'hauntings'; considering his own death and revival, he didn't put much stock in the reality of ghosts, let alone haunted houses. It was all just baloney made up to profiteer off of the decrease in a healthy amount of scepticism thanks to all the weird shit that'd been happening in the world in the last few decades, because if wizards and vampires and aliens existed, then ghosts had to as well, obviously. Marc hadn't let himself fall into that line of thinking just yet. 

Still, a weird door was a weird door, and weird doors had to lead to weird houses. And so far, this was the only lead they had. Not that he would even call it a lead. It was more of a thing to check off the list before they tried better options. He crossed his arms and shrugged. 

“Guess there’s no harm in checking it out.”

The house looked exactly like it had in the picture, the white paint of the façade almost shining in the night. From out here, the place looked rather unloved, and despite its supposed reputation as a haunted house, there didn’t seem to be any signs or banners around trying to make a profit off of it. It was well and truly abandoned.

“And it has a black door,” Steven pointed out.

“Steven, they all have black doors.”

“Yes, but doesn’t this one feel more menacing?”

“No," Marc said flatly.

Steven huffed and grumbled something that Marc decided to ignore. He looked up to Khonshu, who was perched on the balcony of the neighbouring house.

“You getting any weird feelings from this place?” Marc asked.

“Hm.” Khonshu tilted his head. “I believe I remember it was you who asked that I was not to interfere in your ‘justice’.”

Marc rolled his eyes. “Fine. Don’t help.”

He glanced around once more, to check that there were no late night commuters or suspicious locals staring at him from the windows. Once he was assured no one was watching, he made his way up to the front door.

He reached up to test the handle, not expecting it to do more than jiggle and stay resolutely shut, but to his surprise it turned easily in his hand. Marc frowned at that, but didn’t linger, pushing the door open further. Steven, meanwhile, did the mental equivalent of gesturing pointedly, as if the fact it was unlocked was a sign of some malevolent force. Once again, Marc decided to ignore him.

The entryway was coated in the dim blue monochrome of the night, but even the darkness could not hide the neglect. Spiderwebs glittered in whatever light they could catch from the street, and the disturbed dust thrown into the air by his arrival made him cover his mouth. Just ahead of the door, a staircase stretched up to the floor above, where the light of the street could not reach, leaving a thick darkness that seemed to creep down the steps.

Fear made Marc freeze in place for a moment, and there was a sudden urge to run back outside, but he shook the feeling off quickly. It wasn’t his. 

"Stop being so jumpy," he said. "It's just a house."

“I'm not trying to be jumpy," Steven huffed. "It's just...not being able to run makes it scarier.”

"If I see something scary, I'll run, okay."

"...Okay."

Marc reached over to beside the door, and after a few pats up and down the wall, he found the light switch. He clicked it on, and a few hesitant flickers, the bulb above his head came to life.

In the light, the interior looked almost tacky. Whoever had lived here last had been at the start of a renovation, the kind that would have left the house looking like an underfunded hospital ward. Marc eyed the half-painted white wall with distaste, secretly glad that the would-be renovator had left before they could strip the house any further. Layla was always going on about the 'character of a house' and how important it was to have in their next home, and he was inclined to agree. He'd spent too much of his life in empty rooms and empty halls to want to live the rest of his life in one. WIth one last grimace towards the white paint, he made his way down the hall, towards the kitchen.

Just like the rest of the house, neglect had made a home in the room, but there was nothing particularly unsettling about it. Or in the living room. Or the bathroom. Or the study. The only thing wrong with any of them was that they’d been abandoned long ago, and no one had taken the time to save the decor or furniture from the inevitable pressures of time and neglect.

The only room that gave him any sort of discomfort was the master bedroom; it felt too small, too hollow, and there was a sense that everything had been misplaced somehow, that the furniture wasn’t where it was supposed to be. He couldn’t blame the aborted renovation on the feeling, either, because it had not touched this room. It was just simply a room that wasn't right. Layla would probably say it had bad feng shui.

Marc left it as soon as he could, and having exhausted all of the downstairs rooms, he headed up to the next floor. While the creepings of renovation had not made its way up here, it was still far from the prime of what it'd once been, the wood creaking weakly under his feet, and the mirrors so dirty he could barely make out his own reflection. 

Marc kept going up, floor by floor, searching each and every room for any signs of the missing children or the person who had taken them. But there was only dust and spider silk.

“I can’t really see anything weird about this place,” Marc said, tugging absently at the curtains of the bedroom he now stood in. It looked like it'd been a child's room once, toys piled up in the corner. “It’s just an old house.”

Steven, who’d spent most of the search trying to make himself as small as possible in their mind and giving Marc unnecessary jolts of fear whenever a dark shadow looked far too ominous, finally let go of some of his tension.

“Maybe you’re right,” he said. "It doesn't look like anyone's been here for a long time. Bit sad, that, innit? All these rooms and no one here to live in them. It's all sort of...lonely."

"I guess. Anyway, I think we can call this one a bust."

"I really thought it would be this one."

Marc stepped back into the hallway. "Yeah, well, at least we can cross it off the list. I'm sure we'll find a real lead soon."

He turned around the corner, and made his way back over to the staircase. It wasn’t until he had reached it that he realised there was something not quite right about it. He stepped back and peered at it in confusion.

“Marc,” Steven said. “Wasn’t this house only supposed to have five floors?”

Marc nodded absently. “Ah. Yeah.”

“Then why is there now a stairway going up? That...that wasn’t there before, was it?”

Marc didn’t reply. He slowly reached his hand out to the railing, wondering if it was somehow a trick of the eye. But his hand didn’t pass through, and the staircase didn't react strangely to the touch. For all intents and purposes, it was completely normal.

With the same amount of hesitation, Marc placed his foot on the first step, and when it did not give way underneath him, stepped up to the next one. As he ventured up, the space behind him felt larger and smaller all at once, like there was something taking up room, and he fought the urge to look over his shoulder.

“Can you feel that? ” Steven said, his voice small. “It’s like there’s something behind me. ”

“That’s one of those thoughts you keep to yourself, buddy,” Marc replied, keeping his voice flat to hide his own unease. For the first time today, he couldn't blame the feeling of fear in his chest on Steven.

Marc reached the top without trouble, but paused on the last step, squinting at the space around him.

“It's...the same floor?”

Marc frowned at the decor and wallpaper, noting the same colours and marks. If he hadn’t gone up the stairs, he wouldn’t believe he’d even gone up a level; it was an exact replica of the floor before. There was one noticeable difference though. The cobwebs and dust that had covered every corner and surface on the floor below were gone, leaving the space looking fairly well-looked after.

“Um...Marc? Did you see that?”

There was a nudge from Steven to look back down the hall and at a small detail that Marc hadn’t picked up on himself. It hadn’t been on the floor below, and now that Steven had pointed it out, Marc couldn’t believe he hadn’t noticed it.

At the end of the hallway, there was a wooden pull-along horse, left unattended.

Marc approached it warily, glancing up and down the hall for whoever could have left it there. For all he knew, it could be some kind of trick to distract him. But as he approached, there were no sounds to be heard, nor any signs that someone was hiding out of view.

Assured, he crouched down and picked the toy off the ground, turning it over to inspect the wobbly wheels and the finely engraved details on the horse itself. It was nothing like what he'd find in stores today, the horse creepily realistic and well-proportioned. It had to be an antique.

“You think one of the kids have been here?” Steven asked, nervous.

“Maybe,” Marc said. “Or maybe someone's playing with us. Trying to mess with our mi—"

A childish giggle interrupted him. 

Marc stilled, tense but unafraid. He waited silently for the sound again; it didn't take long, the giggle coming once again moments later, distant enough that he couldn't pinpoint the direction. 

"Hello?" Marc called. "Where are y—"

His sentence got cut off as Steven forced Marc to slap his hand over his mouth. "Shh! Shh! Marc, you do not call out to the creepy disembodied child laughter! Have you seen any horror movies? That could be the ghost!"

"Ghosts don't exist," Marc hissed. "It's just a kid."

"And I thought the jackal was just a dog," Steven said, his tone pointed. 

"Okay, fine, I'll be careful. But only if you stop taking control of our hands."

Steven conceded reluctantly, and Marc listened out for the giggle again. The next time it came, it was distinct enough for him to realise it was coming from the children's bedroom. The one he'd been in only moments before on the floor below.

Marc journeyed back down the hallway, but even though the layout remained the same as that of its doppelgänger, there were differences here and there. Beyond the newfound cleanliness, the house now looked...lived in. There were crayon scribbles on the walls, building blocks left unattended, and, most importantly, the sound of a voice mumbling and giggling.

Marc approached the sound warily, and soon found himself at the door of the bedroom he'd come from only minutes before. With a deep breath, he pressed his hand to the door and eased it open.

The bedroom was laid out exactly the same as the one on the floor below, but now there were toys scattered all over it just like the hallway; there were spinning tops and animal figurines and dominoes. But that wasn’t what made Marc freeze in the doorway.

At the centre of the room, upon the no-longer-ratty rug, a small girl sat at an even smaller table, quietly mumbling at herself as she served herself and the toys that sat in the remaining chairs imaginary tea. The set-up was fairly elaborate, with doilies and napkins laid out neatly around the tea cups and their saucers. The girl sat back down and took a sip of her tea.

Steven was the first to recognise her. “Isn't that the little girl that went missing from Paddington? Beatrice, was it?" 

Marc nodded. She looked just like she did in her photo, with tanned, freckled skin and frizzy hair that was dyed pink, but she was wearing what looked to be a Victorian-era dress, the fabric a lacey white. It was something he’d only ever seen kids wear in old photos or in movies. It was jarring to see an actual child wear it.

