Moon Knight: Moonlit Madness

[Cazzik]

NEW YORK CITY – RED HOOK DOCKYARDS
6 MONTHS AGO
01:14 A.M.

Something about the air didn’t feel right. It wasn’t just the wind off the harbor or the reek of salt and diesel — it was quieter than it should’ve been. No gulls. No late-night workers. Just silence, broken only by the crunch of boots on wet gravel.

Officer Natasha Garrison adjusted her grip on her flashlight as she swept it across a line of rust-slicked shipping containers. Somewhere in the distance, a metal door slammed shut in the wind.

"This is a waste of time," Rourke muttered behind her. "Probably just some dock rats lighting up and someone called it in."

Garrison didn’t answer. Neither did Singh or Morales. They were all thinking the same thing: it didn’t feel like nothing.

Dispatch had received a 911 call about possible drug activity near Pier 47 — hushed voices, heavy crates, and “men with blades.” The kind of thing you don’t ignore, even on a skeleton shift.

“Split up,” Morales said. “Pairs. Sweep left and right.”

She and Singh headed down the center row, flashlights piercing the gloom in thin cones. Somewhere behind her, she heard Rourke laugh softly at something Morales said.

Then—
A clatter of metal. A scream.

Gunshots.

Natasha spun, heart hammering. She grabbed her radio—“Officers down, Pier 47, requesting immediate backup, multiple assailants, repeat—"

The radio crackled. Something struck her shoulder—hard. She fell sideways, rolled, came up drawing her sidearm.

A man charged her from the shadows, chain swinging. She fired once—hit him in the thigh. He dropped but didn’t stay down.

More came. At least a dozen. Some in ski masks, others just bare-faced with twisted smiles and bloodshot eyes. Machetes, pipes, crowbars. Nothing clean.

Gunfire rang out from the next aisle. Morales was shouting. Singh tackled someone to the ground near a forklift. Rourke slammed the butt of his pistol into a face, then disappeared beneath a group of attackers.

They fought. Hard.

But it wasn’t enough.

Morales went down first — screaming as a machete found his back. Singh was clubbed across the jaw and crumpled like a sack of meat. Rourke—she never saw what finished him.

She backed away, firing until her clip was dry. Then pain. A crowbar cracked against her ribs and she dropped, breath leaving her in a choked gasp. One of the men stepped over her, raising a blade.

This is it, she thought. This is the end.

But the blade didn’t fall.

A blur of white moved through the gang like a reaper in reverse.

She blinked. He wasn’t there—and then he was.

A man. Dressed in a white three-piece suit. Head covered in a mask that fit like a second skin. No insignia. No cape. No words.

Just violence.

The first man who approached him swung a chain. The white suit caught it mid-air, yanked the man forward, and shattered his jaw with the butt of a baton.

Another lunged with a machete. The man sidestepped, cracked the attacker’s wrist, and sent the blade clattering to the concrete. A swift kick to the sternum folded him in half.

Three more tried to swarm him.

He moved like a ghost. No wasted motion. Just brutal, surgical impact.

One had his knee caved in. Another’s shoulder was popped from its socket. A third screamed as both arms were broken in rapid succession — clean, fast, efficient.

He didn't kill them.

But he left none of them walking.

More came. They surrounded him.

He welcomed it.

Blood painted his suit. It soaked the sleeves, the front of his shirt, the gloves. None of it his.

She watched, dazed, as a man twice his size rushed him with a steel bat. The figure in white caught the swing on his forearm, let the blow roll past, and drove his baton into the man's ribs—once, twice, a third time until he dropped with a groan.

He stood in the center of the carnage, chest heaving, weapons lowered. Most of the gang was moaning. Crawling. Whimpering. A few had passed out from pain.

He turned toward her.

Her vision blurred. Everything felt distant.

He knelt beside her. No rush. No panic. Just precision.