“Beatrice,” he called. He stopped, not sure what else to say. He wasn’t exactly a friend of her family’s; he’d never even met them, let alone her. He only knew her by her photo. 

Beatrice looked up at him, and if she was scared of a stranger suddenly appearing in the room and calling her by name, she didn’t seem to show it. "Oh. Hello! Are you here to play with us?" 

Marc glanced at the other chairs. The toys—one a porcelain doll with wide, staring eyes, and the other a very old teddy bear— were all but falling out of their chairs, but he knew not to move them. There was one chair remaining, but Marc made no moves to take it.

"No, I'm not here to play,” Marc said. “I’m here to get you out of here.”

“Why?” Beatrice said, quirking her head.

Marc faltered, unsure how to answer the unexpected question. Beatrice continued to stare at him, confused, before giggling and turning back to her tea party. She took a sip of her imaginary tea and whispered something to the doll and the bear. She glanced over at Marc as she did, and he couldn’t help but get the odd feeling that they were gossiping about him.

Eventually, with a nod, Beatrice pulled away and patted the chair beside her. “It said you can join in.”

“Uh. Right.”

Marc approached cautiously and took the proffered seat. It was comically small for him, and he knocked the table with his knees a few times before he managed to find a position that worked. He crossed his arms across his chest, rubbing his thumbs against his wrist as he shifted in discomfort.

Beatrice stared at him expectantly, and it took Marc a moment to realise she wanted him to drink his tea. He tugged at his mask to uncover his mouth and lifted the tea cup up, tilting it in the effort to mime drinking it. Warm liquid splattered across his lips, and he drew the cup away in shock. When he peered inside, it was empty. 

Marc set the cup back down, unsettled. It wasn’t the only thing that was off about this. Even though there was no one else in the room but her, Marc couldn’t shake the feeling there was someone else close by watching over the theatrics.

Beatrice beamed up at him and took another sip of her tea, which wasn’t as imaginary as it supposed to be. She looked at the porcelain doll and seemed to laugh at something it said. Marc watched on, unsure of what to do. He hadn’t played any games of pretend since...since before the cave. At least, not the games of pretend that happy children would play. This was...foreign. Strange. Uncomfortable.

“Mate,” Steven said, “maybe I should handle this. I’m better with kids than you are.”

Marc made a sound of disagreement, hoping Beatrice would simply pass it off as him clearing his throat.

"Yes, yes, I know, you have to stay in control and all that nonsense, but this is something I'm good at. It'll be easier to help her if I'm—"

“I’m handling it,” Marc hissed as quietly as he could.

“I really think it would be better if—”

“No, it wouldn’t.”

“You’re clearly stressed and—”

“I’m not.”

“You are! If you keep this up you're going to send us into a panic attack and that won't be good for any—"

"This is not the time."

“No, I think it is, actually! Why won’t you listen to me! Bloody hell, I’m trying to help you. Why does it feel like you’re punishing me for—”

"Steven, shut up! Just shut up!”

The frenetic and angry energy of Steven’s presence turned dull and all too still at the outburst. And then, like a flower wilting from the cold, Steven started to grow smaller and smaller, as if he was curling himself up tight so he could take up as little space as possible.

"Fine,” he said lowly. “You want to do it on your own, then do it on your own, Mister High and Mighty. I’ll get out of your way.”

Regret washed over Marc immediately. "Wait, I didn't mean—”

But by then Steven was already gone.

Marc sunk into his chair, and dug his nails into his thighs. This is what he'd wanted. He'd wanted Steven to shut up and let him focus, and that's what Steven had done. 

So why did his heart feel like it was beating out of his chest? 

When Marc zoned back into his surroundings, Beatrice was looking at him, but not with any sort of derision that he usually got when people saw him talking to no one. She seemed only curious, in that innocent way only children could be.

“Were you talking to your imaginary friend?” she asked. “Did he do something wrong?”

“No, he—” Marc groaned and shook his head. “He’s not imaginary, and I shouldn’t be here. You shouldn’t be here. We need to go.”

He went to stand up, but a furred paw pressed down on his knee. Marc glanced down, alarmed, and found that the teddy bear had placed its paw on his knee. It turned to look at him and shook its head slowly. Marc, too shocked to protest, remained seated.

“Silly, we haven’t finished playing yet,” Beatrice said. “Do you want more tea?”

Marc shot a wary glance at the porcelain doll—which was also staring at him now, having dropped the act of being limp and lifeless—and quickly nodded.

Beatrice giggled again and hopped to her feet. She went around the table, refilling each of the cups with imaginary tea. Marc accepted it with a forced smile and sipped it tentatively. Once everyone’s cup had been refilled, Beatrice sat down once more and took a drink of her own tea.

“I like your costume,” she said. “Are you the bad man from The Muppets?”

Marc frowned at her, trying to figure out who she meant. Eventually, it came to him.

“Doc Hopper?” he said. Huh. That was a new one. Nice to know kids still watched the classics though. “Uh, no.”

Beatrice scooted forward in her chair. “Are you a superhero?”

“I—uh, not exactly.” A second later, he said more decisively, “No, I’m not.”

“But you wear a mask.”

“That’s so people don’t see me. Who I really am.”

Beatrice frowned at that. “You don’t need to wear a mask with me,” she said. “I’ll keep you a secret. I promise.”

"That's not really the problem."

"Then what is?"

Marc rubbed his thumb up and down the handle of his teacup, and he looked into it, at the emptiness inside. “The mask keeps people from seeing how little of a hero I am.”

Beatrice shrugged. "I don't mind if you're only a little bit of a hero. Even a little bit still makes you a hero."

Marc glanced up at her, drawn from his grim mood by the simple ease of her words. He hummed gently.

"I guess I never looked at it that way." 

He fiddled with his tea cup a moment longer before, with a breath, he dispelled the mask and let her see all his discomfort and uncertainty.

He couldn’t quite meet her eyes, but he knew she was staring at him quietly, taking in his features. Once again, there was only curiosity there; she didn’t seem to focus on his expression, but rather what made it up, her eyes tracing his eyes and mouth. When her gaze landed on his hair, she frowned.

“Your hair's all tangled,” she said. She reached a hand up to his head, eyeing one of the knots thoughtfully.

The suddenness of the movement made Marc flinch away. Beatrice’s curiosity disappeared in a moment, and she withdrew with a guilty expression.

“Sorry,” she mumbled.

“No, it’s okay,” Marc said quickly. “You just startled me.” After a deep breath, he leaned his head forward. "Go on."

With much more gingerness, Beatrice reached out to a knot in his hair and ran her fingers through it again and again until it became untangled. 

"There. Better," she said decisively, sitting back. 

Marc ran his finger through the now detangled curl. He gave Beatrice a small smile. "That is better. Thank you."

Beatrice returned a smile of her own. "I like you better without the mask. You look nicer."

“Thanks, kid,” Marc said with a low chuckle.

The doll and the bear shared a glance before slumping back into lifelessness. Beatrice glanced at them both and nodded.

“It thinks you’re nice too,” she reported.

Marc’s smile dropped at the reminder of the hidden force that was creeping along the edges of the room. He leaned in closer to Beatrice.

“I have another secret for you,” he said. “Just for you and me. Not your friends,” he added, shooting a glance at the toys.

The secrecy of it all seemed to excite Beatrice. She wiggled forward in her seat and held a hand up to her mouth so the toys wouldn’t be able to see her mouth. “I won’t tell.”

Marc leaned towards her ear and whispered, “I’m here to save you. I’m going to take you back to your mom. She misses you a lot.”

Beatrice didn’t seem surprised by his words. “I know,” she said, in a whisper that wasn’t particularly quiet. “But she doesn't have to worry. I’m safe. I have a Mama here too.”

Marc tensed, and drew back from her with a frown. “Is...is that who took you?”

Beatrice shook her head, her curls bouncing with the motion. “No, she’s only been here a little while but she’s nice too. I think she'll like you too. You're not like the others.”

“The others? Who do you mean?”

“The other Papas.”

Marc’s eyes flew wide. “What?”

Before Beatrice could answer, there was a knock at the door, and the two of them turned to see who it was.

There was a young woman standing at the door. Just like Beatrice, she was dressed in an old Victorian dress, this one a rich purple and made of a sleek fabric that poofed out around her waist. It was such a dramatically different get-up then the one from the photo that it took Marc a second to realise that the woman was Reese.

“C’mon, dinner time,” she said. She glanced at Marc, not seeming to be surprised at his presence. “You’re invited too, White Knight.”

"Moon Knight," Marc corrected instinctively. 

"Moon Knight, Gesund Knight, whatever your name is, just come on."

Beatrice skipped to the door, and Marc followed her out warily. After a minute of wandering through the halls, Marc matched Reese’s pace so he was walking beside her. He glanced over his shoulder at Beatrice, who was bobbing her head, humming some nonsense song.

Assured she was distracted, he said to Reese, "Alessandro's looking for you."

Reese glanced at him, something uncomfortable in her expression, before she laughed. "He worries too much. I'm fine." 

"You got kidnapped by a magic door. I wouldn't exactly call that fine."

"I've been through worse," Reese said, rubbing at her neck. "I'm guessing you didn't get 'kidnapped'." She made quotation marks with her fingers as she said it, clearly in doubt of the idea. Like she couldn't believe she'd hadn't chosen to come here.

"No. I'm here to rescue you," Marc said bluntly.

Reese raised an eyebrow. "From what exactly?"

Just like Beatrice's 'why', the question threw him off. He frowned at her. “Don’t you want to get out of here?”

Reese shrugged. “I got a roof over my head. I'm away from...stuff I don't like. And it’s free. So, uh, no.”

“So the fact the toys move doesn’t bother you? That this hall is way longer than it should be?” He punctuated the question by gesturing around them. The house wasn’t big enough to hold architecture like this. It was wrong, on a fundamental level.

That got him a dry chuckle. “I saw aliens before I even started school. Do you think anything can bother me at this point?”

Marc wasn’t sure how to respond to that, apart from feeling his age. After a moment, he eyed Reese thoughtfully.

“The little girl said something about there being a ‘mama’ here? Are you...?”

Reese laughed at him, quickly picking up on the hidden question. “Do I look old enough to be acting as her mom?”

Marc grimaced. “Uh, no. It’s just you’re the oldest kid who's been taken.”

“Yeah, oldest kid,” Reese said, emphasising the word pointedly. “I’m not the oldest here.”

That made Marc frown. “There’s an adult here?” He wracked his brain for who it could be, but he couldn't recall seeing any articles about anyone over the age of eighteen being taken. 

“Yeah, she got here a few days ago. From what I can tell, she chose to come here. She’s, uh, a bit intense though. Like, 50s housewife intense. I can’t tell if she’s being serious or not.”

Marc frowned at that, and opened his mouth to ask another question, but it was forgotten when he heard the sound of children talking. A lot of them, by the sounds of it. He quickened his pace, glancing into every doorway until he found the one that led into the dining room.

At the centre of the room, there was a sprawling dining table, and in each of the seats that lined its edges sat the missing kids. Every single one.

They grew hushed at his arrival, and glanced over at him with open curiosity. He inspected them in turn, taking in each of their faces; he recognised most of them from the online articles, but without Steven around, he couldn’t recall any of their names. Just like Beatrice and Reese, they were dressed up in Victorian night garb, not unlike dolls inside a dollhouse.

But it wasn’t the kids that made Marc freeze. Standing at the end of the table, and dressed in an elaborate, frilly black gown, was a face he’d recognise anywhere.

"Layla?"

She stopped in place, and looked up to him suddenly. For a split second, there was an expression of surprise on her face as she took him in, but it was gone as soon as it had appeared. She shook her head and smiled pleasantly at him.

“Husband, you’re just in time!” she said with a strange kind of cheerfulness that Marc had never heard in her voice. “The children have been looking forward to seeing you.”

Marc could only stare at her, completely speechless.

Layla came over and kissed him on the cheek. As she pulled away, she stroked a hand down his shoulder, her fingers plucking at the fabric of his suit. “I haven’t seen you wear this before. Trying a different style?”

“Ah,” was all Marc managed to articulate.

“Dinner will be ready soon,” Layla informed him. “Why don’t you come and help me get the plates ready?”

She took his hand and led him into the part of the room that was the kitchen. He followed along, too agitated to protest. In the background, he could hear Beatrice and Reese joining the rest of the kids at the table, but all he could focus on was Layla.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, his voice strained.

“Cooking.”

“No, what are you doing here? In this house?”

Layla raised an eyebrow at him. “Why do you think?”

Marc couldn’t think at all. “You can’t be here. You’re not supposed to be here. You have to go.”

“I can’t leave the children alone. I have to make sure they’re safe.” She said it all far too loudly, as if she was making sure it would be overheard. “That’s what good mothers do.”

Marc couldn’t breathe. This was wrong. This was all wrong. Layla...she wasn’t acting like herself. Whatever dark force was inside this house was also inside her head. It was controlling her, making her do things she would never do. And he knew how terrible a feeling that could be.

“Layla, listen to me,” he said, grabbing her arm, more forcefully than he meant to. “This isn’t you. Whatever’s gotten into your head, it’s not you. You have to...to...”

He hadn't noticed how loud the background murmurs and shuffling had been until they were gone. The sudden quiet was as jarring as a sudden noise, and Marc turned in alarm. The children sat deathly still, all eyes on the room turned to him.

No, not him. On his hand, the one he had wrapped around Layla’s wrist.

Only Layla looked him in the eye, and there was a warning in her gaze, a quiet command to let go.

Marc did just that, and whatever force that was in the room withdrew. The children watched him warily for a moment longer before returning to their meals and conversations as if nothing had happened. Their laughter only made Marc all the more tense.

The warning in Layla’s eyes did not fade, and she leaned in close to his ear, enough for her breath to warm the skin. The closeness wasn’t as reassuring as it usually was, and Marc found himself hunching up, unsettled by someone he’d never thought he could ever be unsettled by.

“You have to play along, Marc,” Layla whispered.

Then she pulled away, and smiled, the expression too wide, too wrong. 

“Come,” she said, “have dinner with your children.”

She handed him some of the plates, and he accepted them lamely. When she went over to the table, Marc could do little more than follow. Once all the plates had been dished out, he took his designated seat at the end of the table, with Layla seated at the other end. The distance only made him feel more uncomfortable.

The kids were cheery as they spoke to each other, and Marc listened to their words distantly. The plate before him remained untouched, his stomach too twisted in knots to even consider the idea of eating. 

He wasn't the only one who hadn’t touched their food.

Reese's plate was still full, her fork scraping along it to do nothing more than nudge the food around. There was a strange yearning in her expression as she stared at the plate, as if she was desperately hungry, but not once did she try to take a bite. The untouched meal didn’t go unnoticed.

“Not hungry again tonight?” Layla asked.

“Yeah, guess my appetite is gone,” Reese said, setting the fork down. She leaned back in her chair and wiped at her mouth. “It’s fine, I had something to eat earlier.”

She sounded almost...ashamed as she said it. Like she didn’t like admitting it aloud. Marc frowned, wondering what that could be about, but before he could speak up, there was a nudge at Marc’s side.

He glanced over to find the kid seated to his right staring up at him with a quiet kind of awe. “Are you Moonblood?”

“Moon Knight,” Marc said tiredly.

“Oh, oh, yeah, that’s it. Are you on a mid-Knight mission?”

Marc frowned. The Midnight Mission wasn’t exactly a household name. “How do you know about that?”

“You helped my aunt get her cat back. You’re a proper superhero.”

God damn word of mouth. “Uh, well, I wouldn’t say I’m a—”

“Superhero?” one of the other kids on the table said, clearly having overheard some of the conversation. “He’s a superhero?”

“Yeah, he saved my auntie’s cat,” the boy told her.

At that point, all of the kids seemed to be paying attention, and at the news they all glanced at him in excitement and amazement, a series of ‘woah’s and ‘awesome’s going up and down the table. Marc squirmed in his seat, not sure how to react. His nerves were still too frazzled to deal with any of this.

“Can you fly?” one kid asked.

“Uh, well, sometimes,” Marc said. "Not right now."

Another kid: “Do you have laser eyes?”

“No.”

“Do you have a sidekick?”

“Not exactly.”

“Can you do magic?”

Before Marc could speak, another kid cut in with, “Are you friends with the Avengers?”

And then: “Did you help bring all the people back?”

And then “Can you—” and then “—ever been on the telly—” and then “—doing in England—” and then “—wearing white—” and then “—named Moon Knight?” and then and then and then and then—

“Children,” Layla cut in, “I think that’s enough questions. Let him eat dinner.”

The kids dutifully retreated from their interrogation, returning to their conversations. Marc covered his eyes as he tried to regain his breath. His whole body felt too wound up, too tight, like a screw that had been pushed a bit too far into the wood. Now everything felt like a splinter; the scrape of the forks against plates, the buzz of the light above the table, the tie around his neck, now suddenly too tight, too coarse.

It wasn’t just the questions and the sounds and the light that was drilling into his mind.

He could feel it. The thing in his house; it was watching him, the force of its presence enough to make the hairs on Marc's neck stand up. He didn't want to believe it was a ghost, but it was getting harder and harder to deny it. The house was haunting him, studying him, like he was a rat in its maze. He did not turn around, no matter how much his instincts screamed at him to, because he knew he wouldn’t see anything.

But he didn’t need to see it. He needed only to look at the kids to see what kind of monster it was.

Mom used to pretend like this sometimes. Pretend they were a happy family, just for one night, just for one dinner. And Marc would have to play along, smile when he needed to smile, laugh when he needed to laugh, because that’s what she wanted. Because it was all for her, to appease her. Because if he let her see how scared he was, the game would be over, and reality would take its place once more.

As Marc tracked his eyes along the table, he watched the bright smiles and brighter laughs, far too happy to be genuine. And at the end of the table, Layla, with a smile that she wore like a mask. Just another plaything in this thing’s game, forced to be happy so that her fear wouldn’t break the illusion.

It was all too much for him to handle.

"You need to stop," Marc gritted out.

The kids' laughter and conversation ebbed at the statement, and they frowned at each other. It was Beatrice who asked, “Stop what?”

“Stop playing this game.”

“...But we’re not playing any game?” the boy to Marc’s right said.

“Yeah, man, we’re just eating dinner,” Reese said.

Marc shook his head. “Whatever you are, I’m not falling for it. I’m not playing along.”

“Husband,” Layla warned from across the table. “Remember what I said. You—”

“Shut up!” Marc snapped, glaring at her. “You’re not Layla. You’re not her. You’re just a puppet in its game.”

There was a tug at his sleeve. “Hey! Stop being mean to mama,” Beatrice said.

“No,” Marc said, pulling his arm free of her. “She’s not your mom! This isn’t your home!”

Beatrice drew back. “Stop,” she whimpered. “Stop it.”

“Only when you stop controlling these kids! They're innocent. And they're scared! Can't you see that? They don’t deserve to be treated like this! Layla doesn't deserve to be treated like this! Let them go!"

“You’re scaring me!”

Marc flinched back, all of his anger disappearing in a flash at the words. It was only then that he noticed that he was now standing, the knife and fork still clenched tight in his fists. 