Gloved hands pressed down on the wound in her side. She gasped.

“Stay with me,” he said, voice low and calm. “You’re not dying tonight.”

She stared up at the mask. There were no glowing eyes. No sign of emotion. Just the steady presence of someone she couldn’t place.

"Help's coming. Hold on."

Her blood-slick hand clutched weakly at his arm. “Who... who are you?”

He tilted his head.

“Someone who doesn't let good cops die.”

That was the last thing she remembered.

[Cazzik]

BROOKLYN – BEDFORD AVE & 9TH
PRESENT DAY
10:38 P.M.

The night sky pulsed orange and black. Smoke curled into the clouds like veins of ink, and the building groaned under its own weight as flames chewed through what was left of the third floor.

Natasha Garrison stood just behind the fire line, watching through stinging eyes as the apartment complex collapsed inward, sending a wave of heat down the block. Firefighters shouted, water blasted from hoses, and the smell of burning insulation and scorched wood clung to her clothes like static.

The bodega next door was already lost. Blackened glass. A metal rack curled in on itself like twisted paper. She’d bought coffee there two nights ago.

Someone screamed.

Another body had been found inside.

That made two. Maybe more. No names yet.

Natasha clenched her jaw and tried not to flinch as the building let out another crack and heave. It was the third structure fire in two weeks — and just like the others, it happened fast, spread faster, and left no clear trace.

No gas leaks. No electrical faults. No suspects.

Just smoke and sirens and the lingering stench of murder.

She turned from the blaze, letting the heat hit her back like a wall. Her radio buzzed with overlapping chatter, but she didn’t hear it. Not really. She knew what was coming next — another long night of reports, angry families, and no answers.

And then she saw him.

Lurking just inside the alley across the street, half-shrouded in shadow.

White suit. Mask. Still as a statue.

Her pulse jumped, but she didn’t call it in.

Instead, she stepped off the curb and crossed the street.

“Nice of you to show up,” she said when she got close enough to smell the ash on his clothes. “We lost another two tonight. Firefighters say the blaze started inside the stairwell and spread in both directions.”

The man in white didn’t look at her right away. His head tilted slightly, like he was listening to something over his shoulder.

“Three fires in two weeks,” she continued. “All low-income buildings. No security cams, no witnesses. No survivors who saw anything before the flames hit. You thinking what I’m thinking?”

He finally turned toward her. “It’s deliberate.”

“No kidding.”

He paused. “You said two bodies. That the final count?”

“Not yet,” she said. “They’re still pulling debris. Could be more.”

“Too clean,” he muttered. “Whoever did this planned it. Knew the layout. Knew the exits.”

Then his head twitched — a sudden, subtle movement.

He looked past her, toward the burning building, and spoke again.

“No. Not here,” he said quietly. “This wasn’t ceremonial. It’s not his style.”

Natasha frowned. “What?”

He glanced at her like he’d forgotten she was there.

“Nothing.”

“You talking to yourself again?” she asked, more carefully than sarcastically.

His masked face revealed nothing, but there was something… strained in the air around him.

“Some people pray out loud,” he said, deadpan. “Others have conversations.”

“You have full-blown arguments. In alleys.”

“Semantics.”

She crossed her arms, boots crunching on broken glass. “You think it’s the same person behind all three?”

“I think someone’s purging shadows,” he said. “Burning out secrets. Maybe witnesses.”

“You have a suspect?”

“Not yet.” He hesitated. “But I will.”

He turned to go, and she reached out—then stopped herself. Her hand hovered at her side.

“I didn’t thank you,” she said.

He stopped walking.

“For that night. Six months ago.”

Silence stretched between them. A breeze pushed smoke down the alley like fog.

“You were worth saving,” he said without turning back.

Then he vanished into the dark.

Natasha stood there for a long moment, watching the red-blue lights flicker across scorched brick.

The fire still burned.

And somewhere behind her, the shadows whispered.