In the following quiet, he realised that all the kids were staring at him fearfully, some with tears in their eyes. It was an expression he knew far too well, and it was one he’d never hoped to see again. He’d never expected to be the one that would cause it.

He withdrew from the table with a gasp, the cutlery shaking free of his hands. “No, no, I’m trying to help you. I’m trying to save you."

"From what?" Beatrice said.

"From...from..."

"You're the one being mean."

Marc retreated further from the table, unable to speak. The walls started to close in around him as his breaths got quicker and quicker. As he collided with the wall behind him, he noticed the wood beneath his feet buckling, and that he was slowly but surely getting pushed forward.

It wasn't just in his head. The walls were literally closing in.

Before he could be startled by that fact, the floor jolted under his feet, and he stumbled wildly as he tried to keep his footing.

The kid’s didn’t seem to be afraid of the shaking in the slightest, not even seeming to register it. Their fear was directed at him and him alone. It was Beatrice’s fear, however, that stung the deepest; whatever hero she’d imagined him to be was now quashed by reality, and it broke his heart to know it was all his fault.

“I don’t think it likes you anymore,” she said.

The lights began to shake above him and the cupboard doors rattled, and Marc backed further away, towards the door. He met Layla's eyes from across the table, and there was a flash of something unreadable across her face.

“Marc, run,” she hissed.

He didn’t need to be told twice. He scrambled out of the room and into the hall.

He ran.

And ran.

And ran.

He ran until he couldn’t run anymore, until his body all but gave up on him. Reluctantly, he forced himself to come to a stop, panting and sweating. As he recovered, he looked around, confused by his surroundings. He should have made it to the staircase by now. In fact, he should have made it there a long time ago.

Once he’d got his breath back, he continued down the halls, slower now, warier. Corner after corner he turned, and with each new hall he went down, he noticed that the decay was slowly but surely creeping back in, breaking the illusion of cleanliness. And it wasn’t just decay. Dead rats and birds littered the corners, all of them flat and hollow, as if their insides had been sucked out. Marc did not let his gaze linger on them for too long.

The hallways kept twisting, leading back onto themselves. Marc passed the same portrait four times before he realised what had happened. He wasn’t lost, or misremembering the halls.

He was in a maze. A maze he couldn’t get out of.

The realisation caused his breath to quicken once more and his mind to whirl with scenes he wished he could forget. With renewed panicked, Marc picked up his pace once more, desperate to find some way out, some way free of the space that had twisted itself into an impossible shape just to spite him. With each step, the walls seemed to grow narrower and narrower, like a jaw closing in around its prey, preparing to swallow.

He wasn't sure if it was the malevolence of the house itself, or simply his own mind playing tricks, but when he heard the sound of water trickling and the distant patter of rain, whatever was left of his perseverance disappeared.

He collapsed to the floor and pressed his hands over his ears. It wasn't real, it wasn't, there was no rain, it wasn't real, it wasn't real, it wasn't—

But no matter what he told himself, he couldn't escape the fear. Just like he couldn’t escape this place. It was consuming him, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. He curled up on himself tighter, gasping for breath. He needed help, he needed someone to help him, he needed...he needed...

“Khonshu,” he choked out. “Khonshu, help me.”

Only the sound of rain answered. Marc pushed himself up against the wall and curled up even tighter.  

"Please help me."

The shadows on the floor creeped forward. "I thought I was not meant to interfere."

"I need—"

"Me? Hm. I know." Khonshu appeared before him, and reached down to lift Marc's chin. "Do you understand now why you must return to my service? I can protect you."

"I can't, I can't—"

Khonshu hushed him.

“Our game has gone on long enough. This was always going to be the inevitable outcome. Your 'justice' will only further your own suffering. This house is a festering wound. If you wish to be free of it, you must cauterise it."

Marc stared ahead, silent as he digested the words, of what it would mean if he listened. Cauterising meant vengeance, and vengeance meant Khonshu got what he wanted. The idea of it was almost as horrifying as being lost in in the labyrinth forever.

He didn’t want Khonshu to win. He didn’t want to go back to killing people. He didn’t want to be that person anymore.

But whatever dark force was in this house, it was imprisoning the children, imprisoning Layla, and playing with them like they were nothing more than toys. And if it had its way, it'd imprison him too. Leave him here to drown over and over again. 

There was no other way out of this. 

He curled his fists, and looked up to Khonshu.

“How?”

Khonshu made a satisfied noise, and straightened up. He summoned his staff and pointed it down to the floor.

"Go to the master bedroom. I will lead the way."

“Why? What’s there?”

“You’ll see.”

Marc pushed himself up to his feet, waiting for the tremors to leave his body before he started walking again. Under Khonshu's guidance, the maze unwound, and the sound of rain abated. It didn't take long after that for Marc to find the staircase.

He descended it as quickly as he could, fearful that the steps would disappear underneath him, and that he would be stuck once more. But the steps remained solid and still, much to his relief.

It wasn't until he reached the bottom floor that the dark force inside the house finally seemed to realise its prey had broken free of its trap. The foundations of the house shook under Marc's feet, and he reached out to the wall to keep himself from being thrown to the ground.

Khonshu appeared at the end of the hall. "Make haste, Marc Spector, or it might just dream up another labyrinth."

Marc was already running before Khonshu could finish talking. Thankfully, the master bedroom wasn't far from the staircase, and despite the shaking, the hallways remained where they were supposed to be.

The shaking under his feet stopped the moment he reached the master bedroom, the dramatic change enough to make his stumble. Once he was sure he was steady, he peered around; it looked exactly the same as he'd left it, still the same uncomfortable kind of wrongness. It was completely untouched by the destruction, as if it was the eye of the storm. Which meant for now he was safe. But he knew it wouldn't be long before the thing haunting this place sent its next wave of offence.

"Okay, I'm on the clock, Khonshu. Tell me what I need to do."

"Destroy the rot."

Marc darted his eyes around the room, looking for any sign of mould or decay. "What? I don't see anything."

The thundering of footsteps caught his attention then, and he whirled around to see the children running down the hallway towards him. Shit. He wouldn’t have long before they swarmed him. He needed more time, and there was no way he was going to attack any of them. Blocking the door wouldn’t stop them, but it would at least slow them down.

He’d only made it halfway to the door when the children started to slow down. Their footsteps became tentative, and then fearful, and then stopped altogether. Marc stopped too, watching them warily, wondering what had caused them to stop. None of them had even made it past the doorway. It was like there was a threshold they couldn't—

Oh. Marc straightened with realisation. The wrongness of this room wasn't in his head either. It was something tangible. Something repellant.

“Can’t come in here, huh?” he challenged.

The kids all looked at each other uncomfortably, and the ones closest to the door backed away a step.

“That’s the bad place,” one of them said. “We’re not supposed to go in there. It said it was dangerous.”

"Dangerous for you, or the thing inside your heads?"

The kids' nervous glances were answer enough.

Beatrice pushed forward through the crowd of children, until she was as close to the doorway as she could get.

“Please don’t hurt it,” she said, her eyes shimmering. “Heroes aren’t meant to hurt people.”

"I'm sorry," Marc told her, as he summoned Khonshu's ceremonial armour, mask and all, "but I’ll never be that kind of hero. Not even a little bit.”

He shut the door, and for good measure, pushed a nearby dresser in the way. Assured they would not be coming in, he turned back to the room.

Khonshu sat atop the wardrobe, one leg crossed over the other. He twirled a spider web between his fingers, gentle enough for the spider to not notice it was being disturbed at all.

“What do I have to destroy?” Marc said.

Khonshu turned his head to the centre of the room.

"There is a compartment beneath here. That is where the rot is."

Marc went to the spot and stomped his foot down. Sure enough, there was a hollowness to the thud that he hadn't noticed when he was in the room earlier.

The carpet was nailed into place around the edges, but it took only a few swipes of a blade to cut the fabric free. He rolled the carpet back until it revealed an old, hatch door. It blended well into the surrounding floorboards, and at a glance it could go easily overlooked, but there was a distinct keyhole along the edge that marked it for what it was. It looked like it'd been added on after the door's construction.  

Marc slid his fingers through the gaps along the edges and once he had a good grip on the hatch, he tugged. It jolted, but did not open. Marc pulled his hands away and stared down at the keyhole.

“Locked,” he murmured. 

He didn't have time to waste finding the key. This would require force. He readied his blade to strike. He didn’t care how many swipes it took or how much he destroyed, he was getting in, one way or another. He'd do whatever it took to save Layla and the kids. Blade in hand, he swung down.

His hand came to a stop before the strike could land. 

With a huff, he pulled his hand back then tried to strike down again. But once again, the blade came to an abrupt stop just before it hit the ground. 

Marc did not give up. He continued to push and push, his hand trembling as he fought against the force holding him back. If he was anyone else, he might have briefly panicked that the creature inside this house had finally got its hook in him and finally made him one of its puppets, but this was a sensation he was familiar with. A sensation that was now keeping him from doing what he needed to do. And so he reacted only with anger.

"Steven,” he snapped, “that's enough! Let go."

Marc strained harder, but his hand remained steadfast. He growled. 

"Let me fucking do this." 

"No.”

Marc stopped, not because of the request, but because of the voice that had asked. One he'd never heard before, but recognised instantly. 

"You," he hissed. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Keeping you from doing something stupid."

In one sharp movement, the crescent blade was thrown across the room. It skittered along the floor until it came to a stop in the corner.

With a growl, Marc summoned another one, but that was quickly discarded too. He didn't even manage to summon the blade at all on his next attempt, his hand curling up into a fist and slamming right into his nose, hard enough to send him toppling into his ass.

"Fuck," he cried out. "What the hell!"

"Try it again, I dare you."

Marc cradled his nose, frustrated, but he made no moves to summon the blade again. 

"Okay. Good. Are you gonna listen now?"  

"Why? What the hell do you even have to say?"

Above them, Khonshu groaned. "Get control of the worm, Marc."

"Well, first things first, stop listening to Khonshu. He just wants you to lose the bet. He doesn't care about the kids."

Marc scoffed. "Are you seriously telling me not to listen to him? You? If I remember correctly, you're the one who's still his Avatar."

That made Khonshu's head snap to him. "Jake?" His irritation was gone now, replaced with confusion. "Jake is talking to you?"

"And secondly," Jake went on, paying Khonshu no mind, "what you're about to do, it isn't justice. Not in the slightest."

"Oh and you would know?" Marc said darkly.

"Yes, actually I would, because I did in fact listen to the stuff dad taught us. If the crime cannot be forgiven, or the person responsible makes no effort to seek forgiveness, then the punishment should be equal to it. Eye for an eye, remember."

“It has Layla,” Marc yelled. “It’s playing fucking dollhouse with her and all those children. I think this is as eye for an eye as you can get.

"Did you ever stop to wonder why? Why it's doing any of this?"

"It's a haunted house. I can draw my own conclusions." 

"For fuck sakes, Marc! Can't you see what you're doing. You give Khonshu crap for acting like Ammit. Well, newsflash, pendejo, you're acting just like Khonshu."

Marc flinched at the accusation, but quickly recovered, curling back his lip. "And you aren’t? I saw what you did to that man. Did you even care if he was guilty or not?”

“Of course I did.” Jake had the audacity to sound offended at the words. “Of course I did.”

"It didn't look that way to me."

“Do you think I wanted to do that? Khonshu told me to."

“Oh, save it," Marc said. "If I hadn't caught you, you'd still be doing his dirty work. Everytime you've come to the front, you've left bodies behind. I know you don't care about justice in the slightest. You just like hurting people."

"Hombre, you don't know me at all," Jake said, his voice cutting. Then there was a harsh chuckle. “You're a hypocrite, you know that?"

Marc scowled. "Am I?"

"There you are, spouting shit about giving people second chances and that no one should be punished unfairly, and all the while, you've been treating Steven like dirt for something he didn't do. All because you had to 'lock me away'. But tell me, where was my second chance? Hell, where was my first? Where was your so-called justice then?"

That made Marc falter. He wanted to argue, to protest the accusations, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t find any words to say to defend himself. Because Jake was right.

Marc had pushed Steven away, and in pushing him away, he'd trapped him, kept him locked up inside. Just like he'd done Jake. Jake, who he'd never once spoken to until now, who he'd never once given a chance to defend himself. Because Marc had been afraid. Too afraid to even try. And that fear had made him cruel, thoughtless, vindictive. Just like it was doing to him now. 

Everything Marc had said he stood for, everything he hoped the Midnight Mission could protect...they’d only ever been words. He’d been so focused on defying Khonshu’s idea of justice that he’d never taken the moment to truly believe in his own.

What did he believe, really? What was the right thing to do here?

He stared down at the door hatch, uncertain now. 

“Marc,” Khonshu said. “The longer you waste, the longer it has its hooks in the children. In Layla. Do you really wish to allow such cruelty?”

Jake pressed in closer. “Don’t listen to him.”

“Don’t you want to save them?”

“Don’t let him win.”

“Don’t let your weakness doom them. Destroy it.”

“Don’t—”

Marc stabbed the blade into the lock, pushing it down and down until he felt the mechanism break. 

"Marc!" Jake protested. “¡Maldito idiota! Don't—”

“Don't tell me what to do,” Marc said.

He threw the door open. Stank air flooded his nose as he did so, and he winced at the smell. He could still feel Jake fighting for control, but it seemed to be weaker now, Marc managing to get down the ladder without any more punches to the face.

Even with the light of the room above, the compartment was incredibly dark, and it took a moment for Marc's eyes to adjust. The space was claustrophobically small, enough for Marc to tense with discomfort. It wasn't the only thing that was discomfiting about the room. 

There were manacles bolted to the wall. Three at the most, and rusted enough to let him know they’d been here a very long time, perhaps as long as the house itself.

If Marc didn’t know any better, he would say the room was a cell.

No. He did know better. It was a cell.

"This is the source of all its power," Khonshu said. "Remove the words of power, and you remove its grip on your wife and the children."

Marc squinted against the dark, searching for the supposed words of power. Eventually, he found it, on the part of the wall just above one of the manacle; scratched in by desperate fingers, was the same message over and over again.

Must be good for Mr Thornally. Must be good for Mr Thornally. Must be good for Mr Thornally.

"Thornally," Marc whispered. It took a moment for him to remember where he'd seen it before. "Shit."

“Who’s that?” Jake asked.

“The original owner,” Marc said weakly. “He ran an orphanage here. And then his son Thomas followed in his stead, until he died 'mysteriously'. History thinks of them as generous men. Kind. Caring.”

He glanced back at the manacles, not only at their rust but also their wear, that only came from being used over and over again. They were far too small to hold the wrists on an adult.

“Thornally hurt them,” Marc breathed. “Tortured the kids into being good.”

"I wouldn't say good," Jake said, turning Marc's eyes to the strange goat-like brand marked on the iron. "Looks like a cult symbol to me. And not a good one."

Marc's stomach tightened uncomfortably. It hadn’t just been the mens’ kindness that was a lie; even their orphanage had been a cover-up for the dark deeds. His stomach only twisted further when he thought of all the children who’d ended up here, all of them lost and alone, having thought they’d finally found a home. A safe place. They must have been so hopeful.

"Do you think that's why this house is all wrong?” he said. “Some sort of demonic possession? A curse?"

It was Khonshu who answered. "Those are not the words of power. Look in the corner."

Marc frowned, and moved closer to the end of the room. It was there, tucked away in the corner and low enough that only a child would see it easily, that Marc found a mass of scratched messages, all in different languages. Marc had to crouch down to see most of them, the glow of his suit enough for him to read the words by.

There is a home for us somewhere, one message said in French.

Below it, in Spanish: We won't be left in the dark. 

To the right of that, May God strike down the sinful fathers, was written in Arabic.

The rest of the messages were in languages he couldn't read, all save for the one, right at the centre. There, in a shaky Hebrew, was written the words: The truth will bring us justice.

Marc traced his hand along the wall, feeling the familiar letters under his fingertips. Letters he'd seen many times in the storybooks his father used to read to him, and then later, the books he'd read himself. 

“The truth,” he whispered.

He glanced back at the rest of the messages. Though he couldn't read most of them, he knew all of them shared the same defiance and—at their core—a plea for things to get better. No, not a plea. A wish . 

And in the hands of a desperate child who had no power of their own to save themselves, a wish could be a powerful thing. A wish could be a saviour.

“The house isn't haunted, or cursed,” Marc said, the realisation hitting him. "It's a golem. The kids, they brought it to life."

"And it saved them,” Jake continued. "Protected them."

It was then that Marc recalled the series of mysterious deaths in this house. The man who'd fallen down the stair, the one who died from a exposed nail, all the rest. Only now did he see the connection: all of them had been fathers. And in thinking it, he remembered what Beatrice had told him: You’re not like the other papas. 

"Not just them," he said. "All the kids that came after too. Because that was its purpose, and no one ever gave it any reason to stop. It kept on protecting them.”

"Until there were no kids at all,” Jake finished quietly.

Marc thought of the House, of all its cobwebs and all its dust. Years had gone by since anyone had lived here, let alone a kid. And the House had been awake all that time, waiting, yearning to fulfil the purpose it’d been given all those years ago.

“That’s why it’s been playing happy families,” Marc said. “It wants to be lived in. To have children to look after and protect. That’s why it’s doing all this.”

"And that’s why you can’t destroy it,” Jake said. 

Marc sat back and stared at the messages, quiet. He could remember the old stories: the golem was made to protect the Jewish people, and it'd done so. It had saved them. But as the dangers grew, its attempts to keep them safe grew more violent. In following its purpose, it did things that scared people. And so it'd been destroyed, all because people had been afraid. 

But Marc was done letting fear control him.

“I'm not going to," he said. "I wasn't planning on it anyway.”

A flare of confusion rushed through his body. “But you broke the lock. I thought—”

“I just needed to see what was here,” Marc said, “so I could make up my own mind. And I have. I understand now.”

The incredibly small room grew even smaller as a shadow swallowed the last of the light from the room above.

“What are you doing?” Khonshu hissed. “Destroy it.”

Marc didn’t even bother to look in Khonshu’s direction. "No. I won't."

"But it took those children. It took Layla El-Faouly. It must be punished!"

“It didn’t know it was taking them. All it saw was lost kids, scared kids, and it opened its doors. It gave them a sanctuary. Why would I punish it for that?"

The shadows turned jagged. "Jake Lockley, I know you can hear me. Take control. Enact justice!"

"I would but. Huh. Looks like I’m not in control at the moment. Shame.”

"That’s not going to happen,” Marc said on Jake’s behalf.

"Jake," Khonshu yelled. "Make him see reason."

Marc rose to his feet, and let the armour disappear from his body as he turned to face Khonshu.

"He did," he said.

Khonshu drew back, and Marc took the opportunity to step forward, his gaze sharp and determined.

"I think it'd be better,” he said, “if you let us do this next part alone."

Khonshu stared at him, his head twitching. He was quiet in his anger now, the shadows deepening around him. Then, with a huff, he slammed his staff down.

"So be it." 

He disappeared, and the light flooded back into the room. But Marc did not linger. He climbed back up into the room above, and sat himself upon the bed. He fell back onto it, and did nothing more than lay there for a moment. He was so tired. So fucking tired. All these weeks of forcing himself to stay aware and at the front was finally taking its toll. Or, he supposed, it’d been taking its toll on him this whole time. He just hadn’t wanted to admit it. 

"So,” Jake said, “what now?”

“That’s up to you.”

Jake’s shock shot up Marc's spine. "What? Me? " 

"Why not? Maybe you can talk to it.”

“I thought...” Jake went quiet. “Wouldn’t you rather Steven do it? He’s the big-talking-big-feelings guy.”

“He’s not here right now. And out of all of us, I think you understand the House best.”

“Why, because I’m a fixer upper?”

“Because you're a protector too."

Jake went quiet, his amusement fading. He was tense now, but it wasn’t a fearful sort. It was uncertain, unsure.

“I should have realised sooner,” Marc admitted. “The fight on the cliff, in Cairo...we would’ve lost—maybe even lost our lives—if it weren’t for you. You saved us. Not in a way I like, but you still saved us. Just like the House saved those kids. But I couldn’t look past what my fear made me see. I saw monsters where there were only shadows.”

The quiet lingered for some time before Jake spoke up. “There is still monsters in those shadows. I’m not innocent, Marc.”

“Neither am I,” Marc said. He rubbed the comforter between his fingers. “But that's the whole point of this, isn't it? To prove people who have done bad things aren't lost causes. That everyone deserves a chance to be better. And that means you and me too."

Jake was quiet once again, an emotion that Marc couldn't quite identify passing through him.

"I thought staying in control," Marc went on, "being in charge of what happened to us, would keep everything from falling apart. But I was wrong. I’ve been falling apart all this time and I didn’t even realise it. And it made me mess up, made me do the kind of things I locked you away for. ‘Cause you’re right, I have been a hypocrite. I was never going to succeed in proving that kindness is a better form of justice when I couldn’t even be kind to the people most important to me.”

“You have definitely been a bit of a pajero. More than usual.”

Marc laughed dryly. “Yeah, I know.” He sighed, and wiped a hand down his face. “I can’t do any of this by myself. I never could. You, me, Steven, we’re a team. And that means working together." He gestured at himself and then at the door. "Because this is what happens when we don't."

Jake grunted an agreement, before stirring uncomfortably. "I guess I haven't exactly been a team player myself either. This whole thing happened because of my secrets. I kept my deal with Khonshu from you—kept myself from you—because I thought it'd help protect you two. I never thought about how much it would end up hurting all of us."

"Looks like we all need to get better at talking to each other, huh."

"Or just better at listening to Steven."

Marc laughed. “Yeah. He’s been trying to make me realise all of this shit for weeks. The amount of times he told me just to talk to you...” He sighed. “I should’ve. I’m sorry.”

“Well. We’re talking now. That’s all that matters.”

Marc hummed. He could feel himself sinking into the bed, deeper than the mattress, but he did not fight it, or grip his knees and try to claw his way back into control. He didn’t need to be anymore.

“I think I might leave this next part up to you.”

“Are you sure?”

"Yeah, yeah I’m sure,” Marc said. “Promise me you’ll get those kids out, okay?”

"I will," Jake said. "You can count on me."

It was all Marc needed to hear. With a relieved sigh, he closed his eyes and finally gave up control. 

When Jake opened the door, the kids were all mumbling nervously amongst themselves, but they went still and quiet when they noticed him. 

"Hey, hey, don't be scared," he told them. "I'm not here to hurt you. Or the House."

“You're not?” one kid asked cautiously.

Jake shook his head. “Nah, I'm done with that." 

He lifted up the armchair that was in the corner and moved it over towards the door, listening in amusement to the babble of confusion amongst the children as he did so.

"What I am going to do," he said, "is tell you a story.”

“A story?” Beatrice—who was near the front of the group—said. 

She was really such a cute kid, and Jake couldn’t hold back the smile her question brought forth.

“Yes, patoja, a story.” He glanced at the ceiling, and by extension, the House itself. “One that needs to be heard. Come, sit, sit.”

The children looked between each other, and after a moment, all sat down in the hall. Reese and Layla must've arrived some time in the last few minutes, because they now stood at the back of the group, their expressions a mixture of curiosity and confusion. Jake sat himself down on the armchair, and mimed placing a storybook on his knee. When he licked his finger and pretended to turn a page, that got him a few giggles.

“There once was a house,” Jake began. “It was a good house, built tall and strong, strong enough to withstand anything that got thrown at it. It was a good house, because houses are in their very nature good things, because they are made simply to protect and provide shelter. It was a good house, but its owners weren’t. They used its walls to hide the terrible things they did, to hurt people who didn’t deserve to be hurt, and la casa—which should have been a place of safety and sanctuary—became a place of danger.

“But the House was still good. It didn’t like seeing people being hurt. It didn’t like being a bystander to someone else’s pain. It got angry. It got very angry. And so when the people in the house asked for someone to save them, the House did just that. It protected them from the bad men and their bad ways. And when more bad men came, it kept doing what it’d been asked.

“But in protecting those it cared about, it ended up hurting a lot of people. People who didn’t deserve it. Because it didn’t know any better. And that scared people. Made them run away and lock the house up, in fear of what it could do to them. Because of this, no more children came, and the House grew restless. In its loneliness, the cracks that had given it its purpose started to ache. This ache grew and grew until it could not contain it all inside.

“And so, desperate to mend this, it reached out, to every lost or hurt or unloved child, and gave them a home. A family. And for a time, they were happy.

"But the House, so intent on protecting the children, could not see beyond its own ache. Because, you see, the children it had taken weren't lost. They weren't hurt or unloved. In fact, they were loved deeply. But the House couldn't fathom this. All it'd ever known was bad men and scared children. It'd been the burning house for too long to understand that the world wasn't on fire."

Jake tapped the floor with his foot. "Sometimes, when we're scared, we do terrible things. We say and do things we would never do otherwise. And it can be hard to not be scared when that's all you know, when you've spent all your life fighting to keep those you love safe. But we don't always have to fight. Because safety isn't about keeping them from the world in fear of the fire, but giving them what they need to walk through the fire when and if it comes. And that means being brave enough to let them go."

He petered off then, and glanced up from the floor. The kids were enraptured, but the hallway itself remained still. He'd hoped the House would react somehow to the words, would show some sign that it was listening and taking in what he was asking of it. But there was nothing. He frowned, unsure of what to do.

“How does the story end?” one of the younger kids asked. "What did the House do?"

“Huh. I dunno. I guess that depends on—” He cut himself off when he noticed Layla approaching. “Layla?"

She stepped over the threshold without any trouble and sat upon the arm of the chair. The forced smile from earlier was gone, replaced instead with a softness with which Jake was familiar. 

“The House kept the children safe," Layla said. "But their families missed them very much. So much so that even the gods heard, and they sent out their most trusted followers to return the children home."

Layla summoned her armour, much to the awe of the children.

“We can take you back to your families. We can get you all home safe,” Layla said. She placed her hand on Jake’s shoulder. “Both of us."

The children all went quiet, as if they were listening to something. Jake couldn’t hear anything, but the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. 

"You really can do that?” one of the older kids asked.

Layla nodded. “Yes. We promise.”

“But what about the House?” Beatrice asked. “Won’t it be lonely without us?”

Layla glanced at Jake. "Well. We have been looking for a bigger place to live. If the House would have us, we'd be happy to keep it company. And maybe, with its help, we can help keep people safe."

The children were quiet again, listening to a voice that only they seemed to hear. Whatever was said seemed to make them smile.

"It would like that very much," Beatrice reported. 

There was a distant click of something turning, and then a creak. Jake got out of the armchair to peek down the hall. It was back to its usual, un-physics-breaking shape, cobwebs and all, but that wasn’t what caught Jake’s attention.

The front door was open. The House was letting them go.

Layla came to join Jake in the hall and, upon seeing the open door, patted the wall fondly. "Thank you." To the kids she said, "Why don't all of you go get your clothes? They've all been washed, you just need to go and grab them from the laundry."

The kids nodded, and ran off. It was only until they were all gone that Layla finally turned her full attention to Jake.

“So. You must be Jake,” she said. “It’s nice to finally meet you. Officially, at least. I’m sure we’ve met before.”

Jake gaped at her, speechless.

Layla frowned. “What?”

“You...weren’t brainwashed.”

Layla put her hands on her hips. “You really think Taweret would have let that happen? Besides, the House wasn't 'brainwashing' any of us.”

“But, you, you were saying all that stuff about, 'our children', and—”

“I was playing along with the House’s game," she whispered, eyes glancing around at the walls around them. "I needed it to trust me so I could eventually convince it to let the children go.”

Jake dug his hands into his hair. “Layla! Why didn’t you say anything? Marc was freaking out. You know how stupid he is when he’s freaking out? Hint: he’s very stupid!”

"I did say something,” Layla protested. “I told him to ‘play along’.”

Jake stared at her.

Layla stared back. And then she winced. “Okay. So maybe that was a poor choice of words.”

“Y’think,” Jake said, with a shake of his head. "You could have at least sent a text. Let him know you were okay."

"I know, I'm sorry. It's just...I knew if I told him where I was, he'd ask to help. I didn't want him to know about the missing kids. I thought it would make him panic."

"Well, yeah, but you being gone panics him too, not that he'd ever admit that. He doesn't do as well on his own as he'd like to think."

Layla’s wince turned to an expression of concern. "Is he okay? He. Um. Well, you don’t look so good,” she said, gesturing to his matty hair and stubble.

"Oh this? Yeah, Marc's idea of self-care goes as far as gelling his hair, and as you could guess he wasn't doing much of that either. I don’t mind this too much though,” Jake said, tracing his finger along his jaw. “Makes me look roguishly charming, don’tcha think?”

Layla eyed him for a moment, and nodded appreciatively. “It does suit you.”

Jake grinned, pleased. “To answer your other question,” he said, “yeah, he’s okay. As okay as Marc can be. He's just taking some time away. He needs it; idiota has been spreading himself thin with this one-man act of his. He wouldn't even let Steven front. Oy vey, the arguments those two have been having lately.” He tapped his forehead. “But I’m sure they’re working it out somewhere in here. They always do eventually. At this point, they’ve reconciled so many times I can practically give you a play-by-play for how it’s gonna go.”

He turned his head, pretending to talk to someone who wasn't there. "Aw, man, I'm super duper sorry for how I've been treating you," he said, putting on his best Goofy impression. "Collective punishment is a big no-no and you didn’t deserve that. I shouldn't have been so mean to you.”

He turned his head the other way and said, in a Mickey Mouse voice that was just slightly to the right of the Atlantic: "Well, golly, I'm glad you finally came to your senses! You had your head up your arse for a bit there and I was very peeved with you. But I can't hold a grudge because I'm adorable so let's just hug it out!”

Layla laughed, her nose scrunching up in that way that Jake had always been secretly fond of. "Is that meant to be Marc and Steven?"

"Mmhm. Master of impressions, I am," Jake said with a wink.

By then, the kids had started returning, wearing the kind of clothes you expected children their age to wear. Once Layla was sure everyone was present and accounted for, she gently herded the children outside, and Jake followed along wordlessly.

It was only as they got to the edge of the small park at the centre of the square tha Jake noticed Reese was hovering at the front door, having made no move to follow them out into the street.

"Hey, chica," Jake said, "you coming out or what?"

“I can’t." She opened her mouth to speak, then shut it, looking away with a grimace. Then, with a deep breath, she turned back to him and said, "The sun’s going to be coming up soon.”

Jake frowned, unsure what that had to do with anything, but it clicked a moment later. He blinked at her, surprised.

“Oh. You’re a—”

“Yeah,” Reese finished.

“But your eyes—”

“Contacts.”

Jake gestured to his mouth. “And the—”

“Retractable.”

“Ah.”

“...yeah,” Reese said with a sigh. “Alessandro doesn’t know. He just thought I was having another depression spiral. Which...I guess I was. He figured London might cheer me up, and it did. Getting away from New York, from where it all happened...it really helped. I don't think I ever planned on going back, but when the door showed up, I saw the opportunity to get away and I took it. I should have texted Alessandro, I know, but...I couldn't bring myself to tell him. To tell him why. I didn't want him to see me as a monster.”

Jake hummed thoughtfully, but said nothing.

Reese eyed him warily. "You’re not gonna try and kill me now, are you? To...stop me from hurting people?”

Jake knew what Khonshu would say. Knew, because he’d had Khonshu screaming it in his ear all those weeks ago. He would say that it was Jake's responsibility to kill her, that it was necessary for the protection of the travellers of the night. That no matter how innocent she was, eventually, she would give into her monstrous nature and feed. It was inevitable.

But that’s what Khonshu would say.

“No,” Jake said decisively. “Just because you’re a vampire doesn’t mean you’ll hurt people. You didn't decide to be this way. But you do get to decide what to do with what’s been done to you. About who you want to be now. Wouldn't be fair of me to take that from you, would it?”

Reese glanced up, surprised at the response, and she gave him a brief smile. “Thanks Mr. Knight.”

Jake didn’t feel the need to correct her. He gestured up at the House. “And if you need a place to stay,” he said. “Well, mi casa es su casa , and all that.”

"Like...without rent? Because I'm broke as"—she glanced at the children—"heck."

"Hey, I'm not the landlord, do whatever you want."

Reese sighed with relief. “Great, because I am exhausted and need to sleep for 13 hours straight." She paused, and chewed her lip. "I'll...I'll tell Alessandro what happened, when I'm ready. But if you see him, tell him thanks for looking out for me, and that I'm okay. More okay than I've been in a long time."

Jake gave her a two finger salute. "Will do."

Reese waved her goodbyes to the kids before disappearing back inside and up the stairs.

"We should start getting these kids back home," Layla said.

Jake inspected the small group of children. Too many to put in a taxi, and way too many to not look suspicious if they went on a bus. It would take hours of walking to get them all back to their homes, and he doubted the parents would appreciate their kids being flown home like stork babies. 

Thankfully, he had the perfect vehicle for this very occasion. Jake spread his arms out, grinning. 

"Who wants a ride in a limo?"

There was a chorus of 'ooh ooh ooh's and 'I do I do's as the kids hopped on their feet and raised their hands.

Layla leaned in close to him. "Do you actually have a limo?" she whispered. 

"Sure do," Jake said. He patted his pocket. "But not just any limo. You ever seen the 'Magic School Bus'?"

Layla shot him a sceptical look. "You can't be serious."

Jake kept his face as serious as possible until he couldn't fight back the smile any longer. "No, of course not," he said with a chuckle. "It's parked over in Angel."

Layla rolled her eyes, but there was only affection in the gesture. 

"You take the kids over to Hyde Park," Jake went on. "They can run around there for a bit, and I'll go get the limo and meet you there. Should take me an hour, tops."

"Sounds like a plan."

A hand tugged at his pant leg, and Jake looked down with a frown. Beatrice was gazing up at him, fists clenched to the fabric.

"Can I come back and visit?"

Jake crouched down to her. "Sure you can, patoja. But only if your mom gives you the go ahead."

"Really?"

"Really really."

Beatrice bounced on her toes, her curls bouncing up and down with her. In childish glee, she threw her arms around Jake's shoulders. 

He stilled, startled by the touch, and for a few awkward seconds, he floundered, his arms remaining limp at his sides, unsure of what to do. No one had ever hugged him before, not like this. It wasn't something he did. But...he wouldn't mind doing it more. 

Gently, ever so gently, he wrapped his own arms around her. 

"You've been a very brave kid, you know that," he told her. "I'm sorry I shouted at you earlier. I shouldn't have scared you like that."

"It's okay. You were scared too."

"Yeah. Yeah I was," Jake said quietly. "I'm still sorry."

Beatrice patted his back. "Sometimes," she said, "not having a mask means people will see your bad faces. But making bad faces sometimes doesn't mean you're bad. It's only bad if you let it get stuck that way."

Jake laughed lightly. "Patoja, has anyone ever told you how smart you are?"

“Mmhmm. Mummy says I should be a phil-los-sipher," she said, sounding the word out. "But I don't want to be that! When I grow up, I’m going to be a superhero, just like you."

“¡Sanigua! Is that so?” Jake pulled away and patted her on the head. “Well, I think you’d be a very good superhero, Beatrice."

Instead of looking pleased, she pouted at him. "Diatrice," she said. 

"Huh?"

"You said Beatrice. But my name's Diatrice."

"It is?" Jake exclaimed. Huh. Marc must have read her name wrong. Not that he could blame him. He didn't even know 'Diatrice' was a name. "How about that? Diatrice. I like it. As bright as day, you are."

Diatrice's pout was gone as quickly as it came and she beamed so hard her eyes squeezed shut.

Layla came over to Diatrice's side and gently nudged her shoulder. 

"Come on, sweetie," Layla said, "let's get you back to your mum."

Diatrice lifted up her arms. "Can you carry me?"

Layla did just that, crouching down to give Diatrice a piggyback. Layla and Jake shared a smile as Diatrice giggled with delight.

"I wanna piggyback," another one of the kids complained. 

"Don't worry, you can all get a go," Layla assured as they all started to walk down the street.

As the kids clamoured for who would get the next turn, Diatrice turned her head back to the house and gave a big wave. 

"Bye bye House!"

As Jake looked back at the House to see if it would give a goodbye of its own, a figure in the window caught his attention, and he stopped in place. Layla continued on a few more steps before she realised he wasn’t following. She turned back to him with a raised eyebrow, and Diatrice, after glancing at her expression, copied it childishly.

"What's wrong?" Layla said.

Jake waved her off, and chuckled quietly to himself with Diatrice copied that as well. "Nothing," he said. "Just something I gotta do first."

Layla glanced at the House, and made a sound of understanding. “Right. I’ll see you soon.”

Jake walked back up the house, the door opening before he even arrived. He gave the doorframe an affectionate knock before he continued into the lounge room. 

Khonshu was waiting there, seated on one of the couches with his fingers steepled together, and Jake couldn’t help but get the fleeting feeling that he was getting called in the principal’s office. The thought made him smile. 

Jake sat down on the couch across from him, taking the time to make himself comfortable. When it was clear Khonshu would not speak, Jake chuckled.

"Aw, jefé, why the long face?" 

Khonshu didn't laugh. He didn't so much as twitch. Damn. Tough crowd. But there were other buttons Jake could press.

"You upset because you lost the bet?"

Khonshu shifted in his seat. Aha. There we go. A reaction. "You interfered. You weren't supposed to do that."

Jake leaned back in his chair, and rubbed his chin. "Wasn't I? Huh. Y'know, I don't seem to recall there being any rules about me interfering."

Khonshu stared at him, before turning away with a sigh. "I see now why Marc was so peculiar about loopholes."

Jake shrugged and propped his arms along the back of the couch. "Not that it matters. The way I see it, you'd already lost anyway. Before Marc had even stepped through the door to this place."

"Oh?" Khonshu cocked his head, somehow sounding as condescending as he was curious. "How so?"

"All the little missions that he did. The cricket balls and missing cat and fetch quests. The missions you deemed trivial. That Marc didn’t think were important. You were both wrong. That was justice."

Khonshu laughed. "Those tasks were distractions. A pantomime. They were far from justice."

"Jefé, justice is more than reasonable punishment. It's about treating people right. And if you treat people right, give them warmth and a place to sleep and a nice cup of joe, maybe they won't be so inclined to make the bad choice, because it won't be the only choice they think they can make. Mierda, if we'd had someone like that in our lives when we were kids... well, let's just say we might not have ended up meeting you."

Khonshu shook his head with a scoff. "You would really have me believe Ammit's methods of pre-emptive justice would be effective simply if the punishment was replaced with...kindness? Compassion?"

"Ay, now you're catching on."

Khonshu shifted in place, and was quiet for some time. "Jake Lockley, it seems I have misjudged you," he said, but not in a way that sounded particularly pleased. "I thought you enjoyed the work I gave to you."

"I do," Jake said, dropping the lighthearted tone. "But only when it is equal to the crime. Two bullets for two bullets, no more, no less. And I thought that's what you believed too. But the last few missions you had me do... well, they had me questioning a few things about our arrangement."

Jake crossed his legs and tugged at his cuffs. "I knew I couldn't do anything to alter the deal, because you had all the cards in your favour. But Marc? He wasn't beholden to you in any way, and considering how far you'd go to get him back under your wing, I knew he could make some changes to our situation. He just needed a bit of a nudge."

There was a lingering silence after his words, but even with the tension in it, Jake couldn't help but feel comfortable as he enjoyed the show that was Khonshu realising he'd been outmanoeuvred. It was times like this that Jake wished Khonshu was more than just a sad pile of bones, just so he could see the shocked expression on his face. 

"The night with the vampire; you let him see," Khonshu said . "You knew he would not react well. You wanted him to go against me."

Jake smirked. "All I did was light the spark. The rest was all him."

"So the game—"

"Was always in our favour. Because I was never going to let you win."

Khonshu hummed, and turned his head with a crack. 

"Well played, Jake Lockley," he said. He did not sound angry, or even the slightest annoyed. If anything, he sounded impressed. "Well played."

"What was that thing Steven said? We learnt from the best. Thing is, I wouldn't have had to play the game at all if you hadn't been such a vindictive pendejo."

Khonshu looked down. "Perhaps I have been...overzealous with my efforts lately."

Jake sat up and held up his hand. "Wait, hold on, say that again. I need a recording of that, or the boys will never believe me when I tell them you admitted to being wrong."

Khonshu made a discontented noise, and was quick to change the subject. "I take it you desire to leave my service along with the idiots."

"Ah, see, that's a group decision," Jake said. "I'm starting to see the importance of those. I'll give my answer once I know what Marc and Steven want.”

“I do not expect them to vote in my favour.”

“Oh, definitely not. They can’t stand you. But your mission? Protecting people?” Jake smiled. “I think they can stand by that.”

Gena had heard stories about the magic doors. Or, she supposed, magic door, singular. It was always the same one, always the same deep black with a silver crescent moon emblazoned at the centre.

At first, she'd thought they were only rumours. All of the earliest stories came from people in London, but eventually people from other parts of the UK started coming forward with stories of their own. It was then that the rumours started to sound less like rumours.

And then the doors started showing up in other countries. France, Egypt, Guatemala, America, on and on. Eventually, Gena started to hear stories from her own neighbours and friends about the man in white who helped them out of a tough spot, no matter how small and seemingly trivial it was. 

One thing they never could agree on was the man's accent or—in some cases—how his suit looked. 

Sometimes it was a fancy three-piece get-up, sometimes a mummy with a cape, and sometimes a figure draped in a long cloak and hood with a face so shrouded in darkness that only the glow of the eyes could be seen.

They could agree, however, on his name. 

"Moon Knight?" Gena laughed when she first heard it. "Well, now that's just stupid. What's his partner in crime named? Sun Day?"

"Scarlet Scarab, actually,” one neighbour informed.

"Okay, now you're just making shit up. That's like one of them usernames my boys see on their games."

"I know it sounds silly," another neighbour said. "But they really helped me. The Avengers would never have done what those two did for me. They're just the kinda hero that I needed."

"But how? They're in London, aren't they? How does that even work?"

"All they told me was that 'We open our doors to everyone in need, no matter where they are or who they are'," another friend explained, and left it at that.

Gena had never expected to see the door herself. She lived a pretty happy life, all things considered, and most of the troubles that came her way were the kind she could solve on her own. 

That was until the night the diner got robbed.

It was after hours, so there was only Gena and a few employees inside when the man came in, swinging his gun around and making threats as he smashed furniture and threw plates. Gena knew better than to play hero—her boys were waiting for her and she'd rather live to tell a tale of being a coward than have them read about her being a martyr in the newspaper—and so she'd given the robber what he'd asked. 

He left with a week's earnings. The earnings Gena needed to pay her employees with. And her rent. And her bills.

She didn't call the cops. She knew they wouldn't deal with this fairly, or even deal with it at all. Instead, she sent her employees home with a promise they'd get their salary, and got started on cleaning up the mess. 

As she was brushing the glass into the dustpan, she couldn't help but muse about the fact that most of the stories she heard about Moon Knight started off like this. With someone who had gotten hurt, or who had lost someone to an act of cruelty, or someone who, like her, had something important stolen away from them. 

She supposed then that it wasn't a complete shock when, as she cleared up the last of the glass shards, a black door appeared in the corner, looking just how she always imagined it would. 

She wasn't afraid. She wasn't even hesitant. If anything, she was curious. After all the stories she'd heard, why would she say no to getting to have one of her own?

Gena stepped through the door, and found herself stepping inside the entryway of a house, lit by the light of the early morning. It would have looked like your average, Victorian townhouse if not for the hieroglyphs that ran along the top of the walls and the frankly alarming amount of books and knick knacks that covered every surface. There was also a few children's toys scattered around, as well as half-drunk cups of coffee left forgotten. It was a mess, but in a way that Gena found endearing. It told her that this house was well and truly lived in. 

"You here for a room?"

Gena jumped at the voice, but quickly calmed when she saw it belonged to a girl a few years older than her boys. She was leaning against a nearby doorway, wearing a purple shirt and a leather jacket that looked just like the one Gena had when she was a kid, back when she'd been in her punk era. It seemed it'd come a fair way since then though, because the girl was wearing red eyes contact lenses and fangs. Not that Gena was complaining about the updates to the look. Punk would never die; it only came back cooler.

The girl was pointing up the stairs, clearly up to where the rooms in question were. Gena wondered briefly if she had heard any stories about Moon Knight running a hotel; there'd been one story she'd heard about a woman who'd said she'd found refuge for herself and her kids away her abusive ex thanks to Moon Knight, and had been able to get back on her feet because of it. It was nice to hear that one was probably true. Gena cleared her throat.

"No, I, uh. Got robbed."

"Ah." The girl nodded in understanding. "You're here for Mr Knight."

Gena frowned. "I thought his name was Moon Knight?"

"It is," the girl said, smirking, "but it's funny to see him squirm. Though, I'm starting to think a certain somebody is a fan of it."

Gena's frown deepened, wondering who exactly the girl meant, but she decided not to ask for clarification. Secret identities were a sacred thing, every New Yorker knew that. Prying was exclusive to friends' love lives and the soap opera drama of neighbours with no volume control. 

"Anyway, they're in there," the girl said, pointing down the hall. "Door to the right. Can't miss it."

“Thanks, honey,” Gena said, and made her way down to the room. 

Just like the hallway, the living room was a mix of Victorian and Egyptian. Amongst the vintage furniture and bookshelves, there were busts of pharaohs and models of pyramids and sphinxes. The hieroglyphs on the walls seemed to have an almost gentle glow to them. 

At the centre of the room, there was a small table, covered with what looked like an unfinished game of Scrabble; on the side of the table closest to Gena, there was an armchair. On the further side, there was a vintage love seat, which had a floral pattern and looked so cosy that Gena felt the urge to make like an Oscar Wilde character and fling herself onto it. 

She would've too, no hesitation, if it weren't for the fact it was currently occupied. 

On the left sat a beautiful woman with frizzy hair and freckled cheeks, dressed up in a golden armour that couldn't be described as anything but resplendent. She was leaning across the couch, with her legs splayed over the lap of the man beside her. The man who could be no one other than Moon Knight, if his white garments and the crescent moon on his forehead was any indication. It seemed at least one of the stories she'd heard about his suit had been true, and Gena marvelled at the design for a moment. 

The two of them seemed to be mumbling to each other, relaxed in a way Gena hadn't really seen from any superheroes. And she'd seen a few in her time. None as up close as this though. These two...they were family. Well and truly. It was nice to see. 

The Scarlet Scarab was the first to notice Gena's arrival, and she perked up in her seat. The brief smile she sent Gena's way quickly turned to concern when she noticed that glass shards on Gena's uniform along with the dark bags under her eyes.

"Long night?" the Scarab asked.

Gena gave a dry chuckle. "Yeah, honey, you could say that."

The Scarab got up and gave Moon Knight a quick kiss to his temple. "I'll get us some food.” To Gena, she said, “I'm sure you must be hungry." 

She left the room before Gena could protest and say she wasn't. She was hungry, of course, but she wasn't used to being catered for. That was usually her job. But the Scarab was right, she had had a long night; maybe it was okay to let someone look after her for once. Wasn't that why she was here, afterall?

Moon Knight gestured to the armchair across from him. Gena took it gratefully; she'd been on her feet all night and past dawn, and with the robbery, she hadn't had the chance to relax until now.

Moon Knight leaned back in his chair and crossed one leg over in a motion that should have come off as cocky but somehow only looked... comfortable. Like he simply was at ease. Like there was nowhere else he wanted than to be here, helping her. 

“Welcome to the Midnight Mission,” he said. “My name is Moon Knight. How can we help you?”